The Proverbial Mr. Universe (3 page)

“Right! I’ll plan a romantic dinner for next week … you and me … I promise,” he said, his eyes still on the road. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He glanced quickly at her. “You’re mad at me?”

“How can I not be? We’re never together anymore.” She threw her hands into the air.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Olivia. You, of all people, should understand me. You’re always working late.”

“Yeah, I work late because who wants to come home to an empty apartment?” She turned to look at him.

“Oh no, don’t put the blame on me, Olivia. I work hard, I buy you beautiful things, I do everything to make you happy. I do this all for you, all for us.”

Dario had given her the finest things: jewelry; trips to Europe; beautiful, expensive, Italian-leather handbags. It meant nothing to her. How could it move her in any way, when the one thing she wanted he wasn’t capable of giving her?

“I am not putting the blame on you. We don’t connect anymore …”

“It’s not my fault, Olivia,” he snapped.

“Mine either. I make myself available every time you need me.”

“Listen, Olivia, working for your father hasn’t been easy. I have a lot of stress with this new position, so excuse me if we don’t connect lately.”

“I understand, I do. I’m stressed at work, too. I sometimes think I’m the only one trying here.”

He laughed.

She hated how he laughed, so condescending. He was mocking her, and that was even more aggravating.

He smirked. “You can’t call what you do at work stressful. Come on, Olivia. You sketch all day.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Don’t degrade my job. My job is more than that.”

“I don’t know why you care so much about your job. You’re always complaining about how much you hate it. Anyhow, it’s not like you will continue to work once were married,” he said.

“I can’t believe you just said that!”

“What?”

“What am I supposed to do at home? What about my dreams and my aspirations?”

He laughed again, which continued to make her temperature rise.

“Exactly! Right here is what I’m talking about. You don’t care about me; you don’t care about what I like, or—”

“Oh, come on! Stop being such a baby.” He paused. “I do care,” he said in a not so convincing tone.

Her heart was drumming so rapidly and loudly it ran up to her ears. She put a hand on her forehead. “Maybe this is all wrong …”

He raised his hand in the air. “What are you saying, Olivia? You’re not happy? You’re not happy with me? Are we back to that again?” He missed the clutch, and his car lurched into first gear.

No, she wasn’t. She was sure of her feelings, but she was so afraid to say the words out loud … afraid of the consequences if she did.

“Honestly, I don’t know anymore.” She finally looked at him.

He shook his head. “I figured something was up yesterday night. You keep on asking me all these questions. You’re trying to pick a fight.” He looked away. “I think you do all this for attention. Your father spoiled you too much. I spoiled you too much!”

Whenever they fought, he made her believe she was the cause of everything that was wrong in their relationship. Her fault they argued, her fault she was unhappy. He never took the blame for anything that went wrong. The car pulled up to the curb and stopped in front of a tall, gray building where Olivia worked.

“Yeah, you’re right…” she frantically waved her hands in the air “…I do this all for attention.”

“What’s the matter with you? Sometimes I think you’re unstable …”

“I hate when you call me that.” His words hurt. They always hurt.

“Yeah, well, you’ve been acting fucking crazy lately.”

She looked at him without saying another word. What was the point? She certainly had enough. Olivia opened the car door, slamming it behind her. She didn’t even turn around at the sound of screeching tires. Olivia stood motionless, unaware how long she stood there. Staring at the tall, gray building, she wanted to call in sick. Her heart was about to fall out, wouldn’t that be reason enough?

Instead, she decided to go across the street to pick up a large coffee. Maybe she could caffeinate herself to death, or better yet … pick up a pack of cigarettes—but not before a deep, rumbling voice called out from behind her.

“Don’t let the shadow follow you around,” said a man who spoke English with a thick French-Canadian accent.

She looked around, and her eyes landed on a homeless man sitting on the snow-covered, concrete ground. His face had been weathered from the hardship of living on the street, white hair and beard growing wildly around him. At first, she wasn’t sure if he was directly talking to her. Olivia glanced around and realized no one else was on the sidewalk.

“What?”

“The fear we are never worthy of anyone better,” he replied.

“Sorry?” Olivia looked around, uncomfortable with the idea of speaking to this man alone.

“When you subject yourself to pain and repeatedly allow him to break you with a few short words. Says a lot about you,” he replied.

She frowned. “Really, what’s that?”

“You must not love yourself. I’ll tell you, mademoiselle … your life belongs to you. Only a matter of treating your life a little better and maybe life would treat you better in return.”

Great, now she was getting advice from a homeless man. Olivia made sure to keep a safe distance between them. He seemed harmless enough, but one could never know. As a child Olivia always imagined herself growing up into the kind of person who was compassionate toward others, devoting her time in making some sort of difference in the world. At some point she lost sight of the person she aspired to become.

