Fragments from the Veil —Chapter 1

I parked but left the car running. It was late summer, and it was still hot outside, even though it was late in the afternoon. I didn't want to become overheated — much less sweat — while I tidied up myself last minute. I had not seen Kristen in eight months, and I didn’t know if I would see her again after tonight, so I wanted to make a good impression.

I had chosen light blue jeans, a light pink polo shirt, brown driving moccasins, and Maverick sunglasses. I thought my outfit was just right — it would say I care about how I look, I’m friendly, and I was available to her if she wanted me.

On Messenger, I had invited her to catch up. In reality, I was hoping for more. It was a date — she just didn’t know it. Hopefully, she wouldn’t find out until it was over.

That weekend, I had the house to myself — no disruptions, no obligations, no pretending. I was free to walk around naked, watch porn on the big TV, and drink as much as I wanted. I could even order adult toys from Amazon — I would be the only one home to receive them. But I had chosen to spend that evening with Kristen — the entire weekend if all went well.

I checked myself in the rearview mirror. I thought I was having a great hair day — my dark hair fell in natural waves beside my face and along the back of my neck. Still, I felt insecure — I wondered whether I was attractive enough for her. She wasn’t naturally blond — I'd seen her pics on Facebook — I hoped she’d like the mystery of my dark hair.

Finding her on Facebook had not been easy since I didn't know her last name. I had called the clinic where she worked before, but they said they couldn’t share her information. Similarly, her school did not help either (I knew what school she had gone to because it was listed in her profile on the clinic’s website, but it didn’t include her full name).

When I finally found her, I wasn’t sure it was really her — I had already come across many dental hygienists named Kristen. In the pictures I saw, she looked different — younger — from how I remembered her. It was only after I compared some pictures there with those on the clinic’s Facebook page that I knew for sure it was her.

I especially loved a picture of her in shredded jeans, canvas shoes, and a black sweater. It captured the natural beauty of her skin, her long hair, and her smile. There was also a picture of her wearing sandals. Her small and lovely feet — my mind took me to a quiet place where I kissed them slowly, with tenderness and devotion.

I also saw pictures of her and her girlfriends drinking margaritas. It was a side of her I hadn’t seen. She looked bold and sophisticated — not the quiet, thoughtful woman I had met before. The pictures of her wearing a bikini in the pool — I wondered who had taken them and whether she had been with other men. The word herpes flashed through my mind — uninvited, unlikely, but there.

Her pictures were loaded with likes and comments — she had over a thousand friends! I scurried through her pictures like a mouse in the dark — I didn’t want to click on anything that would give away that I had been there. I wasn’t doing anything wrong — her pictures were public — but I would have been embarrassed if she had found out.

Frankly, I hesitated reaching out. She had another life, a life that was different from mine — I saw no room for me in her pictures, but her voice still echoed in my memory. I missed our conversations, I missed looking forward to them, I missed the excitement she brought during those short visits to the clinic — they were never long enough — so I finally wrote to her on Messenger.

Of course, she would assume I had seen her public pictures — but assuming is not the same as knowing. Assuming is exciting, knowing is upsetting.

She didn’t reply right away, and I wondered if she ever would. When she finally did, I was elated — my heart hurt, and there were tears in my eyes. I had persevered, and my perseverance had been rewarded. I wrote back and, after a few exchanges, asked her out to dinner ... so we could catch up — it was a well-intentioned lie.

I was now in my car, just a few feet and a few minutes from her. This date — this undeclared date — could be the beginning of a new relationship between us — or the end. I wanted to make a good impression on her — I needed to make a good impression on her.

I put on more deodorant, and I applied cologne — Acqua di Giò — lightly on my nape and on the sides of my neck — and on my chest, my wrists, and below the waist — just in case.

I heard my phone vibrate, and I saw my source’s name come up on the screen. I would have answered on any other day, but not today — not now.

“Answer — it’s important.” The words broke through my thoughts like lightning breaks through storm clouds. I knew I was alone, I knew I didn’t hear them — and yet, I understood their urgency.

“Not now,” I whispered. I wanted Kristen more than I wanted the truth.

They released me just before the call stopped. I was back — startled.

My analog watch was too tight on my wrist, so I loosened it some. It’s a gift from my mom, so I only wear it for special occasions. She assured me it will continue working after the singularity — I believe it’s coming, I’m not so sure we’ll survive.

My ring and gold necklace — I thought about removing them, but I decided against it. Kristen was used to them, and I didn’t want to raise suspicion. I should honor her expectation.

I finally turned off my Civic EX and stepped out. I locked the doors and started walking toward the clinic where she now works. Before I got there, I saw her come out. I could feel my heart speeding up as if I had been injected with an EpiPen. I waited until she saw me, then I waved at her — gently, clearly — and smiled. She smiled and waved back too — but timidly, as if she didn’t want anyone but me to notice.

Walking towards her, I felt self-conscious. I thought I shouldn’t keep looking at her, so I scanned the parking lot as if a car had backed up into another and I had been a witness. But when I looked back at her, I noticed she was watching me patiently — or impatiently. I don't know — I didn’t know. I wondered what she was thinking, how she felt.

