Alone With the Moon ...Part 2 ...Mystic Connection
― Yoon Jeong Kim
This is crazy--I've gone for years without dating a woman and now I'm suddenly obsessing over someone from an entirely different culture.
The barriers seem insurmountable, especially since we've barely exchanged more than a few words.
And now to make matters worse, I'm nsensing something mystical about her. I mean, she's inhabiting my dreams.
Maybe it's not just the situation that's crazy--maybe it's me.
I spent a restless night vainly trying to decipher the message of the dream and then the resat of the night trying to get back to sleep.
In the morning, I read The Times, sipping my tea and feeling totally out of sorts. There’s been another beheading in Ethiopia and a foiled terrorist plot involving blowing up the Canada-USA Bridge.
I feel sick to my stomach. It's all about terrorists and I know somehow any foreigners will come under suspicion. I wonder if that will include Mariyan.
At work, it’s not much better. There’s a buzz around the coffee machine and a few pointed looks in Mariyan’s direction.
I go back to my desk depressed and exhausted. I glance at my watch—only ten o’clock. Will I even make it to lunch?
I glance over at Mariyan and she’s bathed in a silvery luminescence. My attention is totally arrested as I hold my breath.
But just then, the phone rings and I have to answer. Of course, the spell is broken. When I look back, the radium glow is gone.
What was it? It reminded me of snow at night—a very faint radiance.
At that moment, Mariyan lifts her eyes and stares. Were you looking for me?
I swear I hear her whisper inside my head and begin to tremble.
What’s happening?
The phone rings again and I warily pick up.
“Markus? It’s Raj. Are you free for lunch?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Raj! You’re just the man I need to see. Can we meet at Coro’s at noon?”
He chuckles. “That depends, my friend—if it’s pleasure, my treat. If it’s business, it’s your tab.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Raj, but this time I need advice.”
“In that case, if you arrive before me, order me a double scotch neat so I’ll be well fortified.”
“Will do, Pal.”
I feel better already. I’ve known Raj—or, more formally, Dr. Dr. Rajab Basha, for over ten years.
Besides being my best friend, he’s an Adlerian therapist and someone I trust enough to pour out my soul.
If anyone can make sense of my angst it’s him.
In the restaurant, Raj is sitting opposite me attired in a dark blue suit, looking more a Bay Street banker than an upscale psychiatrist.
His professional demeanor is augmented by years of private schooling in Calcutta—the benefit of being the only child in a wealthy Muslim family.
He’s been listening attentively as I’ve poured out my soul and now leans back in his chair and stares at me pensively.
“You say you’ve seen an aura about her?”
I immediately feel defensive.
“I didn’t use that word exactly—I think I said a faint luminescence.”
“Ah yes—a radiance. Of course, you wouldn’t know about the farr. She must be from royalty”
“As far as I know she’s from Jordan, but her father’s family traces back to Iran. I don’t know much more about her lineage—certainly nothing about her being of royal descent. Besides, what does that have to do with her aura?”
He smiles at my use of the spiritist term, but I’m too exasperated to quibble over words—I simply want to know what the hell is going on.
Do I need this angst in my life?