Meeting the stranger

Today, I wake up in the middle of the night. In fact, I am sure I woke up because someone entered my apartment. I sit bolt-upright and look around the room. The moon shines brightly through the window. Outside, the street is empty and silent. Nothing moves outside except for the occasional car passing by. I stand up and walk across the room. My feet feel heavy and slow so I try to move quickly. When I reach the door I stop suddenly. Someone was definitely here.

In the shadows near the kitchen counter, I find a pile of wet clothes. They smell of soap and sweat. They are clearly female. Whoever left them there is either a pervert or a lunatic. I grab the clothes and stuff them into my backpack. Maybe I should take them to the police. They will probably lock up whoever left them there. But I doubt they would believe me. After all, I am obviously crazy myself.

Still, I decided to take the risk. I pick up the phone book and check the numbers. I find the number for the local police station and dial it.

"Hello?" A woman answers.

"Hi," I say. "Could I speak to Detective Smith please?"

She tells me that he is off duty today but that I can leave a message. I hang up and put the receiver back on the hook. Now what?

As I stood there contemplating I hear a sound behind me. I turn around and see a well dressed woman standing but smelling of my soap and cologne. She looks familiar but I can't quite place her. For a moment she stands motionless, staring at me. Her expression is unreadable. I stare back at her. Suddenly she turns away and walks towards the door. I follow her with my gaze. Where does she think she is going? The front door isn't even closed yet!

Source
I run after her and throw the door wide open. She stops and stares at me. We are both surprised by this sudden action. Her face remains impassive. I step forward and grab her arm.

"Who are you?" I ask breathlessly.

She lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Why did you come here? How did you get in here? I said, my voice trembling."

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said quietly. By looking at her, I felt a sudden pity and decided to let my guard down.

"No, don't worry about it. Come on. Sit down." I patted a spot on the couch. I hesitate for a moment. Then I sit down next to her.

She looks at me carefully.

"Are you okay?" I asked

She nods slowly.

"Fine, I am sorry I embarrassed you I just wasn't expecting someone to be here."

She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "It happens sometimes. Especially when you live alone. "People get lonely and confused." I am sorry I came in without permission. I know I am trespassing and...."

"So you were looking for company?" I interrupted her

She shakes her head. "Not exactly. I was trying to figure something out.

Actually, I found out some things that I had forgotten about. Things from long ago."

"Like what?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Just memories." She pauses for a moment.

We sit together silently in the room. From time to time I catch glimpses of her face. It seems to me that she is sad but not depressed.

More like being lost and alone. I wonder what happened to make her remember these old events. Did she lose someone important? Was she abandoned herself? Or maybe she simply wants to forget everything. I can't help but feel guilty. If only I could give her comfort. I wish I knew how to ease her pain or cheer her up.

Suddenly I realize that we have been sitting there for hours. And I still haven't figured out why she came here. I decide to break the silence.

"How did you get in here anyway?" I ask.

"Through the door."

I nod and smile. "You must have used your key then."

She smiles too. "Yes, I guess I did."

"Well, I am glad you got in."

"Me too."

She turns away again and looks at the floor. I study her profile. There is something odd about her face. I can't seem to focus on anything specific though.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask.

She looks at me. "About what?"
"Whatever you wanted to tell me."
She shakes her head. "Nothing really. Just memories."

I look at her. I can't imagine talking to anyone about memories. At least not unless they were mine. Even if I shared them with another person, I wouldn't necessarily enjoy hearing about their own. Memories are private. They are our thoughts and feelings. Sharing them with others would inevitably change them. That's the way I feel about it anyway. But this girl seems so lonely. Maybe she needs someone to listen to her.

I lean closer to her and lower my voice. "I don't mind listening to you."

Her eyes light up and she smiles.

"Thank you. You're very kind."

I grin. "Okay, then. What do you want to talk about?"

She blushes slightly and looks down. "I suppose it all started when I was young. My parents died in a car accident when I was eight years old. Actually, I barely remember any of that time. All I remember is being in the hospital and staying with my aunt for a while. When I turned nine, my uncle took me in. He raised me until I was fourteen."

She pauses for a moment.

"My uncle was a writer. A novelist. His name was Joseph M. Jacobs. Everyone called him Uncle Joe. I never met his wife but everyone seemed to love her. They had two sons. One of them became a famous actor. The other one... well, he was killed in Vietnam. In fact, I think that might be where my memories began. I don't know. I try to block out those memories whenever possible."

She pauses again.

"Anyway, Uncle Joe lived in New York City. I spent most of my time there during school breaks. Sometimes I went back home but mostly I stayed with him."

I stare at her. I can see her face clearly now. Her skin is smooth and pale. I can also see the faint freckles across her nose. She has dark brown hair and deep blue eyes.

I have seen her before. Somewhere. Where? I try to remember but nothing comes. I shake my head. This girl doesn't look familiar. She is definitely not an actress or model. So who is she?

"That's quite a story," I say.
She shrugs. "It's not much more than many people go through."

I sigh. "But you are special. Your life is interesting."

She smiles and looks at me. "Do you mean that?"

I nod. "Of course I do. I am a writer myself. I have always loved stories. How could I not love yours?"

She smiles. "Really?"

I nod. "Absolutely. Now tell me more about yourself. Tell me what you did in New York City. Who you hung around with. What you studied."

"Oh, that's easy. We just walked everywhere. Mostly I rode the subway. After school, I would hang out with my friends and watch movies. On weekends we would go to the beach or visit museums.

"And then I left New York City. I moved to Los Angeles and enrolled in film school."

While she narrated everywhere, she seem to have cheered up. I smiled inwardly knowing I woke up on this particular morning and gave a listening ear to someone who needed one even though this human was an intruder and caught trespassing in my home.

In between our conversations, I found out she had not only enrolled in the film school, but she also went ahead and became an actor. No wonder, she looked familiar, I said to myself.

But on this night, she just wanted to be far away from everything and reminisce on how she grew from being an orphan to a public figure. My house turned out to be that perfect place.

When she wanted to go, she mentioned since I was a writer, I should write her story, and if we ever get to meet again, she will put it across to her manager, and probably turn it into a screenplay, which of course, she will be the lead actor.

I couldn't believe my ears, this particular morning turned out more than I expected. I nodded affirmatively to show her I agreed, I couldn't wait to start writing her biography. Most importantly, when she walked out of the door, I couldn't wait to meet her again.