- I couldn't think of anything better to ask than what was on her mp3 player. She took her time to answer. It seemed she only paused so she could figure out the level of honesty in my curiosity. She knew exactly what was on her player. She merely chose to grab onto my question as if it would provide her with a key to the mistery. With a melancholic smile, she placed a firm grip on the heater, almost afraid of falling off. I asked her if she felt alright, if she was cold. She denied politely. But she clutched that heater so. I reached for the green blanket. It had fallen off the bed earlier. You know, I thought it would be a clever reason to approach her. To touch her. To assess her consistency. Flesh or emotion. The blanket got caught on that stupid night table I've been meaning to fix. You know...the one I keep finding excuses for, like "it has a certain charm, with its chopped wooden edge". It's not charming. It's just damaged. Anyway, I tried to untangle the threads caught between the splinters as fast as I could. While I did that, I asked for her name. The silence was different this time. She was no longer there.
- But she returned, right?
- Yes. The very next evening. Funny thing is... I spent that evening somewhere else, in a motel outside San Diego. I went there to visit Diane. Well, truth is I had a feeling the haunting story wasn't over and I wanted to cheat it. I went there to hide. By the way, Diane asked about you. She seemed so happy to be forgiven. She thinks I did forgive her. She thinks I didn't spend the night with her because I can't stand the children crying.
- You're cruel.
- Compared to her, I'm an angel. But this is not about Diane. After I've told our redhead friend why I've avoided her for so long, we made our formal peace, we shared our shallow hugs and I was on my way. I checked in at Potter's Inn, a very cosy place that reminded me of our grandma's summer house. It smelt like cookies and raspberry jam.
I don't usually travel alone here. Not because I'm afraid or anything. It's just that I hate the feeling of displacement you get on this strange continent. Or maybe it's just this country. Or the desert. I don't know. But this particular inn was a different story altogether. It felt more like home than my own bedroom. I didn't want to rush to sleep even in my state of exhaustion. Mental exhaustion mostly, the natural consequence of any encounter with Diane. I was sleepy but inlove with the view, dying to taste something from Mrs. Potter's kitchen and amused with the old school motown tunes on that radio, playing too loud in the carwash next to us. I can't even begin to tell you how confortable it was. I fought my alpha waves to prolong this suspended childhood feeling as much as I could. Eventually, around 11 pm I gave in. I turned off the lights, smiled at the tomcat outside my window, beginning his nightly pursuit, and almost sleep-walking I pulled the shades down. Well, I tried to. Her daunted whisper stopped me when she asked if I could stay awake for a few minutes more. She had returned.
- You must have freaked.
- No, not at all. I was bit startled because the atmosphere in that room kind of erased the recent past. But then again I felt like I was in good company. She apologized for the vanishing the night before. Apparently she has no control over her travels. I invited her on the bed. Again, a reason to force a physical connection. This time, it worked. We both got under the quilt (yes, the bed was covered in a traditional hand-made quilt) and resumed our conversation.
- So was she flesh ? Or emotion?
