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LEO

“Ah, Leo,” Carlene reminds herself. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?” I ask, holding the phone between my ear and arm, as both my hands are busy washing dishes. I hosted a home party yesterday, which ended up at four am. It was fun, but being left alone with cleaning definitely isn’t. “Timothée will land earlier,” Carlene says.

Her words immediately make me nervous. How much earlier? I want to ask. I’ve barely finished my final exams and haven’t got the chance to catch up on lost sleep yet... “When will he arrive?”

She makes a short pause before responding. “In two weeks. I’m sorry, it was the cheapest flight ticket that we were able to find.”

I want to nod; however, my phone is stuck between my ear and arm, and its screen is already broken. “All right,” I say instead. “I can show him around and keep him company until you arrive.”

“Fantastic!” She sounds relieved. “I was scared that you would say no, and then I would need to send him to our family house in Bayeux...”

“No, don’t even think of it!” I interrupt her. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I know...” She sighs. “I mean, I’ll have to take him there eventually, but now it’s too early for this.”

“Of course,” I respond, not surprised at all that she’s so eagerly postponing it; there's a reason why we don’t want to invite anyone to our family house. Our father specializes in horror art, and his creepy paintings hang on nearly all walls. For a long time, he hid them from Carlene and me, as they were genuinely scary. I think that it’s actually safe to say that he’s the Stephen King and Graham Masterton of terrifying art. I was a teenager when I first saw his paintings. Now, I’m twenty-two and still have nightmares at times.

In general, my father is a very nice and quiet man. However, he fought the inner demons of depression and addiction for a long while in the past. He claims it's better to put petrifying monsters on the canvas rather than deal with them in his head. I can only suppose that he’s right.

My mother, my sister Carlene and I have all grown to understand it. However, Carlene’s boyfriend doesn’t know our family that well, and he can’t be exposed to such spine-tingling images. If he is, he might get the impression that there’s something wrong with us. While in reality, we are just another boring family from Normandy. Carlene went on her own path as an artist: she’s into cubism and dadaism. I’m much less avant-garde; I prefer classical manga.

“Thank you so much for letting him stay at your place,” she says now as our phone conversation continues. “I owe you a lot, seriously.”

“Nah, don’t even mention it,” I wipe another plate with the kitchen cloth. Fortunately, it’s one of the last ones. “I’m looking forward to meeting him. How long have you been together? Remind me?”

“A year, although, I'm not sure if it counts if we’ve been in an online relationship... The last time I saw him, was last summer.”

“I remember. Do you miss Madagascar?” I wonder.

“Yeah... You don’t realize how much.” She sighs. “It’s a paradise on Earth... I wish I could go to that meditative retreat one more time. We had so much fun in there, Timothée, Shankar, and I.”

“Shankar?” I echo, unable to match the face of this person to the name.

“Timothée’s workmate and best friend,” Carlene reminds me. “That tall, Indian guy with dreadlocks who wears patterned pants and handmade jewelry. He taught vinyasa yoga.”

“Ah, yeah.” I saw him in their colorful group photos. “When I first saw him, I thought that he was homeless!”

“Homeless?!” Carlene’s voice turns stern all of a sudden. “Don’t be stupid, Leo... I’ve gotta go now. I’ll email you all the flight details. Don’t forget to add Timothée on social media for easier communication. His surname is De Lisle.”

“Sure. Talk to you soon,” I promise, hanging up.

*

I take a small break from cleaning and go back to my room, which looks like an anime fan’s den. It’s quite disorderly. I hoard everything that’s related to my favorite series: posters, figurines, and gadgets. My desk barely stands straight from the weight of all the drawing supplies I have here. I never managed to learn how to use a drawing tablet and always stuck to the good old sketchbook and pencil. I have hundreds of crayons, paints, etc.

I know I should finally grow up and say goodbye to anime. However, right now, it’s my whole world. I don’t think it’s going to change any time soon.

I sit down, waking my laptop from hibernation. It’s so slow sometimes that it takes me literally five minutes to open the browser. Looking for Timothée De Lisle’s profile isn’t difficult, though; he is in my friend's suggestions.

I really hope he's a normal guy, someone nice to interact with. I’m concerned because Carlene has a rather peculiar taste in men. The weirder someone is, the more she fancies them.

Timothée's photo loads. It’s nearly unrecognizable, just a black silhouette practicing yoga against a colorful sunset. I scroll down to see his posts and get an opinion of who he might be. There is a lot of meditation music, of course, and a lot of personal reflections starting with Namaste My Dear Friends. Finally, I spot a memory post with an old picture that he and Carlene took when they first met in Madagascar.

They don’t really look like a couple, more like two random people of different ethnic ancestry who wore matching sports outfits and sat close together to be photographed. Carlene’s skin is pale, and she has freckles all over her face. Thank God I wasn’t cursed with them. We have the same blue eyes and light blond hair, though.

