Is it for such I agitate my heart?
― Sylvia Plath
Summer Dreams
A cloud is just water—that’s what I tell myself, but it doesn’t help. Clouds are much more than that—more than a mere congregation of vapours—they’re the changing face of the sky, and a mirror where I can scree the inner precincts of my soul.
I’ve always been obsessed with clouds. They’re something outside me that calls to something inside me and they fill me with longing for some missing element that could make my life complete.
Maybe clouds aren’t just things—perhaps they’re a metaphor for someone—that mysterious girl I’ll never meet, who calls to me in dreams, and haunts me in a blur of a face down a crowded street or a song half-heard in sleep.
This beautiful sadness in me is continually calling—but what is it exactly? Is it a nuance or nuisance—a nuage of necessity, or a luminous patch on my heart’s Doppler weather screen?
“Daydreaming again, Derek? I’ve never met a man so haunted.”
Bri fixes me with an elfin smile that teases me back to reality. I color and counter with a lopsided grin certain women have told me is charming but doesn’t work with Bri who is beyond such ploys and know me too well to be taken in.
And it’s my loss, because she is lovely.
But, she belongs to Him. It seems everything I need lies beyond my reach—in this case possessed by a nameless, faceless partner who can’t be revealed, well, because he’s married, and can’t be discussed because the subject’s off limits.
So, we’re just friends—with boundaries, and blurry lines like clouds.
It begs the question, why I am even here—lost and lonely at this stage of my life, when I should be married with kids.
But when the whirlwind of emotions finally subsides, reality returns. I see the face of Autumn Gardner, my winsome nemesis and former lover—the only woman I ever met who reminded me of a rainstorm.
She left without explanation and tormented me with a cloud—a crocheted cloud she made and left for me—the only reminder I have of the many days we spent in Central Park staring at clouds.
She went to Peru.
I like to believe she’s scrambling over mountainous ruins exploring some ancient astronomical laboratory, decoding petroglyphs of the movements of the sky—not lying on a hillside with another lover staring at clouds.
But she drifted away and now she’s distant as Bri, distant as clouds, and another chapter in my book of pain
Later that afternoon, I'm still brooding, lamenting my fate and I’m sure this is the way things would have continued for some time if were not for the advent of an unexpected event.
I was morosely sipping wine and gazing through my huge picture window. A storm was brewing and the Toronto skyline was a black silhouette beneath a lowering sky.
But as I idly glanced at a newspaper left open on the coffee table an ad caught my eye—a notice about a meeting of the local Cloud Appreciation Society to be hosted at Casa Loma, a Gothic Revival style castle in midtown Toronto.
The meeting was scheduled for that evening at eight and I knew I had to be there.
I’m not usually impulsive but the idea of spending an evening appreciating clouds with a room full of like-minded individuals seemed like heaven to me and a welcome respite from my pain.
So I cancelled my plans for an evening of soul searching, choosing instead to continue to pursue the other love of my life—viewing award-winning photographs of cloudy skies.
I arrived at the famous castle on the hill well before eight.
There was a wet bar set up just inside the foyer and several people, some in formal dress, were milling about as if waiting for the opera. I bought a glass of Yellow Tail and wandered about the room admiring the architecture.
In the milling crowd I heard familiar laughter and snooped around trying to find the source. I ended up looking directly into Bri’s huge dark eyes.
“Derek! What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I suppose.”
She looked shocked and a little nervous.
“Are you here with someone?”
I shook my head. “No. I saw the notice in the Toronto Star and on decided on impulse to drop by and check it out. I don’t know anyone who’s as obsessed about clouds as me.”
“Well, now you do,” said an older gentleman chuckling and handing Bri a glass of wine. “I’m Ward Stephenson. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Derek Leitner, I smiled, grasping his outstretched hand. “Bri and I work together at Coach House Press.”
“Really?” he replied with a bemused smile. “I don’t recall your mentioning Mr. Leitner, Bri. Is this an affair de Coeur? I sincerely hope Derek and I won’t have to duel with muskets at twenty paces—my aim’s been off lately.”
I laughed hollowly.
“Don’t worry, Ward—I’m sure Bri’s omission is more the result of disinterest—besides, workplace acquaintances don’t really count as friendships.”
At this point Bri seemed to recover her composure.
“Oh puhlease! You two are horrid teasing me like this.”
She affected her coquettish little girl voice, “Of course I mentioned Derek to you, Ward—you were probably too preoccupied with the merger lately to recall such minor details.”
“Merger?” I feigned interest, “I take it you must be involved in the corporate world, Mr. Stephenson.”
“Please, just call me Ward,” the older man chuckled affably. “Yes, you might say I’m in corporate financing. As a matter of fact we just acquired your firm along with several other small publishing houses we intend to merge and convert into an on-line marketer like Amazon.”
My heart sank. I loved working at Coach House—loved the atmosphere and camaraderie of a small press and the ambiance of Toronto.
Ward read my expression. “Don’t worry, Derek—nobody will be out of work. We’re expanding into a mega operation, but you may have to relocate to Seattle.”
Bri gave me a brittle smile.
At that moment a small chime signalled the meeting and cloud viewing was beginning.
I put on a brave face.
“I better go in and find a seat—didn’t have time to make reservations. It was good meeting you, Ward, and you too, Bri. Have a pleasant evening.”
“Oh, I’m sure Bri will,” the older man laughed. “She roped me into this. I’d rather stay in the bar if I had my druthers—but the things we do to keep women happy, eh Derek?”
It was my turn to assume a brittle smile.
Bri stared hard at me and I couldn’t discern the meaning of her expression—perhaps it was anger, annoyance, disgust—or all of it mixed together.
I couldn’t be sure, but I felt I ruined her evening. I knew she ruined mine.
