this was super experimental and i had a lot of fun with it

I met you for the first time on Oxford Street, tucked into a parasol as you hide away from the rain. Your hair was longer and blonde; tied back into a braid that fell demurely down your back. When you look towards me, brown, wide-set eyes, I realize they're the same.

Your eyes are always the same.

"Do you need help, miss?" You smile with that grace you've always had and answer me in a different language altogether.

"Où se trouve la gare la plus proche?" The language barrier slams between us and I smile, shrugging.

"I—ah, I'm afraid I won't be much help to you." Before I can walk away you grab onto the sleeve of my coat, anchoring me in place (you've always been good at that).
"Laissez-moi….train?"

"Oh! Looking for the nearest tram; could've just said so," I laugh easily and you just stare, confused, waiting for me to point in some direction and then be on my way. Instead I guide your hand to the crook of my elbow and we walk there together; neither of us talking but keeping stupid grins on both of our faces.

I suppose it's my own fault then, for not walking past you that day.

The fourth time we meet, I recognize you right away. I've learned over the centuries that sometimes you can be a man or a baby or hell, I'm sure you were a dog in the previous life. But this time you are a woman with towering hair and a beautiful dress, smiling at party guests that you usher inside with a gloved hand.

I'm hiding behind your house; clutching a loaf of bread in my shaking fingers. You glance over the balcony, bored with watching your husband's eyes wander across the dancing hall, even as his hands linger on your waist. Instead, you find me, huddled beneath your shrubbery for warmth.

"Oh!"

"Ah," I don't think I've ever been this terrified in my life. Then, I thought I must be cursed. "I'm sorry," I mumble, my french still rusty even after years of sidewalk chatter. "I'll go." You watch me pack up my things (a blanket and the loaf of bread) and before I can slip through the gate, your fingers catch my tattered sleeve.

"Stay; I can get you some food from the kitchen!"

"Umm—you really don't have—"

"I want to," you say and so, I stay. I don't know if it is the gentle pressure of your fingers against my dirty skin or the simple fact that I know you; but I stay. You come back with enough food for two and hold it out for me (I can see your fingers shaking slightly).

I come back the next day and you sneak me into one of the guest rooms; merely shaking your head when one of the maids catches us. Her wide eyes bore into my skull and I consider leaving while you go get us tea, my anxious fingers creating wrinkles on the feather down.

"Where are you from?"
"Belgium."
"What's your name?"
"Sébastien."
"Will you come tomorrow?"
"…okay."

And so, I do. And the next day and the next week and better I know it you have pulled me down into the comforter after a month of sneaking me into your guest bedroom and your press your lips against mine, eager fingers finding the buttons of my ruined dress-shirt.

"This is a bad idea," I stammer but you have always been bolder than I have, pushing and pulling and biting and I don't have the energy or the will to stop you so I crane my neck farther to make room for your pent-up aggression.

Some days, you simply lay your head on my chest and ask me to tell you stories about nothing, anything to take your mind off the war raging outside. Some days you don't even bother with a greeting, tugging at my jacket before I've even managed to close the door. You'd grin, a lecherous kind of smile that was all teeth and talk, and I'd allow myself to be pulled along on your adventures without worrying about the consequences.

I watch your head roll across the guillotine floorboards and heave into the nearest alley-way, spilling my guts and my secrets across the concrete as I hope for another chance.

I go a century without you.

In retrospect, it wasn't that long. Sometimes I would see you: a particular laugh from inside a bar, the tanned calves of a dancer leaping across a stage, your smile as you sell me flowers. Sometimes I would spend decades searching; knowing you were somewhere else on this planet and yet knowing I'd likely never find you.

I wondered if you remembered me as vividly as I did you.

I never knew it was only me that remembered, only me that was forced to continue the cycle of finding you and losing you and missing you until Himari brought home a "true born flapper" and I saw your eyes, twinkling with a cigarette hanging from your lips.

I remember your steady whistle as I fainted on sight, my heart pounding against the walls of my skull. I watch you dance from across the room, grin at a drunk Kanba as he pulls you onto the dance floor, and it's not soon after that I am pulling you into my bedroom, fingers slipping into familiar grooves on your hips.

You laugh and press your mouth against mine, hot and wet and you stay for the week, unaware of how many times I've watched your bare skin ripple as you lift your arms up to stretch. One day I wake up and you're gone and I know it; your presence as temporary to me as I am to you.

The cycle repeats.