Gabriella

Gabriella
By
Rod Emmons


Morgan took the final swig from his fifth beer, and as he did, he motioned to the bartender to bring him another. “Same glass,” he ordered, sliding the empty mug across the bar. While he awaited his replacement, he glanced around the room, first up the bar, then down, then to the small grouping of tables that sat further back. The place was nearly empty, all except for Lanny, the retired cook who was always there, and some lady at the upper end of the bar whom he had never seen before, and of course Martine the Costa Rican bartender who was getting his beer.

That wasn’t unusual. There never seemed to be a crowd in this joint much after 8:00. By then most of the after-work crowd had long since gone … gone home, gone to dinner, gone on to better places. But Morgan lingered, just as he did most nights, waiting for the booze to take him to his better place, a place he could only get to when the booze had sufficiently provided the path. This was the life he had now, this bar and the booze he drank.

The place was called Danny’s. It was a tiny bar, one that might be called the neighborhood variety in most places, except there were no neighborhoods in this part of Florida, only unconnected areas where people seem to ambivalently reside, and Morgan was one of those, an unconnected resident who lived nearby.

It was why he had chosen this bar in the first place. It was nearby. It meant that if he drank enough, he could walk home … or stagger … or if he needed, crawl. And in recent weeks, those had become his habits, walk, stagger or crawl, somehow finding his way home, then finding his car in the morning. Home was his bed if he could make it, the couch if that was all he could accomplish, or sometimes home was the floor just inside his door. To him it made no difference. Home was anywhere he could ultimately pass out, oblivious to his surroundings, and most of all, oblivious to his pain, and he would stay that way until morning when he would somehow manage to overcome the aftermath, drag himself to work, and survive another day … survive until he could find his way to Danny’s and do it all again.

It was a lousy way to live, and Morgan knew it. But it beat the hell out what his life had become prior to the booze. That life had been one of constant pain and endless humiliation, a life that, no matter how hard he tried to see it otherwise, had ceased to have any meaning at all.

A meaningless life: It all began with his wife, Sarah Jane. Fifteen years of marriage, of caring, of sharing, of providing, of … he had to admit it … dependence. Then one day she just left, no words, no argument, no warning. She was just gone. He had tried to find her, believing with all his heart that if he did, whatever had been wrong … and he really had no clue … he could somehow make it right. But no one, not her family, not even their friends would help. They all said the same thing. Morgan, you’ve got to let go. She doesn’t want you anymore. She wants a new life, and she’s not coming back, not now, not ever.

Then came the friends. What a description - friends. It was as if without Sarah Jane, Morgan ceased to exist, at least in their eyes. They quit calling, quit inviting him to parties, just simply quit caring about him at all. It wasn’t all at once, but it happened. His entire social circle collapsed. One of them even said, “Morgan, you’re like the odd man out. To tell you the truth, none of us know what to do with you. Why don’t you get a girlfriend, have a date, hang out with other singles? You know you’d be better off.”

Sure. At forty-two he should date. Where was he going to find singles to hang out with? Bars? He abhorred the bar scene, at least back then. Besides, who’d want a middle-aged divorced man with his bills? Date! The truth was he wouldn’t have known where to begin.

Then somewhere along the way, his job fell apart as well. He wasn’t even sure when or how. It just did. At one point he’d been the brightest light on the Christmas tree, the star accountant in a firm of much better educated CPAs. Even without a degree, he knew the law better than any of them, was the guy who always charmed the new accounts, the boy who tackled the hardest problems. And man could he do numbers. He was quicker, more accurate, and more inventive, and the people who mattered, the partners, loved him. When had that changed? Was it also when Sarah Jane left? Or was it after the partners sold out to the larger firm? Maybe it was both. The whole thing had been so subtle, he hadn’t even realized it until one day he looked around only to realize it was others, not him, who now managed the big accounts, others who were asked to romance new ones, and others who seem to gather together, before work and after, without once asking him to join in. It was as though he’d become invisible.

In the process, Morgan had been relegated to handling what the firm called “the moms and pops,” the nickel and dime simple tax returns that the average person could do on their own if they weren’t so lazy. Those clients became Morgan’s, and nobody in the firm seemed to give a damn if he lived or died.

Confused, even frustrated, he had asked about it, going right to the top, to Gunderson, the new managing partner. Gunderson had just laughed, saying, “Morgan, that seems awfully paranoid to me. Of course we still value you. You’re one of the best accountants in the firm. We count on you. But, Morgan, the world is changing. You know that. Our new clients expect – no, they demand - that the people handling their accounts are the best-trained people we can give them. Now, I know how talented you are, but not having that degree, well that is a drawback. So your role is different, not less important, just different."

