"That's a very interesting story, Cosima, but what you are saying is purely anecdotal—it proves nothing."
He shouted this over the music as he sipped on his Stella Artois. I didn't know who he was, a friend of Felix's, I suppose. I shall call him Hipster Tim.
We sat together on Felix's couch, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of strangers. He was a stranger, too. Perhaps that's why I had brought up the 'incident,' as I like to call it. Perhaps that's why I mentioned this one thing to him that I hadn't mentioned to anyone else—not Sarah, not Felix, not Alison.
He sucked the beer from his caterpillar mustache and smiled.
He went on.
"It could have been a hallucination, most likely caused by the lack of oxygen supplied to your brain."
"You're assuming that I experienced oxygen deprivation," I said, "but since I was alone in the room, there is no way of knowing if I was oxygen deprived or not—"
"My point exactly!" he interjected, his finger in the air. "You were alone, half asleep as you said. It could have been any number of things, including an extremely vivid dream. Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?"
Sarah perked up from the armchair.
"Oi! Is that when you're sleeping?" she called out. "And like, you can't open your eyes and shite?"
"Yes, exactly," he said, turning toward her. "Many people feel strong anxiety or see intense hallucinations. Others are aware of their surroundings but are unable to move…"
"That's right!" Sarah said. "Can't move your arms or legs! It's bloody awful! And sometimes, I get this real nasty suffocation feeling in my chest, like someone's sitting on me."
She pounded on her own chest. Then she waved Felix over.
"Hey, Fe! You've got to hear this. This guy says we aren't crazy with the night terrors and suffocation bit."
"Christ!" Felix chimed in. "What a relief! I thought I'd tripped on acid one too many times and done permanent damage."
Felix sat down on the arm of the couch just as I stood up.
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" I said. "Nature calls."
I joined the long line for the bathroom, keeping my arms crossed and my head down, scrolling my thumb endlessly over my Facebook dash without actually seeing any of the headlines.
I couldn't help but overhear the words supernatural, vampire, and hysteria drift over from Hipster Tim's mouth. I couldn't help but kick myself for bring up such a personal moment with a complete (and completely pretentious) stranger.
Distracted, I found myself googling sleep paralysis. I groaned in annoyance as I read over the description.
"This is so clearly not what I was talking about," I whispered to myself. "Oxygen deprivation, my ass—"
Before I could finish my string of expletives, the bathroom door swung open, a woman stepped out through the beaded curtain, and I was instantly caught up in the gaze of a stranger; her eyes gentle like an old friend's; her irises brown and unremarkable save for their warmth; her lashes long and sweeping.
She reached for her own heart. And so did I.
We stood, face to face, eye to eye, mouths open like our expressions—intense, vulnerable, intimate—not like strangers.
The illusion of intimacy was so compelling that for a moment—a mere heartbeat or two—I was convinced that I knew her, that I had seen her before, that I had anticipated the very way in which she tilted her head to the side and smiled.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Perdón."
The beads shook around her as she stepped aside. As I passed, our eyes met once more.
I can only describe the feeling as pure excitement, neither good nor bad, neither positive or negative.
No, this was primordial excitement, hardwired into the brain, a primitive recognition that was unsure whether the eyes gazing back at it were the eyes of a potential predator or the eyes of a potential mate.
Either way, the adrenalin did its work quickly and quietly, and by the time I had closed the bathroom door, my heart was pounding.
"What the fuck?" I whispered to myself.
I almost reached for the door. I almost pulled it open. I almost forgot why I had come to the bathroom in the first place.
I was overcome with fear; fear that I would never see that woman again, that she would walk out the door and I'd never know her name.
Yes, I almost pulled open the door, but then thought better of it.
"Pull yourself together," I said into the mirror. "Act natural."
And so, naturally, I finished what I had come for. Naturally, I washed my hands. Naturally, I checked my eyeliner and adjusted my dress so that the sleeve fell from my shoulder—naturally.
I took a deep breath. I pulled open the door. I walked out, nonchalantly. I glanced around the room, casually. I spotted her, the stranger across the room, standing by the window with a cigarette in her hand.
Our eyes met again, momentarily. I made my way toward her, thoughtlessly. She smiled, turning toward the window. She leaned over. She puffed out.
I shook like a leaf, predictably.
But when our eyes met again, her gaze pulled me in, until I found myself standing next to her, unsure of what to say. I bit my lip. She exhaled, turning toward the window without taking her eyes off of me.
"I don't think it was sleep paralysis," she said over the music.
"What?" I said, leaning closer.
She leaned in. She spoke louder.
"Before, when you were describing your experience—I don't think it was sleep paralysis."
"Oh! Me neither! But, like, who knows, right? The human experience is a complex one. There are more questions than answers, and all that jazz. I didn't realize you were listening. "
"I'm sorry. I was standing right behind the couch and I couldn't help but overhear. It's a subject that interests me."
"Really?"
"Yes," she said, tapping her cigarette on the window sill. "Your friend is completely wrong. Near death experiences most certainly do exist. They are widely reported throughout the world...though it is unclear if the experience is the byproduct of a dying mind or...or...that one's consciousness can, in fact, leave the body for short periods of time, as has been reported in other phenomena, including remote viewing and astral projection. To dismiss them so easily is just...arrogance."
I was both stunned and swooned by her words.
"Wow, that is quite an interest you have."
