As evening fell one Friday night, Carrie was in crisis mode. Frantically scrolling through her email, she jumped when there was a knock at the door, even though she had been expecting it.
She sighed as she got up to answer; she knew she wasn't going to make great company. Her close friend, Angel, was there for their weekly movie night.
"I come bearing gifts," Angel said, holding three wine bottles.
"Well, I'm definitely going to need that," Carrie said.
"What's going on?" Angel asked, coming in and setting her things down, colorful as ever with her fuchsia curls, orange top, and bright green bag.
"My next artist cancelled. She was starting next week, for a three-month exhibit, and now I have no one. I don't know what to do. I might actually have to close the gallery until I can get someone."
Carrie felt bad for dumping the problem on Angel, but it was all she could think about. She sunk back into the couch and her friend joined her with two glasses and a bottle.
"And future artists can't start early?" Angel asked, uncorking the wine.
"I asked them, but they're both out of the country," Carrie said, shaking her head. "What are the chances?"
Angel handed her a glass of shiraz and she happily accepted, sipping and feeling defeated.
"Wait a minute," Angel said, standing and grabbing her messenger bag. "I just heard about an artist recently—a painter. Julie wanted to profile him on the art blog."
She came back to the couch and plopped down with her laptop. She'd been a photographer for The Daily Sentinelas long as Carrie had known her, and she almost always had her arsenal with her.
"This is him!" she said, setting her laptop on the coffee table so Carrie could see. "It might be a long shot. But he's local... Have you heard of him? T. Anderson?"
Carrie shook her head. "That doesn't sound familiar."
She started to scroll through the site galleries—abstract works with hints of modern surrealism, different from her usual repertoire. Fantastical cities that stopped short of the canvas edge, portraits with letters and equations incorporated into the faces, a bizarre series of glowing doors—T. Anderson was clearly talented, but she might've passed if she weren't in a bind. But then, one gallery made her sit up and take notice: ethereal trees growing from dreamy yet barren landscapes. The next series was intriguing, too: city skylines emerging on the horizon as bright nuclei on the canvas, surrounded by aggressive bursts of color.
"Okay, I really like this. I think I'll bite."
"Yay!" Angel celebrated.
"Of course, with my luck, he won't even reply to my email."
"That's where stalking comes in handy," Angel half-joked.
"Sorry, I'm just going to send this and then we can talk about something else."
"It's fine! Glad I could save the day…possibly."
The next day, Carrie found herself at the coffee shop just down the street from her gallery, waiting for T. Anderson himself. He had replied to her email promptly, and by some miracle, was open to the exhibit idea. She always met with prospective artists before officially signing them, but this time she was anxious. She really needed him to be a good fit.
Some faint alarm bells went off when she saw him. There were no photos of him on his website, so she'd had no idea what to expect. As a general rule, she didn't like to mix business with pleasure. She didn't date clients. But here he was in front of her with his pretty eyes and stubble.Goddamn it, what is your face?
"Are you Ms. Turner?"
"Yes," she said, standing. "You're T. Anderson?"
"Thomas," he said as they shook hands.
"Carrie," she replied, sinking back to her chair.
He took the seat across from her.
"Thanks for meeting me on short notice."
"Happy to," he nodded.
"So, as I explained, I'm kind of in a bind because one of my spring artists dropped out, so I need someone prepared to exhibit next week."
He nodded again.
"I'm interested in possibly featuring your Cityscapes and Dreamers series," she went on. "Is that something you'd consider?"
"Sure," he said.
She fought a smirk; he was clearly a man of few words.
"Well, I'm really glad to hear that," she said. "Do you have any questions for me?"
"I haven't done many shows recently," he said. "How did you hear of me?"
"I have a friend at the Sentinelwho came across your website."
He nodded. "They also contacted me, not long before you. I was thinking maybe I ended up on Instagram or something."
"Oh," she laughed. "Well, I don't know how they found you."
"If you don't mind me asking, why those two particular series?"
"Not at all. I like to showcase works that celebrate what I call 'the pulse of life' in some way," she said, reeling off her usual spiel. "Works that speak to our inner sense of beingand existing within a world that we seek to define and understand. I was particularly drawn to those two series, and I'd be open to adding a third, if you like."
"I'll leave that up to you," he said. "I was just curious. I haven't been approached directly before... I just hope I can bring in the same traffic you're used to."
He didn't comment on whether or not he thought her description was an accurate reflection of his works, but she didn't mind.
"I hope this will be mutually beneficial," she said. "I have a great marketing team. I'm optimistic."
He smiled, and something stirred in her. She couldn't be sure if she was imagining it, but she got the impression that her attraction to him was mutual, as well.
That evening, after he'd emailed her the signed exhibitor's agreement, Carrie texted Angel.
Looks like this is going to work out! Thanks for being a lifesaver! :)
Her phone promptly buzzed with a response.
Oh yay! Anytime! What's he like?
Carrie smiled to herself.
Super nice... And stupid gorgeous.
