THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

CONTINUATION: The following is a continuation of the forward from the book Predator: The Man Who Didn’t Exist.

“How is it,” she began again, drifting, slowly turning the thoughts over in her mind. Then she turned to me and I could see that the anger was draining.

The sun was behind her, and its light filtered through the profusion of auburn curls that framed her face. They were dancing and bouncing in the gentle wind that swirled around us.

Her face had grown soft. It was almost hidden within what appeared to be a hundred curls that moved as though alive. And, in the midst of the entire wild tumble were her eyes. Deep, dark, mysterious, and profoundly sad.

“How is it that you didn’t know?” she repeated, echoing the accusing tone used against her.

“I’ll tell you,” she leaned towards me, a spark suddenly backlit her eyes. “I just now realized why. Have a guess?” She tilted her head waiting for an answer.

“Well, I would think it was because he portrayed himself in such a manner that you couldn’t see who or what he was,” I said, feeling the need to say something, anything, even if it was wrong. I felt that I needed to contribute, to help her deal with what I felt was an incredible “aloneness” that had befallen her through no fault of her own.

“No,” she replied softly. “No.” A light smile drifted across her lips, but the sadness remained in her eyes. “No. Wrong.”

“Then what? Why didn’t you know, or could tell?” I asked.

“The answer is simply this: I once met a man who didn’t exist.”

PART ONE IS TO FOLLOW: THEY FOUND HER FACE DOWN.