Part III

You don't see her so much as you feel her. It's the last morning of your holiday, and you're sitting in a cafe, curled up in a chair by the window. And suddenly the back of your skull is on fire and you're breathing fast. You turn, and there she is.

She's watching you, the book in her hand forgotten. She used to wear her feelings openly, painted across her face, and you're grateful to see that's still the case. Surprise is written all over her.

It's like seeing a ghost.

You think, for a split second, about turning back around, pretending you'd been trying to flag down a waiter, pretending you hadn't noticed her. Only for a split second. Then you're on your feet, purse tucked under your arm, plate and water glass in hand. Years ago, she would have been the one to cross the divide, but today you take the plunge. You slip into the seat across from her, settle down.

And then you meet her eyes. Had you forgotten how deep they are? How they seem to see everything? How could you have forgotten that? You lose yourself in her for a moment, forget that this is a crowded restaurant, forget that it's been twenty years.

"Kira's graduating tomorrow from Oxford," she says without preamble, breaking you from your thoughts. "PhD in Medical Ethics and Public Policy. I flew in just for the weekend, wouldn't miss it for the world."

"That's quite an accomplishment," you reply, pretending this is normal, pretending this isn't surreal. "Sarah must be very proud."

She smiles, not the toothy grin you remember, but warm all the same. "She's over the moon. Cal too."

It's clear it's your turn to speak, your turn to take a stab at the ice. You need a moment (a thousand moments) to adjust to her proximity but you open your mouth anyway. "I'm here on holiday. Just a little rest before the school year starts."

"You teach?" She grins now and leans towards you. "I've always pictured you teaching at a university somewhere, blowing the minds of college kids."

You find yourself leaning towards her as well, your breath catching just a bit. "Secondary school, actually, back in France. Chemistry. I love teaching, but," and you trail off, realizing just how close you were to popping this imaginary bubble.

Her smile falters for a second. "Yeah," she says, hand combing restlessly through the dreads pulled into a neat knot. She gestures towards herself. "High school biology. I took a position at a university in San Fran for a while, but being in the lab again just…" The sentence fades, and you understand completely.

You muster up a smile, and ask about her students, and she about yours. You share stories of student antics and classes gone awry.

Minutes stretch into an hour, then into two. Together, you work backwards, sketching out the skeleton of the last two decades. You both skirt away from the details, though. Until you don't.

"Ever married?" she asks you.

"Once, but it didn't last," you hesitate, catching yourself. You weigh the words and then barrel ahead. "He was never you."

You expect her to shut you down, ignore it, or recoil. But instead she nods like she understands, absentmindedly smoothing a thumb over her bare ring finger.

You don't tell her about the look on his face when you told him you were leaving. And she doesn't tell you about the friendships she tore apart trying to match the feeling of your hand in hers. Neither of you mention the fleeting moments, as you watch a student brimming with enthusiasm for science, when your hands start to shake again and your heart stutters in your chest. There's no need. You both understand.

You part with no promises, just a squeeze of hands and a kiss on the cheek. Cosima smiles like she used to, as she says, "It was good to see you again." And you take that smile and carry it away with you, a memento.

You do not expect to see her again. One chance meeting was all Fate had allotted you. Not enough for closure, but then again, there was never any hope of closure when it came to her. And though you lie awake at night, thinking of her and the way her hands used to float along your skin, you make no attempts to find her again. The ache is comfortable, a reminder of a brief time of light. A gentle longing.

You do not expect to see her again. But you walk into your classroom one morning, weeks later, and there she is. She's sitting on your desk, thumbing through a textbook, as though she belongs there.

When she sees you, she slips off of the desk and leans against it, book still in hand. Seeing her there, before she begins to speak, you already understand.

"It's been twenty years," she says, as you come to rest a breath away from her. "We lived our lives, and we've been just fine, but I think it's time."

You had been waiting to forget, waiting to be whole again, but you had this all wrong. Both such smart women, both so foolish when it comes to love.

The mend, the cure, for your bruised and battered past? Here it lies, in a tight embrace, in a high school science class.

"Yes," you say, "It's time to start again."