We Meet Again

  by Barbara Neal Varma 

   I didn't know who he was, but something about him seemed familiar-like meeting someone for the first time, only you feel like you've met him before, in some other lifetime, maybe, or some other universe. Certainly my universe had recently collapsed. After almost eleven years of marriage, my husband had declared he was leaving, and a few minutes later he did exactly that with a final slam of the door to cover the sound of my scream and sudden collapse to the floor.

   Okay, that was a bit melodramatic. He didn't actually slam the door, it just felt like it. But my collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, that much is real. And I know I made some sort of anguished cry, because weeks later he told me he'd heard it, had hurt to hear it, but not enough to turn back. That was about five months ago. 

   When people ask, I tell them he went in search of his dreams, beyond the confinement of love and marriage. I don't tell them that one of his dreams was another woman. That's an admission that cuts too deep, and besides, I don't need the "I'm so sorry" looks from friends and family. I need their expressions to say, "We're here for you," and oh, how I love them for that.

   So, anyway, about this guy, this strangely familiar guy - the first thing I noticed was his smile-perhaps because he was smiling at me as I walked into the training room yesterday morning. Though I didn't recognize him, I returned the grin by polite habit, figuring his happiness was, in truth, relief that I had arrived. I'm a sign language interpreter, and once I'm on the scene, all the hearing folks breathe a little easier; no more tedious notes passed back and forth to communicate with the deaf employee.

   
   Smiling Guy introduced himself to the group; my hands followed his words, including his name, which I finger-spelled, but I still couldn't place him. I was used to people recognizing me at work while I drew a blank regarding them. I'm the only sign language interpreter for our dozen hearing-impaired employees, and the job keeps me up front most of the time, easy to spot.

   
   Still, there was something about this guy that was like a wisp of a warm memory. And something else: a growing, glowing tingle. What was that about?
   

   Probably he had taken the sign language class I teach onsite, or perhaps he was a manager I had chatted with in some obscure hallway. Well, whoever he was, his ready smile was a sweet drink, indeed.

   
   He finished his opener and stepped aside for the second presenter to take his turn. That's when the coughing fit hit me. It started as a mere tickle in my throat but then progressed into full-on and repeated coughing, the kind that refused to be ignored. I stopped the instructor for "just a minute" and began to rise, but suddenly he was there, kneeling down with a Styrofoam cup of water. I took it, surprised but grateful.

   
   "Thank you," I said when able.

   
   He stood up. "No problem. You are most welcome."

   
   Wow.

   
   The lecture began again and so did my hands, but my mind was distracted by the puzzle: Where had we met before?

   
   He sought me out during break and asked about my upcoming signing class. "Was there still room?" he asked.

   
   "Certainly," I said, smiling too much.

   
   Then he was gone, retreating to prepare for his turn in front of the class. Something stirred in me, barely noticeable, but for a timeless second ... I had missed him.

   
   I became alarmed-and intrigued. As I continued interpreting, I kept stealing glances and wondering where we had encountered each other before and how I could possibly remember a stranger so fondly. Then during lunch I was both pleased and nervous when he appeared at my table in the cafeteria.

   
   "Hi. Mind if join you?"

   
   There's that smile, again. I know that smile. "No, fine," I said. "Go ahead."

   
   I studied my salad as though I had forgotten what I had just placed on my plate, but any contrived calm didn't last long as he settled in across from me. I felt so awake in his easy presence; pleasurable feelings suddenly released from their pain-imposed dormancy.

   
   I attempted a ration of inward control, trying to make sense of this reaction, so quick and strong. I assured myself that everything was as normal as it had been prior to my arrival that morning. He was sitting here with me because he wanted to know more about the sign language class, or maybe he wanted to learn how to sign something beforehand. Yes, that was it. Some tangible reason, please, that I can understand and name.

   
   He cleared his throat. "So what do you like to do? What kind of music do you listen to?"

   
   I looked up. He was curious about me? I looked closer. He seemed sincere. "Jazz," I lied. It sounded so much better than my real inclination toward the top ten pop tunes and watered-down rock and roll. But he accepted it; my credibility unchallenged and assured.

   
   The conversation continued-and continued to engage me. I would have been content merely to be included in the discussion, and I was more than happy to be the center of it, instead. He wanted to know what I thought, how I reasoned-and why did I like baseball so much? After a while, I stopped worrying about how I knew him and just enjoyed the feelings his coaxing inquiries invoked. At times, he would casually disclose some of his thoughts and life's interests to me. That was just as thrilling.

   
   What he didn't know was how wonderful it was to see him again. Because I knew by the hour's end that my memory had not deceived me. This was no stranger sharing my table, my space, but a cherished, long-lost friend from my past, before I was married, before my husband had left me.

   
   It had just been so long since I'd seen him that I'd almost forgotten the pleasure of his company. But in his steady gaze, I remembered. He was Mr. Interested.