I tripped. Thankfully, I didn’t fall. “Damn it,” I muttered. “I’m sure she saw that.” I felt foolish.

I approached and, when I was close enough, I took off my sunglasses and smiled. "Hi, Kristen!" I called, waving again. I hung my sunglasses at the neck of my shirt.

“Hi!” she replied — again smiling, again waving.

She seemed a bit surprised when I leaned in to hug her. She had been my dental hygienist for almost three years, and in all that time, we had never hugged before — not even shaken hands. When we finally hugged, she held on briefly and kept some distance.

I looked into her greyish-blue eyes — God, they are beautiful! It’s like looking at sapphires — though you remember what they’re like, they dazzle when you see them in person. “It’s so good to see you,” I said. “How are you?”

“Great, thanks!” she replied. “Good to see you too!” She has a perfect smile. Her teeth are white like opal — they’re straight, even, small, lovely.

When I first met her during the pandemic, she always wore a mask, so I couldn’t see her smile — but I could see it in her eyes and hear it her voice. I sensed it, I knew it was there.

When she finally removed the mask, it was like looking at the Sun after a polar night.

“Did you have a good ride here?” she asked me.

"Yes, I did.” I replied. “This here is for you,” I said, handing her a pink paper bag with green handles.

She took the bag and said, “Thank you.” When she looked inside the bag, she smiled big. Aww!" she said, as she drew out a light brown teddy bear holding a sunflower. "For me?"

If you ever wondered what the Kodak moment looked like, that was it.

"Yes,” I said, delighted by her response. “I hope you like it."

"It is so cute! Thanks!" Her gorgeous eyes sparkled, her tanned face and rosy cheeks reminded me of the sunset. For long, I had dreamed of this moment — being here with her, outside the clinic, no longer as her patient — now my dream had come true.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said, moved by her words. “And — there’s a card at the bottom.”

"Oh, there’s a card inside!" She took it out and read it — she kept smiling. "Oh, thank you!"

The card had a sunflower design on the front and a brief message inside — “May this card make you smile the way I smile when I think of you." And I had written a short note: — "Kristen, I wish you the best of luck in your new endeavors. Yours truly, Nathaniel". I had included my phone number too.

"You’re welcome! I’m excited for you. I want to hear all about your new house and your new job."

“It’s going great,” she said. “People at work are very nice — I love my new home — and I’ve made new friends.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad to hear that.” Then I added, “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh, yes — I am,” she assured me. “It’s been a long day.”

“Great! That must be the restaurant you mentioned,” I said, pointing across the parking lot.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Let’s go then.”

We walked together to the restaurant, side by side. Even in her scrubs and sneakers, and with her hair pulled back, she looked beautiful as ever. I noticed she seemed shorter — maybe I thought she was taller because she used to sit over me to clean my teeth. This didn’t bother me — I’m not tall, just average height.

I remembered she likes reading mystery books, so I asked her if she had read any good ones recently — I wanted to keep the conversation going and avoid the awkwardness of silence. She said she was almost done reading one, and she told me about it. I don’t remember what she said — I was busy reading her expressions, her gestures, the poetry of sunlight on her hair, the delicateness of her neck, hands, and ankles. I could tell books were a topic she enjoyed. She paused and smiled — I think she noticed I was scanning her.

“And who’s the author?” I asked.

“John Grisham,” she said. “Have you ever read his books?”

“I can’t say I have, but I’ve heard of him.”

“You should try reading his books sometime — he’s really good.”

“That’s a good idea — I haven’t read fiction in a long time.”

“Really?” she asked, with a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Really — I mostly read emails, texts, articles, topics of interest. Maybe it's time for me to catch up on some fiction.” I suddenly sensed an opportunity — the way you smell cinnamon beneath the scent of coffee. “What if,” I said, following the scent, “I read the next book you read? Then we can talk about it.”

I’m fascinated by the process of thought. Even as I write, I don’t know what words I’ll end up with. I only have intention — like Bob Ross first approaching a blank canvas, figuring out after each stroke where to add the next one, when to pick another color. So it was at that moment — I just followed the scent. I had not planned to read a book together, but I had a goal, an intention — to establish a connection, to build a relationship, to find my place in her pictures.

“Sure,” she said, with an affirming smile. Then, her eyes opened up — “That will be fine” She smiled at me — “That sounds like fun.”

It was a commitment of time that I didn’t have, but I was willing to make the time. I had found an opportunity to keep in touch with her, and I wouldn’t miss it. I determined to bring it up again after dinner so we wouldn’t forget. And then, I thought — what if she invited me to her place ... to check out her book collection ... tonight?” Our date had just begun, and I looked forward to how it would unfold.

Author’s Note

This story begins Fragments from the Veil, a mythic cycle of desire, rupture, and strange illumination. It introduces the table—not just as furniture, but as a threshold. Here, longing first stirs beneath silence.

If you’re new to this world, this is where the ache begins.

Related Chapters

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 2

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 3