Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 4

"Can I get you anything else?" asked María, who had returned to check on us.

"Would you like anything else?" I asked Kristen, hoping she would.

I needed more time. I realized now that this could be the last time I saw her, my only chance to make a move — to confess what I felt, to tell her I was available for her, to beg her to choose me.

"No, thank you — I’m good."

My heart sank — she was ready to go.

I suspect María saw the disappointment on my face, my helplessness.

"We have several desserts," she said. "Would you like to try one?"

"Yes!" I said excitedly. I could have kissed María at that moment. "What do you have?"

"We have moshi, daifuku, cheesecake, shiruko, yokan, and pudding."

"That sounds delicious," I replied, hoping that Kristen would feel tempted. "Are you sure you don’t want anything, Kristen?"

"Well…" she said, thinking, hand on chin.

"Let’s try something," I prompted her.

"Well… I don’t know what those are."

"I have an idea," I said to María. "Can you bring us an order of moshi and an order of daifuku?"

"An order of moshi and an order of daifuku?" asked María.

"Yes," I said. "Is that alright, Kristen? We can share both dishes so you can try them."

Kristen nodded — "Yes… sure."

"Alright then!" I said, rubbing my hands with excitement. "We’ll get that — and more drinks!"

"No problem," said María. "I’ll be right back, mi Amor." She left with our new order.

She had called me mi Amor — not out of romance, but out of pity. She was trying to help me.

"Look at you!" said Kristen. "You really know your way around Japanese food."

"Oh, I love Japanese food," I said. "Sushi, ramen noodles, sake!"

"Ramen noodles? Like the cup noodles?"

"No… no, no, no!" I said playfully. "Japanese ramen noodles with tonkotsu, egg, bok choy, chashu, fish cakes, bean sprouts — that’s what I’m talking about!"

"That sounds good —" she seemed amused by my excitement.

"Look, I’ll tell you what," I said, trying to seize the opportunity and pushing aside the matter of her new boyfriend — after all, she was with me at the moment. "After we’ve read a few chapters of the next book you choose to read, how about if we go to a ramen shop to discuss the book there while we have some real Japanese noodles? I know of a very good place — I’m sure you’ll love the food there."

"Hmm…" she thought for a moment. "I guess so," she said, laughing nervously — hesitant, maybe even excited.

Her phone vibrated then. "Excuse me," she said as she answered.

I excused her, alright — but he was not excused.

"Yes?" she asked. "Almost done…" she said. It sounded to me like he was keeping tabs on her. "We’re about to have dessert."

I was certain that whatever they were talking about wasn’t work-related.

"Yes, I did… I already told him… I’ll call you when we’re done… love you… see you soon… okay, bye."

I tried not to mind that she told him she loved him — it was just the expression of a fleeting feeling — after all, how could she truly love him only two months into the relationship?

The words "I already told him" caught my attention — she had previously said that she was going to take care of something tonight — now, she said, "I already told him." What was she supposed to say… and to whom? And she already said — to me?

She hung up and put her phone back on the table, face up — maybe because there was no more need to pretend. "I’m sorry — where were we?" she asked.

"We agreed to have noodles next time," I reminded her, pretending to be fine with her phone call — and ignorant.

"Oh, yes… that’s right," she said, with hesitation.

María came back with the moshi and the daifuku, and with another beer for me and more cold green tea for Kristen. She set the two plates before us — four pieces of moshi on one plate, and four pieces of daifuku on the other. "Anything else?" she asked.

"No, thank you," I replied. "It looks great."

"Oh," said Kristen, "can we get the bill? I have to leave soon after this," she said.

"Not a problem, Corazón," replied María, glancing at me with pity — reading my pain.

I was disappointed — our time together was slipping away. I tried hard not to let it show.

"Sorry," said Kristen. "I hope that’s alright."

"No problem," I said, taking a long drink of beer.

She took a long drink of her tea.

"I hope you like it," I told Kristen, directing her attention to the plates, with my hands.

"I hope so too," she said excitedly, examining my hands. Thankfully, I had gotten a manicure earlier in the week — also a pedicure. I had even shaved my balls, just in case — not because I expected anything to happen, but because I wanted it to. Hope is a strange stylist.