And so, too, Morgan’s life became different. No wife, no friends, no job, at least of any consequence, Morgan’s once blossoming life turned into a constant hell, and after awhile, he couldn’t bear the pain.

When he found out that booze could make all of that go away, he embraced it with a vengeance. Beer, vodka, shots; he loved it all. While his co-workers did their after hours at Mulligan’s or The Hanover House, downtown restaurants that catered to the elite, Morgan went in a different direction. Before long, he found Danny’s where the crowd was more to his taste, blue-collar castoffs like himself who sought their early evening escapism in an environment less pretentious.

He liked that, and he liked it because it was dark. Only a few bar lights and a handful of dim wall sconces provided any illumination. He felt as though he just blended into the shadows. Moreover, no one knew him, and he liked that, too. It was just him, quiet and alone, a man and his booze. Every evening when he’d arrive, he’d shuck his jacket and leave it in the car. He’d loosen his tie and undo his collar. He’d roll up his sleeves. Then, he’d go in with the idea that in a short while, maybe one or two shots and a couple or three beers later, the crap in his life would disappear and he’d have some peace. That was his idea of after hours.

If anyone talked to him, he’d politely acknowledge the person, but never answer. If they persisted, he’d ignore them. If that didn’t work, he’d move to a different stool and wait. He knew that after awhile, most of them would disappear, and he would be left alone to find his solace in his glass … left alone just like tonight, just he, Martine the bartender, and Lanny, the retired cook, and that lady at the end of the bar whom he’d never seen before.
******

That night, there was no way Morgan could have driven, and he knew it. He was even lucky that he could walk, if walking was what one might call it. In truth, it was more of a stagger. He took the short cut through the adjoining shopping center, then through the open field that separated it from the apartment complex where he lived, singing and whistling as he went. As he staggered along the two streets that still remained between him and his door, he thought he heard another whistle, and he laughed to himself, wondering, could that be my echo, or in my condition, is it just an echo in my head? But the whistle got louder, and he finally realized that this was no song he was hearing, but rather the type of whistle one makes if they are calling.

He paused to listen for a moment, leaning against an old Florida Oak, and he could hear a hoarse old voice calling, “Here kitty, here kitty, come to daddy,” followed by more whistling. Finally in the dimness of the streetlight, he saw an old man with a cane moving slowly toward one of the far buildings. Morgan watched as the old fellow continued to call, “Kitty, where are you?” Then he saw the old man bend down as he exclaimed, “Oh there you are! You bad cat,” he scolded. “You know you’re not supposed to be out this late.” The old man disappeared into the darkness, and Morgan continued to stagger home.
****

The next night, Morgan made his usual stop at Danny’s, and as usual the crowd disappeared by 8:00. Once more, when he looked around, it was just he, the bartender and the old cook, and … damn if that lady wasn’t back again. When he looked in her direction, she smiled. Embarrassed, Morgan quickly looked away, refocusing on the TV that sat above the bar and letting his thoughts go back to the game he’d been watching. He remained that way, lost in the game and his drink until he heard the voice say, “It feels like there’s a cold front moving in.”

The words caught him off-guard. No one ever bothered him when he was riveted to the television. All the regulars knew that this was the beginning of his slide from reality, that point where his focus, such as it was, drifted from the agony of his day and into the trivia that the booze allowed him to embrace. Tonight it was a basketball game between Whatcha-m-callit State and The University of Nowhere. Their names didn’t matter. With the help of eight or nine beers, the game had finally grabbed his attention. No more were his thoughts cluttered with the harshness that had been his day. Now suddenly, some voice was interrupting him, some impertinent voice from nowhere. Irritated, he turned toward it with a scowl, anxious to see who or what would dare create this intrusion.
It was the woman from down the bar, but she had now moved to a stool right next to him.

“I could feel the temperature dropping when I arrived,” she continued. “Have you noticed?”

“No,” he responded indifferently, turning back to the TV.

She went on. “I heard on the news that it could drop into the mid-forties tonight. That is cold for Florida, don’t you think?”

Morgan attempted to ignore her, never taking his eyes from the TV.

“My name is Gabriella,” she added. “What is your name?”