Olivia dug into her purse, took out her last ten-dollar bill, and handed to him. Her caffeine suicide would have to wait since the coffee shop across the street only took cash.

“Sorry, it’s all I got.” She smiled and started to walk toward the entrance of her building.

“Mademoiselle! Wait, I have something for you.”

Her inner voice told her to keep on walking, but for one reason or another she stopped and walked back toward him. Something told her she was going to regret this.

“For me?” She frowned and waited for him to remove a folded paper from his pocket and handed to her.

At first, Olivia hesitated, trying not to get too close. The thought of where that piece of paper had been made her stomach churn, but Olivia didn’t want to seem rude. She unfolded the paper, a few sentences scribbled on lined paper. It was quite a task to read since the penmanship was awful. She looked around once more before reading it to herself.

She looked back at the man on the street. “Cute, did you write this?”

He shrugged and smirked. “Surely, mademoiselle, do I look like I did?” He laughed.

Olivia frowned. “So who did?”

Apparently this was meant for her, addressed to the girl with the red scarf. Coincidently she always wore a red—well more like red pashmina—scarf draped around her neck.

“Mr. Universe.” His smile widened even more.

Looking over her shoulder, she thought maybe this was a joke. She saw those shows on TV where they play tricks on people on the streets with a secret camera hidden in the nearby bushes or something.

“This a joke, right?”

“Don’t worry. You’re lost. The best of us are, but you will find your way. The universe is everything, all that is tangible and all that is not. Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in the scheme of things. The world is wondrous and mysterious, but he will reveal himself to you when he is ready.” He paused. “We are all connected, but we don’t realize how. You, me … we’re all connected … somehow. Sooner or later it will all be revealed to us.”

“Right … okay, thanks for …” She held up the note and started to make her way back to the entrance of her building.

“We are all on stage, my dear. Sometimes we forget our lines, but luckily an offstage helper can whisper our lines to us until we get back on track.”

She arched her eyebrow. “An offstage … helper?”

This man was messing with her. Or just plain crazy. Olivia glanced at the time. She was now forty-five minutes late.

“Metaphorically, of course. Someone to guide you when you’ve lost your sense of direction.”

“Hmm … right … got it.”

He got up slowly and walked past her. “Don’t stop looking at those stars,” he said without turning around and continued on his path.

Olivia looked down at the piece of paper he had given to her moments ago. Chills ran up the back of her neck, but it wasn’t from the crisp cold air. It was something her grandfather use to say to her.

N
ick Montgomery’s eyes fixed on the void—a big, white void to be exact—hitched onto an easel right in front of him. He ran his fingers over the coarse fabric. It almost depicted his life these days: deserted, inhabited, vacant. A shell of a life as opposed to what it once was. Sitting quietly, he waited for it to come. He knew better. When a stream of morning light trickled in from the basement window, he looked up. His posture slightly fell, raking his hands back and forth through his hair. Maybe it was a bad idea trying to get back something that might never come. The artist got up and walked towards the door, picking up his keys from his desk before exiting his studio.

Later, Nick found himself sitting in a café when he caught sight of a girl. His heart dropped when he realized it wasn’t his girl—well not his girl per se, not yet anyhow.

He didn’t even know her, but he had a strange notion like he should. It would be bold to admit that one day he was going to end up with her, but that was what he believed. Nick couldn’t describe what he was experiencing; it was like every living fiber in him was convinced of it.

Every day he casually walked into the café for nothing other than to get a glimpse of her before returning to his studio. In theory, she wasn’t his type: brunettes who seemed too closed off and too far out of his league. Not that Nick wasn’t a good-looking guy, he had enough glances from women. With one glance at her, he saw the problem: it was clear she came from money, and well he did not.

Nick made that fateful decision to walk into that café two months ago, when he first moved into the neighborhood, in search of a place to grab a bite to eat. That was the first time he saw her, alone, sketching in a notebook. There was something else he noticed about her. Quiet, with her head down, she discreetly pushed her tears away with long fingers. She gazed up and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Nick never considered himself a sappy romantic. He once believed in love, maybe even at first sight, but that existed ages ago at a time when Nick thought life was limitless. Now, Nick wasn’t sure what he believed.

Something shifted inside of him, an instant spark or even magic, because at that moment he wanted to believe something extraordinary could happen. The girl with the sad eyes had that effect on him. He should have gone to her, made sure she was alright, but by the time he got his nerves in check she disappeared.

Like catching a tune on the radio for the first time and suddenly you seem to hear it everywhere, she started to appear everywhere he went. They crossed paths on multiple occasions, up and down the street of Chabanel, all in the radius of few blocks located in Montreal’s garment district. He became familiar with her daily routine. She would come to the café every morning and take her dark coffee to go. She disliked the color red, but wore a red scarf. One morning she announced to her friend with the bright hair, that men who wore beanies indoors annoyed her. Was she talking about him?