Dating : Thirty-Seven

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It was late in the afternoon. I rushed from the office down Avenida da Liberdade. Walking up or down its leafy streets is always cinematic. Romantic rush-hour you may call it.

I took a left, Google Maps saving my life once again. I must have looked puzzled staring at 37 and 37-A when I felt someone approach. Small steps behind me. Keys dingling. “I’ll open the door for you.” said a kind voice. I turned. Maybe I took too long, but eventually answered — you can’t keep a 70 year old angel waiting, it’s rude — “Oh, thank you so much, but I don’t know which is the right door.”

“It’s this one.” She said, in an all knowing voice, as she approached one of the thirthy-sevens. And I believed her. Afterall, she knew. I couldn’t help but trust her. She guided me in. It was one of Lisbon’s classic old buildings. Tiled floor and a couple of steps up to a lift and a staircase. “You go ahead, sweetie, I’ll take a little longer.” She said, as her slow steps covered each tile. I didn’t want to be late, but she made time last longer, I liked her. I answered, “Thank you, have a lovely day”, as I looked once again in her chilled blue crystal eyes. “Have a nice day, my dear” she answered, as if she knew me. My soul sunk as I skipped up the stairs. She did know me. She was me. I just met myself.

I chatted about my meet-cute, as blasé as may be. The story amused me. But a couple of hours or days later it really hit me, like a rock-hard wave hits a sandbank. I met myself and I didn’t even realize it. I liked myself before I knew it was me. I wasted a chance to love myself. Or did I?

[Originally posted on Instagram @saskialoja on 18.04.2020]