The Mechanic

-Chapter Seven-

Location: Central

I had an odd night after the day where Femi and I babysat my niece and she burned her hand on the stove.

I had dreams, for the first time in almost four years, and unlike they used to have the tendency to be, they weren't scary at all. Just odd. Haunting.

There was a girl. I knew right away who she was.

Or I almost knew. I knew the feelings attached, I knew the sounds. But I couldn't put her name to words, and I couldn't see her face through the fog in my memory.

She had red hair. Words on her arms. A stained, messy sweatshirt and no shoes on.

I called to her.

She turned, and somehow, it was Femi.

But, I argue with myself now, looking back on the dream, Femi has no words on her arms. Femi's hair is darker. And she hates me.

On top of that, however, is the thought, "Shouldn't I, of all people, know who I was in love with five years ago? Shouldn't I be able to remember who broke my heart by disappearing?"

Very little in my life makes sense, however.

"Hi."

I turn around and smile at her. "Hey."

She's standing in the doorway, just a silhouette in the light of my front door. The sun is bright today. I should probably go outside. Or open a window. Or something like that.

"Your name means 'lover,' did you know that?"

I turn over the book in my hands, eyeing the raven on the cover. Like mine. All of the shrouded memories attached taunt me.

"Did you know that?" she prods, leaning on the back of my couch.

I shake my head. "No, never heard that before."

"You haven't?" She seems surprised. Like the meaning of my name should be common knowledge to me. Like I have time to sniff out such details.

"No." I don't look at her. After the strangeness of my dream last night, I'm not sure I want to. Bewilderment.

"I like names," she sighs, kicking her legs up onto the arm of the couch, the rest of her planted on the back. "They're fascinating. And more often than not, they're ironic. Or accurate. Though I think yours is more ironic."

"Perhaps," I concede. "What does your name mean?"

"'Love me,'" she states plainly.

"A bit ironic, don't you think?" I chuckle. "Don't you think that it might be even more ironic than mine?"

"I do," she sighs.

It hits me like a freight train.

Femi. Love me. I do.

I do, I do, I do.

Words gone, hair darkened, embittered against the world. Not quite herself, but Femi.

Love me.

"I do," I whisper, glancing up at her. My heart cracks, tumbling down the inside of my chest, broken pieces. Shattered, sharp pieces. Cold pieces.

Her eyes meet mine, and I can see her heart shatter, as well. But maybe it already was. I can just see a small flicker of thoughtful, fearful, recognition form in the back of her splintered gaze.

She's up before I can think, darting out my front door, long, red hair flying behind her like a curtain of wildfire.

"Femi!" I shout, running after her. I can see her down the street, still running, not stopping, like she's afraid. And she is. And I don't know why.