"So what are they?" she asked. She was still glancing at my hands — maybe she liked the way my nails looked, or my fingers. When I was in high school, a girl once told me that I had the fingers of a pianist — I now realize she was probably inviting me to play her keys.

"These are rice cakes," I said, pointing at the moshi. "These other ones are also rice cakes, but they are filled with bean paste."

"Bean paste?" she asked, her expression skeptical.

"Yes, bean paste — but it’s sweet." It didn’t seem she thought them appetizing, so I directed her attention to the other plate. "Here," I said, "try the moshi first — no bean paste."

She took a moshi to her mouth and bit into it. She chewed, glancing from side to side — wondering, trying to figure out whether she liked it.

"Well?" I asked.

"Hmm…" she said, chewing and swallowing. "It’s not bad."

"It’s good — isn’t it?"

"Yes," she said, delighted. "It’s good."

I took a moshi too, not because I don’t like daifuku, but because I like leaving the best for last.

"Now, try the daifuku," I said. "It’s very sweet."

She tried it. Although she nodded with approval, I still didn’t think it was her thing. "Not bad," she said. "I think I prefer the ones without bean paste."

"That’s alright," I said. "You tried something new, and you figured out what you liked. That’s what it’s all about."

We kept on eating — sharing the moment, drinking cold tea and beer. She stuck to the moshi, and I had the rest of the daifuku.

I thought to myself it was now or never — I had to tell her how I felt, what she meant to me.

"I’m so glad I was able to get a hold of you," I said, looking for a way to ease into the topic.

"Yeah, right," she said. "Me too — I was surprised when I got your message."

"Yes…"

"I’m sure it wasn’t too difficult finding me with my last name."

"Right…" I said, "well — I actually didn’t remember your last name, so finding you was not easy."

"Really?" she asked with surprise, her expression waiting for an explanation.

"Yes," I said. "I would have messaged you sooner if I had remembered."

"I see… so how did you find me?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"Yes… well… when I called the clinic to reschedule my six-month appointment with you, they told me you were gone and assigned me another hygienist."

"Oh…"

"I was a bit disappointed —"

"Yes, of course…" she said, with sympathy.

"So, I kept wondering how to get a hold of you…"

"Aha?"

"Then one day, I was checking out the clinic’s Facebook page, and I saw you had liked a picture."

"I see," she said, thoughtfully — I could see the wheels were turning in her head.

The truth is it had taken me two months to figure out how to find her, but I didn’t want to tell her that because I didn’t want to sound desperate — though I had been desperate.

In reality, what happened is that I had been searching for her on the clinic’s Facebook page, but although I had found pictures of her and her colleagues, she had not commented on any.

Looking for her, I called her university — where she went to school — but they refused to give me her private information, just as the clinic where she used to work had refused.

I found her because, one day, while I was contemplating the clinic’s main picture, a picture with her and the whole team, I saw that the picture had received several likes, and I thought she at least had to like that picture — and I was right. That’s how I had found both her profile and her last name.

"So…" she said, proceeding to ask the inevitable question, "what made you want to reach out? Why me?" Her voice was curious, yet tender — with the kind of tenderness I had heard during our conversations at the clinic, when I was her patient and she cleaned my teeth — the tenderness I had longed for all this time, all nine months.

I had to tell her, but I was scared.

When I was in sixth grade, I used to like a girl named Lisa. She was a dream — light brown hair, grey eyes, thin, rosy cheeks, popular. I used to always trick her, tapping her shoulder on one side while I was on the other — it was fun, and it was our thing. But at a party one evening, where we sat down with the other kids around a bonfire, a classmate asked me during a game, "Truth or dare?" I chose truth. "Whom do you like?" was the question I was asked. I said I liked Lisa. Everything changed since then. She wouldn’t play anymore, she wouldn’t talk to me, and she would avoid me. I learned that the truth hurts, that women don’t want to hear the truth.

Now, I was back in middle school again — not with Lisa, but with Kristen — and I wanted to tell her the truth, I wanted to tell her how I felt, but I was afraid of telling her. I was afraid of losing her. What is it about boys that makes us want to confess our love to girls? A feeling? A dream? Perhaps hope. It seemed to me it was a poor strategy, but it was all I had left.