Morgan hesitated for a moment, really not wanting to answer, but there was something in her voice that caught his attention, a tone, an accent, something, that prompted him to turn toward her again, and he answered, “Morgan … and I have no friends.”

She laughed, obviously thinking he was joking. So Morgan clarified, “I’m serious. I have no friends.” With those words, he stared deeply into her eyes, almost menacing as if to warn her, get out of my space. Then he focused once again on the TV, clearly demonstrating his desire to be left alone. She seemed oblivious to his attitude as she continued her conversation.

“Oh, I can’t believe that, a nice looking man like you with no friends, someone as bright and charming as you. If you have no friends, I’m sure it must be by choice.”

“Yeah, lady, it probably is … my choice. Anyway, thanks for the weather report. I’ll make it a point to stay warm.” He remained focused on the TV.

“So, Morgan, you come here often? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Morgan could feel his irritation rising, but patiently, even though indignantly, he answered, “Yep, I guess you could say often. I’m here just about every night.”

“No kidding,’ she giggled, “I wonder why I’ve never seen you.”

Morgan turned toward her again. This time his expression was more one of curiosity than indifference. Instinctively, he began to explore her face in the dim light, looking for some sign of recognition.

“Do you suppose it is because I’ve never been here before?” She asked, now laughing out loud, as she simultaneously placing her hand on Morgan’s arm.

Startled, Morgan jumped, and his attention turned completely to this woman.

“I was teasing you, Morgan,” she smiled, “just playing a little game with you. You know, like when a man approaches a woman, and says, ‘Do you come here often?’ It was just a little joke, you know, to break the ice.”

Embarrassed, Morgan could feel his anger return. His voice barely shielding his feelings, he replied, “Listen, lady, I don’t find you funny, and I’m not in the mood for jokes. I just want to watch the game, drink my beer and get blitzed. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. Now if you don’t mind …”

“But I do mind, Morgan.”

“You what?” he nearly shouted his astonishment.

“I do mind. You see, I’ve been watching you from over there,” she said, pointing to her old place at the bar, “and I knew I had to meet you. I knew,” she repeated, now gently stroking his arm, “that I had to meet you, and that you needed to meet me, too.” Her eyes sparkled as she spoke and a gentle warm smile caressed her lips.

Morgan was dumbfounded. He groped for something to say, some collection of words that would stop this, this … he didn’t even know what to call it. But words were nowhere to be found in his alcohol-ridden brain. He simply sat there, staring blankly at this soft-smiling vision.

Up to this point Morgan had paid little attention to her other than her voice, a voice he found strangely attractive just as he had also found it irritating. Now suddenly he began to realize how truly physically gorgeous she was, and he was mesmerized.

Her hair was long and flowing, cascading across her shoulders and down to the tips of her breasts. Her eyes were almond shape and dark, yet sparkling even in the dim light of Danny’s, and her eyebrows, which slanted upward, accentuated them. Her lips were full and red, framed by the dimples in her cheeks and the softness of her somewhat square jaw. Sitting on the stool, it was hard for Morgan to tell her height, but he guessed her to be five-four, maybe five-five, but whatever her height, it was evident that her body was perfectly proportioned to it. In a word, she was magnificent, and it suddenly dawned on Morgan that this exquisite, magnificent, gorgeous hunk of femininity was intentionally talking to him.

“Lady, I … I mean … listen, I’m sorry I …” His words felt like they were glued to his palette.

“Morgan, please, do not apologize,” she said softly. “It is I who should apologize. It was I who interrupted you. But you see, it was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Morgan managed to utter.

“Yes, necessary. Necessary if we were to meet, and Morgan, we had to meet. It was fate that we should meet. Do you believe in fate, my new friend?”

“No … yes … hell, I don’t know,” he stammered.

“Well you should, and I believe in time you will. But for now, you should forget about that, and just enjoy your game. I will leave you be.”

Morgan’s reaction was without thought. “You’re not leaving are you?” He quickly asked. “I mean, you … well we … we just met.”

“No, Morgan, I’m not leaving,” she smiled. “I’m going to buy you another beer, have a drink myself, and sit here with you … silently,” she added, “and just watch you enjoy yourself. Is that OK?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he answered, his tone as casual as he could make it, even as he felt his heart jump with joy.
*****

The next day when Morgan awoke, his body felt like it had so many days before. His head felt like it had been hit with a hammer, his stomach gurgled like a volcano about to erupt, and his eyes burned as though a thousand tiny matches had been lit inside them as he tried to make them focus. Muscles ached in every part of his body and his hands and feet tingled, but none of this was new. All of it had become routine, even those lengthening moments that it took for him to figure out who and where he was.

