Yesterday by C. K. Kelly Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

Canada, maybe even the best-looking guy I’ve
ever
seen, and secondly, I know I’ve seen him before. I don’t know that with my mind the way you’re supposed toknow things. It’s an instinct or at least something deeper than my consciousness and that thing, whatever it is, is drawn to him with a strength that would be frightening if I could think about this rationally … which I can’t.
    It’s like hunger or needing oxygen. It’s not something you can make up your mind to quit craving. It just
is
. And then I’m taking my change from the hotdog vendor and trailing after the guy, like a spy or private detective, only they’d have a logical motive and I just have … a hunger, a need.
    Not something sexual, although that’s there too because he’s breathtaking to look at. From my place about thirty feet behind him, all I can see is his close-cropped dark hair (any darker and it would be jet black) and his six-foot-something medium-build frame sauntering west along the sidewalk. But for a moment before he turned to walk away I had an unobstructed view of his face and it was like staring into a living, breathing version of one of those Greek statues from the museum: high cheekbones, smooth skin, a perfectly straight nose and what looked like an unbreakable jawline. Examined alone none of those things would be extraordinarily impressive—it’s the way they work together that’s acting on me like a drug—and not even quite that, but the absolute certainty that I’ve felt this way about him before.
    I can’t remember him.
    But I know
.
    In my mind I see his eyes, as clear green as a tropical ocean. I see him staring at me. Smiling for me. Being theperson he is, the one I should remember in full, not in this hazy, unformed manner.
    Random people in winter jackets, gloves and hats flow between us but I keep my eyes on the guy in the distance, only shifting my gaze for a split second to read a street sign and find we’re on Bloor Street. I’m afraid to get closer and risk him seeing me but I don’t want to lose him either. None of this adds up. If I
know
him, he should know me. But I was standing right next to him on the corner by the museum.…
    I was as good as invisible to him.
    It doesn’t matter that this is insane; I can’t let him get away. I follow him along Bloor Street until he turns north onto Spadina. The streets are less crowded there and I have to hang back farther to avoid being conspicuous. Soon he’s turning again, left this time, and I’m surrounded by houses, their front yards covered in graying snow. A blue van pulls into a driveway ahead of me and I jump at the break in concentration, afraid he’ll evaporate into thin air.
    He doesn’t, of course. No matter how improbable this seems so far, it’s still the real world.
    No, he’s striding easily along the residential street, his arms swaying at his sides like he doesn’t have a clue he’s being followed and that there’s no problem on the planet he couldn’t handle.
    The gap between us is so large that it makes me ache and I can’t stop searching my mind for the missing information—who this boy is to me and why neither of usremember. I pull my arms tight around my waist, fighting an overwhelming feeling of withdrawal when the inevitable happens and he turns up a pathway, steps onto a pale blue fenced porch and disappears inside the front door.
    Slowly, I approach what I assume to be his house. It’s semi-detached and old but in good repair. Its other half sports beige trim and fencing, making the homes look like a pair of mismatched socks. Both residences feature second-floor bay windows and porches nearly as big as the ones on ground level. The third-floor windows are smaller and I wonder where the boy sleeps and whether he has brothers and sisters. The driveway’s empty, as is the curb space directly in front of his house, meaning his parents are probably at work.
    Is he alone inside?
    I stare at the door he retreated