Three months in London is a long time to be a stranger, but just enough time to feel like a local. My routine was a binary code: weekdays were for the "exemplary" grind, and weekends were for rewarding that grind with something a little more chaotic. We were near the City Centre, where the pubs are historic and the discotheques are loud enough to make you forget your own name. It was a Saturday, the kind of night that starts with a few shots and ends with a story you’re not sure you are allowed to tell.
The Waking Jolt
I was moving through the crowd, navigating an ocean of bodies under the heavy pulse of purple fluorescent lights. And then, I saw her. Oh man!! You know that cinematic trope where the crowd slowly dissolves into a blurred background? It actually happens. One moment I was lost in the noise; the next, my intoxicated gaze mapped onto hers and I felt a sudden, waking jolt. She wasn’t British—she had that effortless, sharp elegance that suggested Italian or French roots.
She looked as high on the night as I was. In that harmony, the sound died out. There were no people, no London, no "tomorrow." There was just a pretty face, a specific curve of a smile, and tiny little dimples that seemed to catch every stray beam of neon light.
A Lesson in Chemistry
The track changed—a dramatic shift in BPM that served as our non-verbal cue. We moved toward each other. No words were exchanged; words are for people who aren't in sync. She stepped into my embrace with eyes that didn't just look—they demanded. I used to struggle with organic chemistry back in school, but as our "four cold lips shared an intimate kiss," I realized I was finally having a deliciously practical taste of that horrible subject.
It was a singularity event. Everything in the universe—the bass, the sweat, the purple light—converged into that one point in time. Space froze. I was no longer a traveler in London; I was a fixed point in the cosmos.
The "Memento" Reality
In the movies, the music fades out, and the credits roll on the kiss. In real life, the music is interrupted by high-pitched shouting in a language you do not speak. The "singularity" shattered. Her friends appeared like a sudden storm, their voices sharp and panicked. The girl, who moments ago was my universe, now looked at me with a face full of genuine shock.Her face transformed in an instant—shock, fear, urgency all flickering across her features. Her eyes widened, then darted toward the exit, then back to me with an intensity that needed no translation. Go. Now. Please. Her hand pushed at my chest, not violently but desperately, as her friends closed in around us. The entire conversation happened in three seconds of eye contact and body language. I stood there, numb. I looked for my friends—those "crooks" who are never around when things get romantic but always there when things get weird. Suddenly, one of them grabbed my arm, yanking me toward the exit. I followed blindly, running from a threat I did not understand, toward a destination I had not chosen.
The Hangover Morning
The next morning, I was Leonard from Memento, desperately trying to back-trace the breadcrumbs of the night. I could still taste the gin and the mystery, but the "why" of our escape remained a blank page. I was snapped out of my internal investigation by my friends. They sat across from me, nursing coffees and wearing grins that were equal parts mischievous and predatory.
"Well," one of them chuckled, leaning in as I waited for the judgement on my life. "We will not be going back to that club anymore. Do you actually realize who she was, or should we let our HR tell you?"
