Mind and Matter

Epilogue | Leo

THREE-AND-A-HALF YEARS LATER

I was positively convinced that winter itself had taken a vacation.

It was mid-December, yet I was shrugging off my jacket to stay in a T-shirt before even entering the café. The menu board above the counter was littered with holiday drinks—candy-cane hot chocolates and eggnog lattes—yet they felt out of place when people were jogging in shorts and tank tops around the city.

I took my iced coffee and sat at a table near the far back corner, pulling out my laptop to begin studying for my last final of the semester. It was a bittersweet feeling flipping through documents of my notes and realizing that after this, I only had a little over four months of college left.

It seemed like the most prolonged yet fleeting experience of my life.

Instead of adding to the nearly useless study guide my management professor had reluctantly given us, I tilted my head forward and turned down the volume of my music to listen in on the conversation of the two middle-aged men next to me, donning Giants sweatshirts and speaking with thick Brooklyn accents.

"Did you hear that it's actually gonna snow next week? They're saying this warmth has been breaking records, but it's finally dying out."

"Well, that's what we get when our president doesn't give a damn about climate change."

"Ah, enough with the climate change bullshit, Matt. The world is just confused."

"No, you're just confused, Nick. And a little stupid, may I add." They both cracked up at his comment, slapping their palms against the table. When they switched to talking about the score of last night's football game, I turned up my music and gave myself a pep talk to actually study. Interning at ESPN meant I heard more than enough of people's philosophical sports opinions.

I managed to make it through a consecutive half an hour of studying before getting distracted again. This time my break from studying didn't come from the conversations of other patrons, but rather, from a face across the expanse of the café.

With the upper half of me hidden behind my large Mac, I tipped my black-rimmed reading glasses down ever so slightly and tried to make out the fuzzy figure of a woman. When she stepped forward a couple steps into the long line, it was like blurry puzzle pieces were coming together to form a perfectly clear picture.

My vision may have gotten a little worse from staring at my laptop for three years straight, yet there was no doubt in my mind that Emerson Castell herself was standing twenty feet away from me.

From my angle, it was easier for me to see her than it was for her to notice me, and I was glad. I needed a few moments to study her on my own before the possibility of striking conversation for the first time in nearly two years came up.

She looked different. An air of grace surrounded her taller and thinner figure. Her once wild curly hair lay straight in a ponytail, and large brown sunglasses sat just above her forehead. She had on a simple black dress, and when I trailed my eyes downwards, I realized she hadn't grown any taller; she was just wearing heels.