But slowly his surroundings began to come clear, and he realized that somehow on the prior night, a night that still remained hidden in his morning fog, he had made it to his bed. In fact, he had managed to undress himself right down to his underwear. He considered both to be miracles.

He carefully raised himself to a sitting position, letting his feet dangle to the floor. He burped loudly, nearly raising the ultimate ire of that Goddamned volcano. Slowly, he allowed his feet to touch the carpet, and he pulled himself upright, holding protectively to the nightstand as he did. He felt wobbly, but that was to be expected, and he now knew that if he was very careful, if he walked real slow, he could probably make it to the bathroom without falling. In fact, he might just make it without pissing his pants. He was just about to take that all-important first step when he heard her.

“Good morning, Morgan. How do you feel?”

Frightened, he damn near fell to the floor, desperately grabbing the nightstand to break his fall. “Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me!” He yelled, still not cognizant of whose voice he had heard. He felt as though his heart had stopped, he was so startled by the voice … any voice … that might echo in this place! Half kneeling, he looked up, and it was as though every cell in his brain began working at once, trying desperately to process the information that stood before him … tall, dark, long hair, full red lips, smiling, gorgeous, naked. Naked!

“Holy Jesus, it’s you!”
“Who did you expect?” She smiled.

“It’s not who I expected,” Morgan stammered. “It’s who I didn’t expect, and lady, I never expect to see you.”

“Why not?” She teased. “You invited me here.”

“And you came?” He asked astonishingly.

“Of course. I wanted to. I guess I kind of tricked you into asking me. I insisted that I take you home. After all, you were awfully drunk.”

“Lady, I’m almost always awfully drunk, but never am I escorted home by someone like you. As a matter of fact, I’m never escorted home by anyone, least of all someone like you.”

“But, I told you, Morgan, we met by fate. My being here was meant to be. Don’t you believe me?”

“Lady, I don’t now what to believe,” he said, still astonished. “Jesus H. Christ!” Shaking his head as if to drain the cobwebs from his still groggy mind, he spoke again. “Well you are here. At least I think you are. I guess that means something. I don’t know. You tell me.” Morgan paused for a second, still staring at the nudity that stood so nonchalantly before him. Then he asked, “Did I do anything wrong, I mean, like attack you or anything?”

She chuckled, then responded with a slight wink, “No Morgan, you did everything right. Everything,” she smiled.

“Are you saying … I mean, did we … holy shit, Lady, I never …”

“Yes, I am saying, and you did, and we did, and it was magnificent, but I am horribly disappointed that you don’t remember it, too. I would have hoped that it was as memorable to you as it was to me.” She contorted her face in a frown to show her displeasure. “And Morgan, please, my name is Gabriella. Would you please call me something more than ‘Lady.’ Call me Gabriella or Gabby if you prefer, but not just Lady.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “It’s just all so strange, so … I don’t know … unlike me, unlike my life. You don’t understand. No one has been here with me … ever … not since I moved here after my divorce. Not once. That’s nearly three years ago. It’s all just way too shocking.”

As Morgan spoke, Gabriella moved toward him, and by the time he had finished, she was standing just above his head. “Well, Morgan, I suppose it is, shocking I mean. If you don’t remember, that would be shocking. Maybe this will help,” she said as she knelt next to him. Slowly, she placed her lips on to his, and as she did, she took his left hand and placed it upon her breast, allowing her hand to guide his, as they massaged together and as her lips danced around the corners of his mouth.

Morgan had no trouble responding to this encounter. His body reacted instantly, and within seconds, they were prone together on his carpet. Morgan …with a woman … on his carpet … on his floor … in his house … the house where no one else had ever entered before. There would be no trouble with his memory this time. Morgan knew this moment would be engrained forever.
****

It was noon before Morgan arrived for work that day, but no one seemed to notice, or for that matter, even care. He didn’t care either. He had just had the morning of his life, at least a half hour of it, and from what he’d been told, the night of his life as well. That part was not so clear. Even so, he felt fantastic, even refreshed, and nothing anyone could say or do on this day could take away from that.

Gabriella had made love to him in ways he had long since forgotten, sensuous ways, erotic ways, ways that had brought out a passion in him he never knew he had. And through it all, he was touching and feeling a body the likes of which he had never, ever touched, so smooth and perfect, so round and firm. Even at his desk with files that demanded his attention, he could think of nothing else. It had all been so extraordinary.