Kristen was leaning forward, and her arms were hugging each other. She was looking at me, her expression conveying she was moved and feeling sorry for me — and she was waiting for an answer — why had I reached out?

I looked up at her. "Well…" I said, trying to hold myself together, "I always enjoyed talking to you… I always looked forward to catching up with you. The last time we spoke, you told me you were about to move out of your parents’ home — you were about to start a new life — and I wanted to see how things were going." I felt it then — the pain in my heart, the burning in my eyes, the rain trying to put out a forest fire. Then, a tear trickled down my face. I looked down — ashamed to be seen crying — and wiped it off. She was startled when she saw it.

"Thanks!" she said kindly, softly. "I’m doing well." Then, she asked, "Is that all?"

I thought for a moment — I took a deep breath. "No… there’s more."

Her cell phone vibrated over the table. I saw his name come up on the display — Dylan. She took her phone, but this time she didn't answer it — instead, she silenced it. Then she put it back on the table, face down. "I’m sorry," she said tenderly, "go on."

"When I found out you had switched jobs, I was sad I didn’t get to say goodbye and hear the rest of your story — I was sad I might not see you again."

She kept listening.

"I missed you — I always missed you between one appointment and the next, and I also missed you these last nine months." My eyes — they were a dam holding back a river that was about to overflow.

"Aww…" she said, obviously touched. "You did?"

"I did,” I said, my voice breaking. “I missed your voice, your smile, your eyes — I missed you sticking your hands in my mouth," I said jokingly — and she laughed. I wiped my eyes again.

"Allergies?" she asked.

I gently shook my head. "No, not allergies," I said. "I just wanted to see you, but not for the last time. I was hoping we could become friends — maybe more."

"Oh, that’s so sweet!" she said. "Thank you!" She looked down for a moment, and she wiped a tear from her eye. She glanced at me, and she laughed tenderly and embarrassed, tenderly. "Alright… yes… I understand,” she said, more to herself than to me.

"Now we’re here, and I don’t want to say goodbye — I want to see you again."

"You do?" she asked, as she wiped another tear.

She looked down, staring at her phone, staring at a thought — pondering, considering. Her face grew with amazement, and then she looked at me with hesitation, with caution. "What about your wife and children?" she asked.

"I don’t know," I said. "I love them — I love them very much — but I love you too.” I thought there was nothing else I could say without sounding like a total jerk — she had to choose me on her own, without me pressuring her, without me making false promises.

She kept quiet, listening, expecting me to say more.

"I love my children… I love my wife… I love my mom and my dad… I love each of them in different ways… and I love you too, in a very special way. I can make time for us.”

There was silence — she sat there with arms folded, a low gaze, thinking, considering.

"Do you feel the same way?" I asked.

"I don’t know what to say, Nathaniel," she said, her voice shaking. "It’s very hard — you’re married, you have children. Me, I’m just starting my life — I just moved out of my parents’ home… and now I have a boyfriend."

I heard her words, I heard her tone, and I could see the confusion on her face. "I understand," I said. "It’s complicated — you don’t have to make a decision now. Just — please — say we can spend time together.”

She thought for a moment. "Maybe we shouldn’t," she said. “I like you — but I don’t think this is for me.”

“I understand,” I said — I did. “But I need to know if there’s anything I can do, anything that you want?”

“No,” she said. “There’s nothing I can ask of you — it wouldn’t be right.”

I felt out of breath — her words landed like a punch to my gut.

"When I left after my last appointment, I left in a hurry —” I explained, “but I looked back — and you were looking at me. I thought you wanted to say something to me. I’ve been wondering about it — what were you going to say?”

She looked down — she was considering.

“I really would like to know,” I said.

She hesitated. “Yes, I remember — I wanted to say goodbye to you.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

She looked sad, and guilty.

“No, that was not all. I had feelings for you too.”

“I have feelings for you now,” I said.

“But now I’ve moved on,” she said. “It has been a long time. I’m in a different place in my life now," she said, "and I think I should keep doing what I’m doing.”

Her words sank in.

I extended my hand to her across the table, low. She looked at it. She hesitatingly and shyly put her hand over mine — her hand was cold, mine was cold and shaking. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. My tears fell onto it. I couldn’t contain myself, so I put her hand against my forehead to hide the rest of my tears and give me a chance to recover. "Are you sure?" I asked.