NICE. Curator and matchmaker → on my resume :P
Carrie saw Thomas again the following week, when it was time to set up the gallery. They didn't have much time for conversation until later that evening, when nearly everyone else had left for the night and she started testing out lighting levels for the gallery. The overhead lights and art lamps could be separately managed to get the right balance for each exhibit.
"This one feels right to me," he called to her on about the fourth tweak.
She stepped into the middle of the room with him. "Oh yes, I agree! They're inviting me in."
He nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell he was looking at her.
"I appreciate all your help today," she said, turning to him.
"Of course," he said. "I really appreciate you featuring me."
Gazing up at him in the ambient lighting, she said something against her better judgement.
"I might stop next door for some tea, if you want to join me."
"Sure," he said, without hesitation. "That sounds great."
They sat at a corner table and talked over hot drinks and pumpkin bread about where they'd grown up, life in the city, and their careers. He'd been painting since college; she'd owned her gallery for seven years. He had a way of looking at her as she was speaking that made her feel he was truly listening to her and interested in getting to know her. And he hadn't mentioned a partner. It was so rare to meet someone she liked as much as him.
"You ever have a conversation with someone you just met and feel like you've known them so much longer?" he asked after a lull, finishing his coffee.
She nodded. "I know what you mean."
He regarded her for a moment. "I hope this isn't too forward, but I'm really glad you contacted me. I'm glad we met."
"Me too," she said, heart fluttering.
The polite professionalism that had shrouded their interactions evaporated, leaving their feelings in plain view. It wasforward of him, but Carrie didn't mind.
As they stepped outside, they discovered it had started pouring. Carrie had the only umbrella between them.
"Want to share?" she asked. "Which way are you headed?"
"I guess I'll just get a taxi," he said.
"Well, I don't mind waiting."
"You're sure? ...Thanks."
They headed out to the curb. He put his arm around her waist beneath the small umbrella. The street was vacant at the late hour. After what he'd said inside, she felt her cheeks go warm to have him so close.
"Am I a terrible person if I'm kind of hoping this takes a while?" he asked after a moment.
She smirked and looked up at him. The way he met her gaze told her they both wanted the same thing. It was fast; too fast, but there they were, in a ridiculous romantic moment in the rain, close enough to feel each other's breath, like something from a movie. Carrie decided the suspense had gone on long enough. Raising up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his, and he eagerly leaned into her.
For a moment his lips were on hers and she was all butterflies and victory, but then something happened. Something flashed into her mind—a memory? Somehow, kissing him was suddenly familiar.
He looked into her eyes for a moment. And then a scene slammed into her mind: the scent of burning metal, time running out, his face before her, and a name. Neo.
"Oh my god," she gasped.
Alarmed by her expression, he eased away. "Are you alright?"
More memories came crashing into her. Neo. Trinity. The Matrix. She touched his face. He looked confused and vaguely concerned. She swiftly pulled him back to her lips and really kissed him. Remember me, goddamn it!
But when she looked at him again, he was still Thomas, giving her a surprised smile. Her heart sank. Up ahead, she saw headlights coming around the corner.
"Oh, there's a taxi," she said.
They hailed the cab as it came by. Her heart was pounding; why didn't he remember, too? She was suddenly mortified by how passionately she'd just kissed him, out of the blue, on their second meeting.
"So, I'll um, see you...tomorrow night?" she muttered.
"Are you sure you don't want to share the cab? It's so late."
"Oh... I'm actually really close by, so it's fine."
She couldn't sit next to him in a cab. She could not.
"Alright," he said. "Well, have a nice night."
"You too," she said.
He smiled at her and disappeared into the taxi. She stood in the rain in stunned silence after he'd gone, watching the rippling reflection of street light in a puddle.
"This isn't real," she said out loud before she had fully realized it.
Back in her apartment, Carrie—now Trinity—dropped her umbrella, ran her hands through her hair and blinked tears from her eyes.
"How is this possible?" she muttered, looking around, and finally sinking into the couch.
A chill shot down her spine as the gravity of the memories weighed on her. She had been dreaming and was now awake.
This is the Matrix. We're back inside. But how?
That night was restless; she tossed in bed as still more memories came back to her. Tears soaked her pillow as she recalled their time together and felt the glow of her love for him. She'd never known anything so beautiful. She ached to have him lying next to her again.
Just before she drifted into sleep, she whispered into the darkness.
"Come back to me."
Thomas smiled on the ride home, a little confused about her reaction to the kiss, but glad still that it happened. Carrie was a remarkable person, and he was drawn to her in a way he couldn't fully explain.
Gazing out the window into the rain, a strange feeling came over him as he passed under a bridge—an odd sense of deja vu. But just as quickly as he felt it, it was gone.
The next morning, he awoke from a dream of a woman falling—a dream he'd had before, but this time, she had Carrie's face. Each time the dream came to him, he felt like there was more to the story, but he woke up too soon to see it. As he stretched and yawned, the details grew fuzzy again. He smiled. He was looking forward to the gallery opening that evening, and he was so preoccupied with wanting to see her again, his art being on display almost seemed like an afterthought.