The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2001, Side 28

110
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 56 #3
thing else again. The clouds were like these
big . . . ripples in the sky, and they were
huge, and pink, and it looked as if the sky
were on fire. I just had to stop and look at
it. I felt like I was a part of that fire some-
how . . . that I was burning up and fading
away. And then the sky turned to a deep
purple, and then, gradually, one by one, the
stars came out. It was as if they were shy
and were only coming out because they
thought no-one was watching. But I was. I
watched the whole thing.”
We kept walking. Robyn looked at me.
“You know what, Neil?” she said, tugging
my arm.
“What?”
“You were practically made for me.”
“Yeah? How do you know?” I said.
“Oh, I just do.”
We said goodbye outside her apartment
building. The streetlight above suddenly
flickered out and we were enveloped in
shadow. The cold wind whipped her hair
around my face; it was soft, and smelled
like apples. She nuzzled in close to my ear
and whispered, “Neil, I wished for you.”
She kissed me. Her breath was warm
against my cheek, and we held each other
tight. You may kiss a lot of people in your
life, but not like . . . well, it was—I’ll never
forget what it felt like her fingers in my
hair, the breath flowing from her mouth
into mine, giving me life, or something like
it; her hair, trickling down my neck; her
breasts against my chest; her heart beating
next to mine—one kiss. That’s all it was.
And I’ll never forget it.
Robyn was the most amazing woman
I’d ever met. I loved her more than any-
thing. In fact, we loved each other so much
that we spent all our time together. We
eventually got married and lived happily
ever after. Everything was perfect.
Who am I kidding. This is just a story.
There’s nobody named Neil. It never hap-
pened. No relationship ever works out like
that. Never in a thousand rainy days. I only
wrote about it because I’m lonely and I
hate it here. I don’t know why I even both-
ered. I wish I had a fireplace.
Robyn threw down her pen and crum-
pled up the paper she had been writing on.
She hurled it at the wastebasket as tears
welled in her eyes. She threw on her coat
and shoes and went out for a long walk,
looking for puddles, but her search was in
vain; it hadn’t been raining. She wondered
whether she shouldn’t have just stayed in
Toronto, after all.

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