She waited — contemplating, thinking. "I’m in a relationship, Nathaniel — and you have your family." She looked at my hands, specifically my left hand. "You still wear a ring… as you should," she said. “That’s you.”

I let go, feeling embarrassed. "You’re right," I said. "I’m sorry." I wiped the tears off my eyes with a napkin.

“Do you think we can be friends?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Nathaniel —” she said, “I don’t know if we can — we would only be lying to ourselves.”

"How was everything?" interrupted María.

We looked at her without saying a word.

"I’m sorry… I can come back later," she said.

"No, that’s fine. Everything was great," I told María. "Can you please bring me the bill?"

"Right away," said María, discreetly making her way to the register.

Kristen was checking her phone. I saw her type something quickly with her thumbs. "I have to go," she said. "My boyfriend is waiting for me — he’s here to pick me up."

"I want you to know I meant every word I said — I love you, and I’m here for you. I understand it’s not an easy situation. If you ever change your mind, I’m here for you. I’ll be waiting," I said.

"How can you say that?” she asked. “You have a family to take care of.”

"I am sorry," I said. "I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I had not planned to bring this up tonight, but we ended up talking about it."

"Yes, right…" she said. I saw reluctance and sadness on her face.

María brought the bill, and I paid. Kristen tried to give me money, but I said it was alright — I would take care of it.

We got up, and I let her walk ahead of me. We walked through the shoji door, then through the glass and tinted door. She was carrying with her the little pink bag with green handles that I had given her. She turned to me and asked, “Should I give this back to you?”

“No,” I said. “Please keep it — and don’t lose it. If you ever need me, if you ever change your mind, I want you to have it so you can get in touch with me.” I said this, although she could also just message me again on Messenger.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," I said. "Despite the last few difficult moments, I hope you had a good time."

"I did," she said, smiling. "Thank you."

"You have my information —" I said to her. "I don’t want to bother you, I can be your friend — we can still read the book, we can still have ramen noodles."

"Thanks," she said. "I’ll think about it.”

I wanted to kiss her, but instead I gave her a light hug. A red car approached.

"I think," I said after letting go, "you know that I care very much about you."

She nodded — "Yes… That’s my boyfriend," she said. "I have to go."

"Be safe," I said.

"You too," she said. "Thanks for dinner… and my bear."

I said goodbye, and then she turned away and started walking to the red car.

I turned around and began to walk to my car.

I looked back for only a second as she walked to the red car, and then I turned back and kept walking to my car.

I heard the red car rev its engine and drive away.

As I made my way to my car, I felt sad, shamed, lonely, bereaved. Crying doesn’t come easy for me, nor does it happen often — but I was in pain, so my tears started trickling down like rain on the windshield.

I got in the car, turned it on, and drove off.

I was driving, and it already was dark. My tears began to dry up, but I still felt the pain in me. I stopped the car on the curb, and I sat there for some time, looking in the radio for songs to help me cry.

I knew she was gone, I knew it was over. She could have been mine, but I had waited too long.

I found that Angel song, by Sarah McLachlan. Kristen was my angel, my home was the hotel room — and I was one of the vultures and the thieves mentioned in the song.

My heart was dark and empty like the road. I turned off the engine and the lights, but I left the radio on so the music would help me extricate myself from my bitter tears.

I had been there for less than thirty minutes, when I felt my hair rising. I saw myself in the rearview mirror, and my hair was standing, floating upward. Then, I noticed loose change, a tissue box, a tennis ball, and a pen — all floating upwards, toward the sunroof of my Civic EX.

I was surprised — I didn’t know what was going on.

“Look up!” The words broke through my thoughts like lightning breaks through storm clouds. I looked up, and outside the car I saw a bright light above — it engulfed the car, and I couldn’t see past it. It blinded me. I had ignored them earlier that night, so now they had come for me.

Author’s Note

This story continues Fragments from the Veil, a mythic cycle of desire, rupture, and strange illumination. The confession arrives. The table, once sacred, becomes a site of collapse. Kristen’s silence is broken—by something cosmic.

If you’re new to this world, you may wish to begin with Chapter 1, or let this fragment rupture you on its own.

Related Chapters

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 3

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 5