|Destiny and the flamenco dancer
By Persian Poetress
May 6, 2002
It was a ridiculous affair, a fantasy at best. The dreamer in me had gotten the
best of me and I savored every second of it. He was a passion fruit, full of flavor.
He made me believe in love again. Most importantly after years of becoming a non-believer
he awakened my faith in magic. He gave me hope for destiny coming and fixing everything
missing from my life. He made laugh and eventually I made him cry.
I should mention I have never met him.
I had been in an art gallery a few months ago wanting to frame a painting for my
mother when I saw this incredible image. It was a beautiful painting of a woman in
flamenco dress with a fan in her hand. I connected with her. She was myself as I
am in the evenings, mysterious, tender and innocent yet highly seductive. She became
a part of me within moments. She brought to me memories of my mother, grandmother,
aunts and cousins. She was familiar yet I didn't know her. Regardless I had to have
The painting was small and I wasn't familiar with the
artist. The $4,800 price tag took me by surprise and I hesitated. Half of me left
the gallery that day empty handed. The other half of me stayed with her. Weeks later
I returned to the gallery to pick up my framing when I noticed the painting was missing.
I panicked and quickly found the owner of the shop to inquire the whereabouts of
my colorful oil soul mate. I was in denial and wasn't ready to hear his response.
It had been sold. I immediately requested he inform the buyer that I want the piece
and left the shop feeling as if I had lost something unrecoverable.
That night I went online and searched through hundreds of websites searching for
the artist. I found several galleries nationwide that carried his work. I called
or emailed each of them with the message that I had to have the artist paint this
painting for me again. Her vision haunted me.
Towards the end of my online search I came across the artist's own gallery. I called
and left a message there as well. Hoping that by eliminating the gallery commission
that I could get a price break. A few days later I received a call by the artists
son. His voice was warm, friendly and intimate. I felt at ease with him, as if I
had known him for sometime. He -- like the painting -- connected me with my past,
my family my friends. But his voice offered an air of excitement. Like a blossom's
first scent, a tease of what the future may hold.
I was intrigued and after a few brief conversations
about the artwork there seemed to be a mutual connection. We began phone conversations,
emails and eventually hours of daily instant messages. We enjoyed each other immensely.
Our wit was in great harmony. Our words danced along the screen as reflections of
feelings that seemed too much, too soon and too right.
I was in heaven but in constant battle with myself. How could I allow myself to get
so carried away? I have not met this man. He could be married. He could be kidding
around with me just for fun. Does he really feel what he types or does it just make
for interesting conversation? My doubt soon got the best of me and I made a move,
the wrong move. I called it off.
My chilly disposition brought out an even chillier one in him and he called my bluff.
Suddenly I felt very lost. I became more and more clear on my feelings. I kept telling
myself how silly all of this was. I kept saying, "you have never even met him",
to remind myself I shouldn't feel so much. But once again I feel like I have lost
something unrecoverable and this time, I know it's true.