All except one thing. After all of this phenomenal passion, he had fallen asleep, and when he awakened, Gabriella was gone. At first, he didn’t realize it, thinking she was in the bathroom, or maybe even the kitchen, but a quick search and a few calls of her name made him aware that she was in fact gone. For a while he waited, expecting that she had gone outside, maybe to the store or for a walk. And while he waited, he searched for a note or some sort of message that would say when she would be back or when she might call. But when an hour had passed and she had not returned, he gave up.

Even then, he was not disappointed. How could he be? He’d just had the most glorious sexual experience of his life. And in his heart he knew that sooner or later … clearly he hoped sooner … he’d see her again, and in ways exactly like he had seen her this morning. He knew it. She had said it. It was their fate. So he showered and shaved and dressed and went to work just like always, albeit four hours late, and throughout the day, thought of nothing but her.

The clock moved slowly, but finally it was five, and almost before the numbers could click, Morgan was out the door. It only took him fifteen minutes to reach Danny’s, and as fast as he walked in, as fast as his eyes could adjust, he searched for her.

“Martine, have you seen that lady I was with last night?”

“No, senior, not yet today. Are you expecting her?” Martine asked as he placed Morgan’s beer in front of him. Martine reached for the shot bottle, but Morgan stopped him.

“No shots tonight, Martine, just the beer. Yeah, she may be by. I was just curious if she had already been here.”

But she hadn’t. Nor did she come … not that night, not the next, and not the night after that. In fact, during the next three weeks, with Morgan showing up every night including weekends, Gabriella never appeared. He finally realized that he might never see her again.

At first, when his hopes were still high, he cut way back on his drinking. Never again did he want to be with her and not remember. But in time, his drinking returned to its prior level, plenty of shots, plenty of vodka and plenty of beer. It was as though she had never existed, and in fact, Morgan began to wonder if she had existed at all.

Some nights he would lay in bed, half-drunk and half-awake, trying to remember every moment of that incredible morning. He found himself masturbating to the memory, trying to recapture those feelings that had overwhelmed him so completely that day that now seemed so long ago. But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t. How could he artificially replace her softness, her sensuousness, her unbelievable passion? Before long, he gave up.

Then one night he had a dream. He was at a party full of people from work, the secretaries, the senior CPAs, even the partners. It was a house warming for one of them. Unlike most of his dreams, this one was remarkably clear and realistic. Every piece of furniture, every single color was vivid. At some point, Morgan was touring the house and as he did, he glanced down a long corridor, one that the host said led to the bedrooms. Suddenly, he saw Gabriella standing at the end of the corridor, dressed in a long flowing negligee, and she was motioning to him to join her. He did, and as soon as they were together, they embraced. Then without a word, she took him by the hand and led him to a bedroom that was so dark he could not even see the outline of the bed. But she guided him there, and as they kissed, they fell to it, their bodies intertwined.

But it was not the dream that was startling. It was what came next. As they made love in the dream, Morgan found himself awakening, and as he did, he felt his body enveloped in a feeling like no other he had ever known. For some reason, he couldn’t open his eyes. Or maybe it was that he was afraid to. Whatever, he was encompassed in the most remarkable state of sensuality that he had ever known, a sensuality that far and away exceeded even that which he had experienced that morning so many weeks before.

Finally, it ended, and after a moment, he opened his eyes. He was in his own bed, just as he had expected. The dream was still vivid, just as he thought it would be. But something else had happened, something in between, and the only word he could find to describe it was … Rapture.

She had been there! He was certain. Not just in his dream, but in his room as well, and somehow, some way, she had made love to him again. But this was not in the flesh. No, this had been more than that. It was spiritual. It was far beyond the human experience. By some strange manifestation, Gabriella had been transported to him, or he to her, and in that fashion they had melded together in some strange and phenomenal metaphysical way.

Overwhelmed, Morgan lay there in his bed for more than an hour, trying to understand what had transpired. It was impossible. How do you understand that which transcends understanding? But in some weird way, he knew he had been transformed. How he didn’t know. Into what, he didn’t care. All he knew is that he now had a feeling that he’d never known before. He felt whole. Fulfilled. Confident. Complete.

That morning, he went into the office and quit. He didn’t even bother to clean out his desk.
****

It had been over two months since Morgan had been to Danny’s. Since starting his own tax business, there had been no time. But now things were settled. He had opened, there was plenty of business, and he could start to relax. Danny’s seemed like a good place to do it, only this time it would be for lunch.

