At first I thought it was just coincidence. I mean, there must be hundreds of five foot four brunettes, green eyes, lopsided smile, tiny scar below her right ear where her brother hit her with a plastic spade when she was three. It’s not that surprising that I’d see someone and go, hey, that’s—then realize it’s not. But that’s how it is.

            I went to a concert near the beach, hoping to find someone to hang out with. After eating a hotdog and scanning the crowd for a familiar face, I was about ready to give up when I spotted her, playing bass in a cover band. Stovepipe trousers and a white shirt, fingers shimmying up and down the fretboard. I recognized her instantly.

            I squeezed my way towards the front, sliding between the dancers wherever there was a gap. Parked myself some ten feet away, bopping my head to show how much I was enjoying her blues riffs. During a break between songs she looked straight at me. I smiled, gave a little wave. She pretended not to notice.

            When their set was over I snuck backstage, ducking under the rope with the No Entry sign. That was for those annoying losers and weirdos. She was going to be over the moon to see me, I knew it.

            I didn’t get to find out. My path was blocked by an enormous guy in an orange T-shirt. He put down his paper cup and grinned at me.

            “Whoa, hold up there,” he said. “You lost, bro?”

            I shook my head. Cool and suave, I told myself, that’s the ticket.

            “No, um, my friend, she’s. I just—”

            “Sorry,” he said. “Performers and crew only. Far as I can tell, you don’t have a pass.”

            He tapped the laminated card dangling from his neck. I peered down at my own chest. He was right.

            “But,” I said.

            He raised an eyebrow and I scarpered. Didn’t want to make him mad. I knew I’d catch up with her again.

            A week later I ran into her at the supermarket. I’d forgotten to buy Tim Tams, so I did a U-turn in the middle of the aisle and crashed smack into her shopping cart. I apologized—it was entirely my fault—and as I was picking up her muesli, I realized who it was. I threw out my arms.

            “Hi, there,” I said. “How are you doing?”

            She showed some teeth and backed away. Up close she looked worn, dark shadows under her eyes. I hoped she was sleeping properly. And her irises were brown, not green. Funny that I could have got that wrong. She left her trolley behind.

            After that I didn’t see her for several weeks, and it almost drove me crazy. Had she had an accident? My imagination conjured up exploding petrol tankers, operating theaters, wailing and rending of garments. Or perhaps she was avoiding me. I didn’t know which was worse.

            And then one day I found her again. Or rather, she found me. On my way down to the unemployment center I caught a glimpse of her, fifty yards behind me. I paused to read a For Sale sign, and she stopped to look at her phone. She was taller, at least three inches. Maybe she had a sudden growth spurt. Unusual, but not unheard of.

            This was my chance. I spun round and jogged towards her, but she turned and fled. I have to say, I felt kind of let down. Why go to all that trouble if you’re not going to grab the opportunity when it arises? Waste of a good stalk, if you ask me.

            Now that I knew she was following me, she was much easier to detect. For the next month, I saw her with surprising regularity. Sure, I made mistakes—that incident with the Filipina nun in the bakery was pretty embarrassing—but usually I had no doubt.

            It was exciting, the thrill of the chase. In the end, though, I grew frustrated. One of us was going to have to grasp the nettle, take the bull by the horns, carpe the diem. I’m not the carping type, but it was going to have to be me. I changed my approach.

            Next time I saw her, coming towards me as I walked home from the library, I slunk inside someone’s gate and crouched in the flower bed. A man on a stepladder grunted and dropped his pruning shears. I put my finger to my lips, gave an I’m-not-a-mugger-I’m-just-waiting-for-the-woman-of-my-dreams nod. He seemed to understand.

            A few moments later she strolled past, carrying a yellow bag with celery leaves poking out the top. She was blonde today, long hair tied back in a ponytail. I tiptoed after her. At the crossing by the primary school she stopped and switched the bag to her other hand. I overtook her, stood a non-threatening distance away.

            “We can’t go on like this,” I said. “It’s ridiculous, two mature adults denying their true feelings.”

            To be honest, I half expected her to run away again. Instead, she rushed forward and engulfed me in a fierce embrace. My body tensed, but after a second I hugged her back. Her hair smelled of lemons.

            “You’re so brave,” she whispered, “forcing the issue like this.”

            Eventually she stepped back, looked me up and down.

            “You’ve lost weight,” she said.

            In fact I’d gained a few pounds around the middle, but I didn’t say so. Memory is a great deceiver, no one knows that better than me.

            “So, how have you been?” she asked. “What have you been up to?”

            “Oh, this and that. You?”

            “Same,” she said, tilting her head to one side and studying me with her deep blue eyes. “Hey, do you remember the night we first met? You were so witty.”

            I raised one shoulder modestly.

            “At that terrible party in Linwood,” she went on, “in that big old villa. By eleven o’clock nearly everyone else had gone, but we sat in the bay window, talking for hours. I knew then that you were the one.”

            The faintest of suspicions stirred in the recesses of my mind. That was hardly something I was likely to forget. Besides, for some reason I’m rarely invited to parties.

            “Are you still painting?” she asked.

            I didn’t have a clue if she meant interior decorating or the Mona Lisa, and to tell the truth I’m no great shakes at either. Was it possible she had me confused with someone else? She squeezed my hands and sighed.

            “Oh, Michael. I’ve missed you so much.”

            That was the clincher. While I admit to using an alias on the odd occasion, Michael has never been one of them. Still, my grandmother didn’t raise me to be cruel. If I were in her shoes—heaven forbid—I hope someone would let me down gently.

            “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you again,” I said, screwing my face into a mask of romantic bliss.

            “Yes,” she said. “It’s like it’s written in the stars.”

            “But, um, those stars, the stars are against us.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, you have plans, and I have plans. That’s right, we both have plans.”

            “Plans?”

            “Yes,” I said. “And if we sacrifice them to be together, we’ll end up bitter and resentful.”           

            Her lips twisted in a small, sad smile. I stumbled on. “I know it’s unfair, but the most precious, the most precious things in our lives cannot be reconciled.”

            She touched her fingers to my cheek. “You’re right, of course. Somehow we have to find a way to cope with our loss, and take comfort in our memories.”

            The gardener was eavesdropping from behind the fence, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

            “But I hope,” she said, “you don’t mind if I continue to hold you in my heart.”

            “I’d like that.” My voice was husky. “And please, think of me fondly sometimes.”

            I turned and walked away, keeping my back straight. It would be ungentlemanly to show my relief—but man, that was a lucky escape. After rounding the corner, I quickened my pace. If I hurried, I could make it in time for the international food festival in the domain. Perhaps I’d splash out on a potato pancake. And I just knew she was going to be there today.

Stephen Coates comes from New Zealand, but is currently living in Japan. His stories have appeared in Sky Island Journal, The Write Launch, Landfall, Takahe and elsewhere.