Yet here, her hair is crimson, with just one natural blond strand right above her forehead. I don’t know why she dyed it like that; I suppose she just wanted it to look original and be easy to remember.

As for Timothée, he’s a typical southerner: his skin is tanned, and his black hair resembles beautiful, long feathers. He isn't stereotypically handsome but has some trait that makes him attractive. I stare at the photo, attempting to pinpoint what it is. Perhaps, he’s just photogenic.

His profile refreshes. I notice that he has just posted another photo, literally seconds ago. It’s a selfie taken in the Antananarivo library. The photo description says, “The library accepted my and Shankar’s book titled The Yoga Bible!”

I divert my gaze from the book’s cover to his face. His smile is so radiant, and he seems so genuinely happy and easy-going...

These two weeks with him can’t be bad, yeah?

*

Three days later

When Timothée shows up at the airport’s gates, we instantly recognize each other. One gaze is enough for me to figure out it’s him - and vice versa. He’s not as tall as I imagined him to be, but he’s not short, either. He’s wearing a citron yellow shirt over a grey t-shirt, simple shorts, and colorful, flashy sports shoes. I imagine he’d be exhausted after two flights and a long transfer, but he still seems quite alert and fresh - well, as fresh as you can be after an intercontinental flight.

“Hi, Leo!” He greets me in our common language, French. Madagascar used to be France’s oversea territory in the past, so we both speak it; his accent sounds somewhat weird, though; I can immediately tell that he isn’t a local. “Thanks for picking me up!”

“Of course,” I smile, trying to ignore the fact that the tone of his voice sounds really nice to my ears; it’s both friendly and warm. I glance into his beautiful dark eyes and ask: “Where’s your luggage?”

“Right here!” He points with his thumb to the small backpack he’s wearing. “I prefer to travel light.”

“Cool! Let’s go,” I suggest, looking at the metro signs to make sure we don’t miss the nearest entrance. I start walking in the right direction, but he won’t budge, curiously looking around the hall at large travel ads and an international crowd passing us by.

“Do you want to take a picture?” I ask, worried we will be late for the train if he doesn’t hurry up.

“No, no need to... I don’t see a point in taking two thousand photos that you won't even print later. I guess I’ll just look at everything and write about it in my travel journal,” he grins.

“But you posted a selfie recently?” I recall.

“Ah yeah,” he brushes off his pretty, black hair, which almost touches his shoulders. I think to myself that he’s definitely a hipster, but then again, I’m not sure if I should judge him, being an anime fan in my twenties.

*

“How was your flight?” I inquire as we're sitting on the train.

“Good, good! I spent the majority of my time meditating... I love meditation! It purifies your mind, just like hatha yoga,” he shares enthusiastically.

His naturally positive attitude is contagious. I really want to respond something to him fast, but I don’t know what. I have no slightest idea what’s the difference between hatha yoga and regular yoga, and googling it now isn’t an option. Fortunately, he figures it out on his own and hurries with explanations:

“Hatha yoga is the most standard form of yoga. Shankar teaches vinyasa yoga, which is a more flowing style, principally focused on breath,” He glances deeply into my eyes as if to check if I’m able to grasp the meaning of his words, then continues: “Shankar and I work at a tropical holistic retreat. It’s an amazing space for connecting to the spiritual... We work on balancing our chakras and cleansing our aura or exercise by looking at the ocean... We also make our own coffee and grow bananas. It’s a paradise on Earth, really! All of our cabanas are located in nature, but they are very comfortable to live in. We are very ecological; we use solar power, recycle waste, and so on. Our guests are mostly couples on honeymoon and Instagram stars, but there are also middle-aged men and women who practice yoga for spine health. Nearly everyone who comes doesn’t eat meat, so we don’t serve it. I’m vegetarian, too,” he shares casually.

Hearing all this nearly gives me a panic attack. How will I survive the next weeks under one roof with someone like him?! I love meat and hate exercise. I still do it, but mostly to avoid feeling guilty about spending so much time in front of the computer.

Maybe, I shouldn’t tell him anything about myself. If I stay silent, he won’t have reasons to hate me, yeah? But because he’s still waiting, I can’t keep silent for too long. It would be rude.

“Umm, it all sounds awesome,” I say eventually, hoping it doesn’t sound too flat. “I’ve seen you published a book, by the way?” I desperately clutch at another topic and thank God he falls for it.

“Ah, yeah, The Yoga Bible!” He grins, clearly proud of this significant achievement. “We wrote it together with Shankar.”

“Oh, really? Can I buy it?” I ask; although I’m not really interested, I just want to act kind and support his career pursuits, whatever they are.

“Yes, you can. Although honestly, we didn’t write it for money,” he shrugs, momentarily looking away. “We created it to share our knowledge and experience. If you want to read it, I can send you a free pdf. Do you want to start learning yoga?” He refocuses on me again.

“Ah-umm...” I stutter one more time, feeling that our conversation is slowly getting out of control. “I’m not sure yet. I have little understanding of it.”