Sharona

          At 8.30pm last night we gathered with a group of other tourists under the imposing skyline of St. Louis Cathedral. The evening sky was perfectly pink behind the steeple. All at once Sharona appeared from between the large oak entrance doors.

            “Wow,” said Ed, and he wasn’t talking about the ambience. “There she is. That is Sharona.”

            I looked at him carefully and paused for thought. “Listen carefully, Ed, and look at me as I say this to you,” I began, narrowing my eyes. “Sharona is my adventure.”

            Ed regarded me solemnly for a moment and then nodded soberly, before turning back to watch Sharona.

            “Hi there everybody! Can you all gather in a little closer please?” And who were we to refuse? “That’s better. Let me introduce myself. I’m your guide for this evening and my name’s Millarca.” She pronounced ‘Millarca’ as ‘Meyarka’.

            Ed raised an eyebrow at me but I wasn’t worried by the name. I’ve read Sheridan LeFanu. I was more concerned with the appearance of this black angel. She presented herself in the Elvira style, but less 80s. She had on a long black leather coat half hiding a black dress trailing down only as far as her mid-thigh. She had soft flapped black leather boots most of the way up her calves. Her black hair ran down on all sides of her body in a cultured mess. Her skin, surprisingly for one so dressed, was darkly tanned. I could hardly take my eyes off her for the duration of the tour.

            It was a great tour, though perhaps I’m biased, but I can say with certainty that she captivated her audience with confidence and easy charm. I recall only one of her many stories very well. She described a vampire in New Orleans from 400 years ago, around the time of colonial rule. This vampire had been sired alone in his house and had lain for days without understanding his conversion. He had become slowly hungrier and hungrier for blood until suddenly he killed his maid and pierced her neck, drinking straight from the jugular. Sharona described his hunger and subsequent satisfaction with incredible colour and emotion.

            At the end Sharona invited all the guests to join her in the pub for further questions and a friendly chat. Every man on the tour dragged their wives, girlfriends and daughters along but after a long hour, filled with many foolish questions, there were only three of us left with her: the two of us and some other middle aged bloke. We’d been sitting across from her table, nursing a couple of pints at the bar. At this stage we stood and made our way to the table. Sharona spotted us coming and cast her eyes slowly over me. The act paralysed me, as though she really had vampiric powers of mind control. Ed kicked me and we sat down.

            “Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked me.

            “Yes, most certainly, Carmilla.” I replied. Ed raised his eyebrow again and the other bloke looked briefly confused. Sharona knew exactly what I meant.

            “Fantastic! You know my real name!”

            “I thought your first name was Mircalla.” In the story of Carmilla the vampire she has to change her name every so often to avoid detection. She always uses anagrams of her first name, Mircalla. Sharona noted the comment with a slight, almost seductive, smile.

            “Okay, this has been fun,” said the bloke. “Can I getcha beer buddy?” he asked Ed.

            “Sure mate,” said Ed, and retired to the bar with a single wink of encouragement.

            Once alone we launched immediately into conspiratorial delight at an instant connection over so many subjects. With Sharona before me I couldn’t help but indulge in discussing all my darker gothic thoughts. It wasn’t morose or morbid, but intoxicating and beautiful.

            At some stage Ed and the other bloke must’ve left, though we didn’t notice. Sharona pointed it out but it didn’t seem a problem to me, and it was an observation on her part, rather than a suggestion.

            We discussed our respective jobs. She was quietly impressed by mine, but I didn’t know the half of it where she was concerned. She worked every night of the week, half the time as Millarca the tour guide, and the other half as a blues singer in a hotel bar.

            “To chance meetings,” she toasted.

            It was getting late. The pub was closing. Sharona took me by the hand and brought me to my feet. She did everything with such languorous ease that I could scarcely resist her slightest whim. On the outside of the pub we paused opposite one another. She had a black leather satchel thrown over one shoulder. Over the other I could see her waved hair trembling in the warm breeze. She suddenly laughed at me and broke into a run away from me.

            “Come on then!” she shouted behind her, and before I knew it I was running too.

            We came to a laughing, breathless stop a few minutes later, in a graveyard. After a few more I calmed down and became a little reflective, I’m ashamed to say. The surroundings jolted me slightly, but the mood wasn’t gone. We spent an hour there talking of eternal riddles: composition of the continuum, free will.

            At once I noticed how cold I’d become. I yearned for a bed and became worried. What if the hostel closed and shut me out? I told Sharona it was time to go and she appeared momentarily disappointed. Suddenly I thought of Annabell and in the same moment I became just a man standing in a graveyard with a girl. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

            I made to leave but Sharona caught me by the hand. I turned and she looked into my eyes. It was my move, but I couldn’t. I wanted to, but…

            “Your first name, Mircalla, is Sharona,” I said.

            She looked at me wonderingly, mouth slightly parted, and I walked away.

 

*

 

            And all that was only last night. I know I’ve already written a great deal, but, despite the ending, it was one of the most amazing nights of my life. This morning Ed filled me in on the remainder of his night. He’d played darts with the other bloke, aiming at dollar notes and keeping those that he hit.

            “So, when do you see her again then?” he asked me.

            “I’m not sure.”

            “Didn’t you sort anything out?”

            “I don’t have her number.”

            “What?”

            “It’s okay. This whole thing’s fated. It’ll work out, you wait and see.”

            “Are you alright, Evans?”

            “Seriously. This is destiny, for sure.”

            “I don’t know. A real man makes his own luck.”

            “Is that right, Ed?” I said, beginning to enjoy stalking on the other side of the fence. “But it is amazing, how a lark that starts with me hitting a girl outside a restaurant playing Britney Spears could lead me to this point.”

            “Wings of a butterfly mate. We’re just trying to flap them more than most.”