“Senior Morgan!” Martine exclaimed. “How nice to see you, my friend. Where have you been?”

“Busy, Martine, busy. I’ve opened up my own business, and that’s kept me really tied up. How have you been my friend?”

Martine shared the latest bar gossip with Morgan, most of which meant nothing to him, but he smiled and listened and acted interested. Finally Martine said, “That’s about it, Senior Morgan. Oh, except you remember that woman, that Gabriella? She was in a few times and asked about you.”

“Gabriella?” Morgan asked, surprised by Martine’s revelation. He hadn’t seen or heard of her since the dream … since his one morning … since … Christ, he didn’t know when he had seen her, or even if he ever had. She was like a ghost, some mystical spirit that came, then went, or maybe never existed at all.

“When?” Morgan asked.

“Only recently, Senior. Last week. She came in three, maybe four times. She asked about you each time. She said tell Senior Morgan I said hi, and that we will see each other soon.”

“But she knows where I live,” Morgan countered.

“I don’t know, Senior. I can only tell you what she said.”

That night, Morgan returned and waited.
****

Morgan returned that night, and the night after, and every night thereafter, too, and he did this for over two weeks. But for some reason, neither Gabriella, the woman nor Gabriella, the ghost, appeared. While it didn’t alter his new-found self-respect, or for that matter, his dedication to his new life, not finding Gabriella did cause Morgan an extraordinary amount of anxiety. It just didn’t make any sense. First, she appears out of nowhere, insisting that they were meant to be. Fate, she had said. She makes love to him like he’s never known before, then disappears, then reappears, albeit in a dream, then disappears again. Then she returns, or so he is told, specifically looking for him, and when he makes himself available … available night after night … she’s nowhere to be found. Why? Notwithstanding all the work associated with his new business, his thoughts were never far away from this mystery. And at night, he was never far away from Danny’s bar.
****

The air was surprisingly warm and humid that night, more like July than February. For some reason, the air conditioning in Morgan’s car was not working, and by the time he got home, he was drenched in sweat. His only ambition at that point was to get inside and take a shower. As soon as he was out of the car, he hurried to his apartment, grabbing for the door key even as he walked, and he was just about to insert the key when he heard her.

“Morgan, it’s me, Gabriella.”

Quickly, he turned toward her voice, but in the dimness of the streetlight, he could only see a shadow emanating from behind a tree.

“Jesus, Gabriella, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you every night. Come out here where I can see you.”

Slowly, she walked out from behind the tree and toward him. “How are you, Morgan?”

“Damn, Gabriella.” He said as he embraced her. She touched his lips lightly with a kiss, and then backed away.

“God, I’ve been worried,” he sighed. “I didn’t know what might have happened to you. Christ, one day you’re here, the next day you’re gone. Here, gone, here again. And then, when you are gone, I don’t even know how to reach you. No address, no phone number. Hell, I didn’t know what to do. I hope you know, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Morgan, I’m sorry. I never meant for it to be this way. I … I guess I just met you too soon.”

“What do you mean, too soon?” He asked, his voice filled with frustration.

She ignored his question, and continued, “But you have to trust me. One day, maybe soon, we can be together whenever you want.”

“I want now,” he pleaded. “Now, and always. Why can’t I find you when I want? Where do you live? What’s your number?”

“Morgan, that’s not possible. I can’t give you any of those things. I know you don’t understand, but one day you will. I promise, but please just be patient.”

“Is there someone else?” Morgan questioned. His tone was demanding, but inside he was frightened by what he expected the answer to be.

“Yes,” she replied, “but it’s not what you think. Please believe me. You have to trust me. You have to be patient.”

He was about to argue when he heard a voice calling, a man’s voice, off in the distance. “Gabby,” the voice called. “Gabby, where are you?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said hurriedly, and she started to quickly move away.

“Wait,” he hollered, but it was too late. Just as she had mysteriously appeared, she just as mysteriously was gone, gone into the shadows and into the night. Off in the distance, Morgan could still hear the man’s voice plaintively called, “Gabby! Gabby! Come here sweetheart. It’s time to go home.”
****

For days, Morgan pondered that voice he had heard. Even though it was distant, it was etched into his mind like a granite engraving. It echoed in his brain day after day. He knew he had heard it before, but where? He couldn’t place it. Finally, he began wandering through his neighborhood, hoping to hear it again … or dare he think it, catch a glimpse of Gabriella.

