Love Awakens a Lost Soul

Before meeting Laurel Rhys and holding hands with her, I had no shape or character, and I wasn't even noticed by anyone. I was nothing but a tiny flash to others, who made me into whatever part they wanted me to play. I went from one place of work to another, travelling from one city to the next, trying to find any small bit of purpose that could come my way.
I lived in a squared room above a laundromat that was not fully furnished. There was no name for the cat I kept, no blender I put to use and a whole shelf holding broken self-help books full of chapters I didn't read. I would pay my bills and update my software, and I even tried mindfulness once. Such a life seemed pretty, but it lacked meaning. I could only see my high school and college friends when nostalgia or a wedding came up. I often spent my evenings in the corner of Etta's Lounge since the drinks were cheap, the lighting was low and being unknown was easy.
Etta's was covered in peeling wallpaper, had a jukebox full of Fleetwood Mac and Prince, and had a bartender who always pretended not to notice. I was happy with how it was. There, I observed various scenes—older couples revealing what seemed to be secrets, employees trying to look unaffected by life and twenty-somethings acting out for TikToks under pink lights. The feeling was as if I were connected, but nothing harmful could happen. After having a sip, I could study how others acted and imagine being part of the dance.
That is how I remember spotting her. Laurel.
She was dancing close to the jukebox in only her socks, wearing a canary-yellow top and a smile that would make any painting beautiful. A strong, tattooed woman was dancing Ann around in figure-eights, both laughing hard as they heard the synthesizers play "You Make Loving Fun." It was challenging to do and very soft, like being together in a religious setting or during a children's sport at the same time. As she walked, Laurel's thrashing curls reflected the green light from the EXIT sign and indicated she was half-feral and half-divine.
I was unable to take my eyes off it.
She was aware of this issue, of course. People such as Laurel ALWAYS do. Rather than giving me a sideways glance, her eyes smiled, a smile she provided everyone as if seeing a glimpse of herself in us all. I turned my eyes away before anyone saw me getting so worked up. I felt my drink clinking in my hand.
Is everything all right with you? He asked the bartender as he walked up to the bar.
This isn't what I expected, I murmured to myself.
The music moved on to a modern version of a classic indie tune, played in a gritty style. With each step, Laurel danced more slowly. There was more of an invocation of the spirit than a celebration. I can't explain it, but I moved toward her without effort or control. It was true throughout my body: I was too afraid, it seemed too risky, and the whole situation was silly. Still, I went ahead and moved from my hometown.
She noticed me once more, and this time, she gently offered her hand. I had it on me at the time.
Telling what happened after that is almost impossible without making it sound romantic. Something really shifted, and I entered a different world. The level of noise inside the bar decreased. The low-cost lights began to dim. I was in a different time and a deeper place.
Laurel got near and said quietly, "Why did it take so long for you to get here?"
He wasn't using a well-known way to start a romantic conversation. I thought it was a sign of the future.
After those months, she never saved me. She didn't try to take away the memories of the bruises or fill the space left by them. Instead, she created a map of everything I am, shaping it by cutting orange peels, storing old records, making some poems and taking late-night bus trips that led nowhere. She didn't want me to change the way I was. She wanted me to tell her who I really was.
Our new apartment had floors that moaned loudly and poorly placed windows. She covered the walls with a tangerine colour. I began writing down my thoughts, things I didn't expect to share with anyone. She marched about the room using cereal bowls as hats. I captured her images during the golden hour when everything was calm.
We weren't able to be perfect all the time. God, no. We had a disagreement about composting and where to keep the soy sauce. I would never find her listening to my playlist. I was not a fan of her intense passion for true crime podcasts. However, loving her was never cold and dry. There were laughter, tears, unfinished thoughts, and long spells of respectful silence.
More than a year after we became friends, I wondered why she reached out to me that night at Etta's. Why she decided to lighten the mood of a distant-looking stranger.
She shrugged and said, "You had the air of somebody who couldn't recall their name." I thought I could remind you of something.
As a result, she accomplished this as well.
Now, I can sing the name that defines me so well. I sometimes go to Etta's, yet Laurel tends to like late-night bookstores and being up on the rooftops. Whenever I visit, I choose the same spot, sit down and watch everything go on around me. I used to believe that I couldn't grow and develop.
But Laurel—she tuned the frequency. And now, finally, I hear myself clearly.