“Whatever you’re having, thanks,” she said. The slightest smile had danced across her features. I had smiled at the sound of her voice. It was, after all, that same voice that had first attracted me to her. Hers was a voice I could lose myself in, listening to its music forever.

We had been sitting in a cafe, one of those coffee places imported from the States, that served ice-blended mocha which costs more than a full meal. When I saw her last, two years past, these cafes were few but well frequented by that particularly peculiar group of poseurs it so amused me to imitate. Since then, these coffee joints have spread like so many new McDonalds, along with their clientele, almost as if they were nurturing each other.

We fit in perfectly, of course. Her in her riot of colours, hair brightly pink along her fringe; me in monotone, black against pale skin. She had looked on in distaste as I lit a cigarette a moment after we had sat down, breaking into a smile as I went on in a pretentious accent about the absolute necessity of your cig as a posing accessory, because it simply wouldn’t be quaint, otherwise.

There we had sat; she the empath, empathic me. I always liken such differences as to that which separates Alchemy from Chemistry. Whosoever thinks of chemistry as the more exact science never read enough of Quantum to realise the fallacy of the Bohr Atom. As well, whoever cannot see through the deliberately allegorical meanings of Alchemy is no greater a fool.

I wondered then which of us knew more about the other. I have always been drawn to her as a moth to a flame, was not the quest for knowledge original sin ? And curiosity did kill Schrodinger’s Cat, or maybe curiosity redeemed it.

As of our last encounter, two years past, I never really understood her, she had never opened up enough. My memory does not help me here. She does not remember a thing about me, of course. While I had fallen for her, she saw me as no more than another bothersome suitor. We were sitting there on equal terms. I had considered it a beginning, of sorts.

I wondered then about her power, and I had worn her eyes as I did so. What will she sense of me, my wondering had asked, how precise are her senses ? It would take me a time at least to understand someone beyond the superficial, to get past their subconscious defences to their pain and motivations and meanings. Would her senses piece through our façades instantly, or does she have to probe – verbally ? mentally ? – to get us to unmask ourselves ?

Would she have sensed my conscious contentment as black apathy, a chilly shroud of uncaring, or will she see instead the pale white glow of serenity ? Would she know me as I do not know myself; sense the crimson fire of my anger, feel my cold crisp hurt at the unfairness and ironic cruelty of this world; would my depression appear as shadowy tendrils, like too-long fingers, clutching over my heart ? I had wondered if I had truly mastered those emotions; “The dark side of the Force are they.”

I had smiled then, at the thought of Yoda.

She had smiled as well. If I didn’t know any better I’d have almost thought that she had read my mind. But she couldn’t have been that powerful, not at her tender eighteen years. I realised my own hubris then, and why couldn’t she be that powerful ? Age does not really matter, does it ? I know her to possess more wisdom than men three times her elder, certainly more wisdom than myself.

Hell, I then thought, that’s not what I really want right now, is it ?

I want to borrow her mind and her wit and her charm, for however long she allows me. I want to look at her eyes and her hands and the way her tinted hair falls across her face. And, I realised as my eyes settled on the feather strung around her neck, gently lying between the curves of her breasts, I wanted to kiss those lips again.

Mayhaps it will happen. Probably not. But a man needs ambition, and you’ve got to start somewhere, would you like a drink ?

“Whatever you’re having, thanks,” she said.

It would be while I was carrying our drinks back when I would realise that I hadn’t asked her my question aloud.