This went on for more than a week without result. Then one night, just as he was about to return home, he heard it again, that same male voice, calling, “Gabby. Gabby. It’s time, sweetheart.”

Morgan listened intently, trying to pin down the direction from which it was coming.

Carefully, he began moving toward it, slowly, silently, judiciously.

“Gabby. It's time, sweetheart” He heard it again, and he knew he was getting closer.

“Gabby. Come on,” the voice cried impatiently. Morgan was nearly there. He felt himself almost running.

“Gabby!” The voice demanded, and as it did, Morgan ran around a corner, nearly knocking over an old man with a cane … that old man … the one he’d seen so many nights before; the one calling for his cat.

“Oh, Jesus,” Morgan uttered. “I’m sorry, mister. Are you hurt?”

The old man seemed flustered as he dusted himself off, but replied, “I don’t think so. But you need to slow down, sonny. Where’s the fire?”

“Oh, nowhere,” Morgan replied. “I was just looking for someone, and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m really sorry about bumping you that way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the old man responded. Pausing for a second, he added, “Hey you haven’t seen a cat around here anywhere, have you? My damn Persian’s gotten out again, and every damn time she does, it takes me forever to find her. Hell, sometimes she disappears for days. I’m getting too damn old to be out here chasing her night after night.”

“Your cat?” Morgan asked. “No, I’ve not seen a cat,” Morgan stated impatiently. Then as he started to walk away, a realization flooded over him. The voice calling Gabby, the voice calling the cat, they were both the same. He turned back to the old man, and as he did, the old man began to talk once more.

“Well, if you do see her, bring her home, will you? I don’t know if she’d come to you, but if she does, I live over in Unit 3, apartment 102. She’s a big, beautiful Persian, solid black, and she answers to the name of Gabby.”

Morgan froze in his tracks. “Her name is what?”

“Gabby. You can’t miss her. There aren’t many solid black Persians.”
****

It took Morgan days to recover from his meeting with the old man. And then for weeks, his mind was in shambles over what he dare not believe. Over and over again, he tried to fit pieces together, pieces to a puzzle that just should not fit, yet each time he tried, they seemed to make more and more sense; a woman and a cat; both with the same name. One day the woman is there, the next she isn’t. The cat disappears for days at a time, the woman for weeks. Both have long black hair. It was all too bizarre to even contemplate. Still …

It had to be coincidence, all this craziness. Yet, when he could stand it no more, Morgan went to see the old man. He remembered the address … Unit 3, Apartment 102. When he arrived, he gently knocked on the door, trying to contain the emotions that were writhing within. There was no answer. He knocked again, this time harder … still no answer. Now desperate, he knocked even harder, so hard that the neighbor in unit 101 came to his door.

“Hey, buddy,” the man said, “keep it down. There ain’t no one there anyway.”

“I’m looking for the old man,” Morgan said. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not anytime soon,” the neighbor responded. “He died about a week ago.”

“Died? How?”

“Who the hell knows? Old age, I guess. All I know is he’s dead … just like you’re going to be if you don’t stop that damn knocking.”

“What about his cat?” Morgan asked. “What happened to it? Do you know?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” the neighbor replied. “For all I know, the cat’s dead, too. Try the pound. Maybe they got it.”
****

Morgan did as the man suggested. He called the pound, but the had no cat fitting that description. They suggested he call Animal Control, and he did that too, but he received a similar result. He even scoured the neighborhood, looking, calling, hoping against hope that he’d find the cat somewhere. No such luck, and he was sick about it. Somehow, he knew that there was a relationship between Gabby, the cat, and Gabriella, the woman, and the only way he’d ever know was if he could find the cat … or if maybe Gabriella, herself, would show up again. It was all becoming more than he could contemplate. That night he went to Danny’s and got blitzed.

By ten o’clock Morgan was past the point of driving and he knew it. Abandoning his car in the parking lot, he began the short trek home, taking his usual shortcut through the adjoining shopping center, then through the open field that separated it from his apartment complex, then by the lake that ran along the back. He had just turned onto the sidewalk that led to his building when he heard it, the soft meow of a cat, coming from somewhere near the lake.

“Gabby?” he called. “Is that you? Come here, Gabby. It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.” He couldn’t see anything, but he heard it again, that soft, almost plaintive meow. Then suddenly, he felt the softness, the gentle rubbing of a cat against his leg, and it was sobering. As he looked down, he could see her, a large black bundle of fur moving back and forth across his pant leg and purring as it did.