"Yes, you might call it a passion. What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, how do you feel about your experience? Do you believe it was supernatural in nature?"
"Well, to be honest, I hadn't given much thought about it until it happened to me. I just assumed people were buying into the mass hysteria created by the media, or that they were trying to give their lives—their deaths—more meaning. I thought people were trying to make themselves feel special by claiming these things. I mean, astral projection—who wouldn't want to be in more than one place at a time?"
"If only," she said, nodding her head and stubbing out her cigarette. "And are you okay now? Your health?"
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Well, mostly."
She glanced around, looking for a place to put the cigarette butt. I picked up an empty red cup. I reached it toward her, and she dropped the little butt in, glancing up at me before she tucked her hands into the pocket of her jeans.
"That's good to hear," she said. "After all, we've only just met."
The little blonde hairs on her forearms stood up and shivered in the breeze.
"You're cold," I said, but I didn't reach for the window. Somehow, I knew…
"Yes," she said, "but I like the breeze. The fresh air makes me—"
"—feel more alive," I said quickly, surprising even myself.
"...feel...alive," she said slowly.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to—"
"No, it's fine. It's fine."
She reached for my arm. It was a small gesture—small and intimate. Her fingers barely brushed my skin before she realized what she was doing and pulled her own hand away, only to tuck it back into her pocket.
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, as if confused, as if contemplative.
"What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," she said. "It's silly."
"What?"
"It's just...I just had a moment's déjà vu."
She shook her head, and her curls bounced lightly in the fading sunlight.
Our eyes met again. The light of the sunset filtered in through the open window, landing warmly across her cheeks, lighting up her skin in pink and gold. I was struck by how very alive she seemed in that moment—as if she were the most alive person I had ever met.
"Yeah," I said. "I think I'm feeling something like that, too."
Her eyes roamed over my face in tiny, delicate movements. Her cheeks rose with her smile. Her wrinkles deepened around her mouth, revealing fragile lines that criss-crossed her complexion, lines that you wouldn't notice in any other lighting, lines that hinted at many hidden things, many secrets, many vulnerabilities.
And yet, here they were, all on the surface, if only for an instant. I felt suddenly embarrassed for her. I felt as though I was seeing something I shouldn't, that I should try hard to pretend it wasn't there.
"But maybe it's just wishful thinking, who knows?" I said. "Like reincarnation, for example."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I can see how it's appealing to think that we'll never die. Or that we will see our loved ones again in another life."
"And our lovers," she added.
Our eyes met again.
You make love with your eyes open, I thought.
And I felt her eyes on me in the dark—on my body, on my back, on my bare thighs—though, in reality, they had not moved from my face.
"Right," I said, "And our lovers."
"Perhaps that is why we feel a certain familiarity when we meet someone new, an intimacy that can't be substantiated by present experience alone."
And your orgasm...I thought. I know about that, too.
I saw a fresh wave of goosebumps rise up over her flesh. She sighed and shifted her weight.
I know about the sounds of your throat. I know about the stretch of your limbs. I know about the smell of your arousal.
I shook my head in an attempt to shake these distracting thoughts away.
"Perhaps," I said. "Or, it could be another trick of the mind. You know, I read once, that you could make yourself fall in love with anyone you want—even a stranger—within only a few hours."
She tilted her head to the side. A golden curl fell across her forehead.
"And how would you do that?" she said, her posture soft, her voice even softer.
"There is a list of questions, personal questions that you ask each other."
I blushed as my fingers burned to brush the curl from her face.
"Well, that sounds like a every other date."
"No," I said, crossing my arms. "These are questions about family, best friends, biggest fears and failures, dreams and ambitions. This isn't small talk bullshit. This is like, deep shit. Like intimate shit."
"Okay," she said. "I'm listening."
She brushed the hair behind her ear and crossed her own arms, leaning toward me.
"Well, that's the thing," I said. "Each partner takes turns asking the questions while the other listens intently. It has to be in a quiet place, without many distractions, and the most important part…"
I paused for emphasis. Her gaze landed on my lips.
"The most important part is…"
"Uh-huh…"
"...is that you have to look into this stranger's eyes while they answer, like deeply into their eyes."
"Of course," she said.
She looked up. Our eyes met.
I know you...eyes open in the dark, teeth gritted, lips curled...I know you.
She licked her lips, but she didn't look away.
"It's a trust exercise," she said softly. "A willingness to be vulnerable, non?"
"Yeah, something like that," I said. "But then the question is...what inspires those feelings of love? Is it the intimate conversation? Or can it be accomplished by the gaze alone?"
"Good question," she said, touching her own lips with the tip of her finger. "A very good question."
"I mean, we could try it...as an experiment."
Her eyes went wide, just the slightest, and she blinked several times quickly. And when she smiled, a little chuckle escaped her lips.
I shrugged my shoulders and looked away, suddenly hot. I rubbed at my neck and laughed, playing it off as a joke.
She reached for my hand. Her fingers were icy and trembling, but her smile was warm.
"Why don't we go somewhere quiet, ehm, ehm..." she stuttered. "Ehm, what's your name?"
"Oh, God! I'm so sorry. I'm Cosima! And you?"
"Delphine," she said. "Enchantée."
I stared at her lips as she spoke, certain that I would never be able to accurately reproduce the sound, but equally certain that I could spend my life trying.
"Enchantée."