The Kali Algorithm (First Draft)

2

I overslept. I rarely oversleep—couldn't think of the last time—but I always set a fail-safe alarm just in case. Oversleeping meant that I'd definitely missed morning yoga. No, I hadn't let go of thoughts of bumping into my handsome stranger again. Although, the tug of my wished-for narrative had certainly weakened with the benefit of a night's sleep. Unfortunately, that benefit didn't extend to my feeling rested. I was groggy and out of sorts on account of the alarm going off when I'd been in the middle of REM sleep. I was having the dream I called 'Red Skull House,' one of dozen or so dreams that had been recurring since, well, as long as I can remember.

The tittle pretty much encapsulates the dream—a small house with walls that are made of rows of red-painted skulls—I don't actually know that it's a house—that's just something I feel when dreaming—but there is a wooden door and a small, front window which suggest an archetypal house vibe, and I always sense that somebody lives there.

Despite the macabre nature of a house made of skulls, this recurring dream—unlike some of my others—wasn't a nightmare, but neither was it pleasant, mostly because of the vague sense upon awaking that the dream was part of a puzzle that I'd completed figured out while dreaming but forgot the moment I awoke. I went through a phase where I tried to interpret my dreams, but grew out of it as one does with childish things. Really, as dreams go, the 'Red Skull Dream' would be entirely forgettable, but since I had this dream—and the others—over and over, forgetting wasn't an option.

Neither was having my routine, morning cup of masala chai. I needed coffee to shake of the groggy. I hadn't the time to wait on room service but remembered seeing a coffee bar across from the hotel and figured that was my best option.

When I finally got over there, I was frustrated at the length of the line. I shouldn't have been surprised. It was a Friday and this was prime grab a coffee before work hour. Making the best of it, I began going over my presentation notes, head bent over my my phone, while the line slowly shuffled forward a few steps at a time, as I mouthed through the words.

"Don't worry, it'll be worth it," I heard a man say behind me. I wasn't even sure he was talking to me until I felt him lean in a little closer. "Seriously," he said.

I didn't want to make small talk and was annoyed at how blind people seemed to be body language. Without looking up I replied, "Yes, I'm sure it will be, but I have a conference to get to."

"Ah, yes, the cosmetologist's convention is it? How lovely."

I melodramatically clicked off my phone to show my annoyance and spun around with a 'bitch, please!' face.

"No. I'm a data scientist not a hair dresser." And then froze, going from bitch to bewitched face in one beat of my heart—it was him, my yoga mat, traffic-rescuing white knight! Unbelievable. We had been standing only about a foot and half apart!

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any offense," he said earnestly and with direct, heat inducing eye contact. "It's just that you look way too stylish for a data scientist. I mean look at this fabric," he said, reaching out to touch my cuff of my blazer, his hand brushing against mine, stopping my breath and giving me skin tingle.

"Shouldn't you be in stuffy tweeds and thick glasses or something?" He gave me a quick but lascivious down and back up scope before locking back onto my eyes (the heat burns!) and winked. I giggled. He looked pretty good himself, in a simple, but nicely tailored blue suit and open collar white shirt that contrasted against the the shade of his skin, darker than I'd remembered— not dark-dark but not Prince George white either, more of a tawny white or a creamy dark—depending on your inclination and my inclination was 'Yes, both please!'