That Awkward Moment: Part 2

I pushed away from the table and stood up, my chair making an obvious squeal against the expensive wood floor. My parents paused mid-sentence, their mouths agape, and stared at me. Aunt Eudora didn't seem to notice--she was ripping apart her steak like a T-rex, sauce staining her fingers, being completely oblivious to my rigid composure.

"Is everything alright?" Mom said, sounding as if she was talking to a frightened animal. Her eyes flickered to the phone in my hand, then back at my face.

I took a couple of breaths as I thought through an escape plan. "I...I'm just gonna go to the bathroom. I'll be right back." I said. Mark rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, watching my face intently with his somber blue eyes.

Not waiting for a reply, I turned away from my mother's puckered face and did my best speed-walk towards the bathroom.

Yeah, I'm just gonna leave. Just gonna get as faaaaaar away as possible. I don't know what's going on, but I don't like it one bit. Either this Mark guy is a psychopath, or...

I shook my head. I wasn't even going to consider the other possibility--that he was telling the truth.

After weaving around a few waiters that gave me nasty looks, I found the ladies restroom and pushed the door out of the way with an angry sweep. The door rebounded, clipping my shoulder on the way back. My cry of pain echoed through the bathrooms. I froze in place and waited for any snickers of laughter, but the stalls greeted me with a pointed silence.

Sighing with relief, I went to the mirrors and rested my hands on either side of one of the sinks. The granite felt sturdy and cool beneath my sweaty fingers; it was a stable reassurance as I listened to my breath flowing in and out.

Every time I shifted my weight, my heels would drag on the wood floor and make an ugly scratching sound. I held as still as possible, killing all sound except the muted voices from outside. I ignored my disheveled appearance in the mirror. I knew I looked on edge; I didn't need that confirmed.

Without warning, the restroom door flew open and slammed against the wall with the volume of a cannon shot. I jumped a foot in the air, nearly losing my balance in my stupid heels, and put my hands up in defense. With my eyes squeezed shut, I heard a thud and a muffled curse as the door swung back and hit whoever was invading my privacy. Daring to peek, I bit my lip a little too hard when I saw who it was.

The man in the tweed jacket was now rubbing his arm with a sour expression, seeming to not realize just how much he startled me.

Thousands of questions circulated, most of them profound, but I couldn't begin to form the words. Unfortunately, only one question got through:

"What are you doing in the girl's bathroom?" I squeaked. The question sounded like something a second grader would ask. I mentally smacked myself.

Mark looked up, his expression vulnerable. As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn't get past his sincere eyes. They were an open book, subject to judgement--negative or otherwise.

"I need to talk to you." He said.

"Well what if I don't want to talk? What if I think you're a psychopath and should leave me alone?"

"I apologize for scaring you. I know this must seem ludicrous, but really I'm telling the truth. Just please, hear me out."

Desperation filled his voice. I wasn't able to meet his eyes, so I stared at the ground, silent. I didn't trust him--not one bit--but I supposed there wasn't any harm in at least letting him explain.

"Fine. Justify away." I said, my voice tight.

"Your name is Valerie Evans. You're eighteen years old, and you have two parents and an older brother. You have dreams of being a professional photographer, but you doubt that it will ever happen." He stated, his voice growing quieter. My cheeks warmed. How did he know about my aspirations? I kept the fact that I wanted to be a photographer a closely guarded secret.

"What does this have to do with--"

"--you have an intense fear of cockroaches," he continued, "and you love being in the sun just after a rainstorm. You think that wearing glasses without lenses is tacky, and one of your favorite memories is of a time when you were stuck inside the house during a blizzard with your family, and you all spent the entire day swapping stories, eating homemade bread, and watching The Sound of Music."

I eyed Mark carefully, feeling utterly exposed. My head was spinning.

"How do you know all this?"

Mark gave a heavy sigh, the kind that older people do when the entire world is weighing on their shoulders. In that instant, he looked wiser and more worn than a person his age should.

"Because I know you. You used to know me too, but you've been forced to forget. It's like a part of history has been deleted--edited out, if you will. Except I'm still here for some reason, even though I don't have any significance to Their plans."

"You're not making any sense." I edged away, wary. I tried not to glance at the door, so he wouldn't think I was getting any ideas. The second I got a clear shot, I was going to make a break for it.

"Don't you find it odd that your Aunt Eudora wants to speak with your family, even though you haven't talked in years? You barely know her, and yet there's the possibility that she might consider you in her will. That would be life changing. An inciting incident." Now deep in thought, Mark stepped away from the door, staring at the ground intently.

"What are you saying?" I said as I side-stepped towards the door.

"I have a theory, and you'll probably think I'm mad for thinking it, but the people around us, our surroundings, everything we know is a part of an elaborate story."

This guy isn't just a little crazy--he's bat poop crazy. I don't care what he knows about my personal life; I'm getting out of here.

Now only a few feet from the door, I put grabbed the handle.

I hesitated. Although it didn't make any sense, I felt bad about running away from Mark. He'd been nothing but straight with me, and even if he was crazy, it didn't seem like he had any bad intentions. Besides, how did he know that much about me? It wasn't like I was terribly open about myself--in fact, very few people knew much about me at all.

But what was Mark saying? That my entire life was a story? A fictionalized account created for someone's entertainment? But for who? None of it made any sense. The world felt real enough to me; I felt real enough.

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Just leave me alone."

With that, I opened the door and ran, not looking back.


/---/---/

Things have taken a turn for the satirical. I wasn't planning on going that far with this, but gosh is it entertaining.