“Gabby, is that you?” He asked hopefully.

Slowly, he reached down, trying carefully not to scare this cooing animal. He moved his hand onto the fur, gently stroking, hoping not to scare her with sudden gestures. Just as carefully, he lowered his other hand until he was totally bent toward the cat, and able to pet it with both hands. Then when he felt he could, he gently, ever so carefully, attempted to pick the cat up, all the time softly saying, “Hi, Gabby. It’s all right, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you.”

Once he had succeeded, he cuddled the cat close to his chest, still talking gently and petting softly. Then he slowly began moving toward his apartment door. His steps were deliberate as he fought the effects of the alcohol, hoping not to stumble, praying he wouldn’t fall. All the time, he continued to talk. When he reached his apartment, he realized that his keys were buried deep in his left pants pocket, and he suddenly grew frightened that if he let go with that hand, the cat would bolt from his grasp and disappear forever. But he had no choice. So with equal and deliberate effort, he released his grasp, and reached for his keys, fearing that moment when the cat would be gone.

But the cat never moved. If anything, she snuggled closer, as if to aid his efforts, and within seconds, he had her inside.

In the light of his living room, he placed the cat on the floor, and she immediately began exploring her surroundings, not hunched and close to the ground like frightened cats do, but erect with no sign of fear at all. As she moved from spot to spot, Morgan could see that she was obviously gaunt. Her fur was matted and full of twigs and leaves. Worried that he might spook her, he slowly moved to the kitchen and began searching for something to feed her. He found some chicken in the fridge that he’d cooked the night before and he shredded it, placing it on a plate. He also filled a small bowl with water. He had no more than placed both on the floor, when Gabby brushed against him again, and then began to eat. For a moment, Morgan watched her eat. Then when he was satisfied that she was OK, he returned to his living room, turned on the TV, then went to his couch where he curled up and fell asleep. The sobriety of the moment had completely worn off.

When Morgan awoke in the morning, Gabby was sleeping across his chest. And it was like that over the days that followed. Wherever he slept, she was always there, snuggling and cuddling. When he’d leave in the morning, she’d see him to the door. When he’d arrived home at night, she’d greet him, purring and rubbing against his pant leg. Though he worried about her escaping and running off … after all that had been her prior pattern … he was genuinely surprised that she seemed perfectly content in her new surroundings, never once going to the front door or even the patio or even the window for a look outside. She was settling in as though this was exactly where she was meant to be. Content. And if she was content, so was Morgan. Despite missing Gabriella, he had a new friend, a new playmate, even a new lover, even though it was without the sex, and it all pleased him immensely.

Then one night, while tossing and turning in a fitful sleep, he suddenly felt as though he was being watched. Startled, he leaped up in bed, his eyes wide open. He scanned the room, squinting against the darkness, his heart pounding wildly, fully expecting to see someone there, but there was no one. He sat there for several minutes, still as he could be, listening for some sort of movement. But there was nothing. Had he been dreaming? Had it been a noise outside? Was he nuts? It had all seemed so real, yet there was no one. Then in the far corner of the room, he heard Gabby, her soft meow seeming to reassure him. Maybe it had been her … some movement or sound she had made. That had to be it, just Gabby moving around in the night. With a sigh of relief, he lay back down, and in an instant, Gabby was beside him, purring gently as she snuggled against his curled body, and once more, everything was all right.

But it wasn’t all right. The same thing happened the next night, then again the night after that. Soon it was a regular occurrence, those sudden sensations that someone was in his room and they were watching him. Morgan began to think he was paranoid. And those thoughts continued until one night when he was awakened, he did see someone, someone standing in the shadows of the corner, someone tall and willowy with long black flowing hair, someone dressed in a long white negligee. It was Gabriella.

Morgan was afraid to speak. It was as though he was dreaming, but somehow had stepped out of his dream and into this singular moment of reality. It was far too strange to garner words. He simply watched her come toward him, still in silence, and she was silent, too.

Slowly, she pulled back the covers and slid into the bed next to him. Quietly, she moved her body to his, snuggling tight against him as their bodies molded into one. He rolled over to face her. As he did, he placed his hand on her soft flowing hair and began to stroke it gently. “My God Gabriella, you’re here,” he whispered.

“Sush,” she ordered. “I told you I’d come. I told you we’d be together. I told you one day you’d understand. I am here and I will always be here anytime you need me. Now go to sleep, my darling,” and she began to purr.
****