I’m in my pad. It’s the quintessential bachelor pad: spacious for one and with a modern, contemporary look. Photography adorns the walls – pictures from back home, Ottawa, to various, more exotic locales like Paris [where I had spent a week during a quiet summer], to Norway [where I had gone earlier that year with some friends]. The décor is white – almost minimalist – but with the occasional splash of colour that says, ‘Hey, I’m still young at heart.’

she knows

She looks down, as if realizing this for the first time and makes an ill attempt to straighten her shirt and smooth her hair. For all her beauty, she’s a bit of a mess at the moment – distressed and emotional. She knows it. I know it. And she knows that I know it.

Classical music is softly playing in the background. It’s Recuerdos de l’Alhambra, played by Sharon Isbin – something sentimental and melancholic, but with a gentle hint of playful romanticism – reflective of my current mood.

I hear my doorbell ring. Odd, was I expecting a guest?

Now I’m in the hallway, but I take a quick peek in the mirror. Looking good. I’m not all that different, but I’ve outgrown the young adult look and have the demeanour of a gentleman who’s a tad more worldly than your typical fellow, but certainly still ‘with it’. I’m wearing a chic black suit – Hugo Boss – over a mauve button down dress shirt, casually opened at the collar. Not extravagant, mind you, but with an unquestionable projection of assurance, intelligence, and financial stability.

No, no, no, no! What am I, thirty? Okay. I’m wearing a neat pair of jeans, a fresh white buttoned down shirt from The Gap, and a black Alfred Sung blazer. Perfect. Casual enough so people don’t mistake me for another corporate mannequin, but just flash enough so that I’m noticed. Yes, yes. That’ll do; an outfit that flirts, rather than assaults. Oh dear. The doorbell.

I open the door, and there is Audrey.

Our eyes meet, and we stand there, both lost in another dimension. She looks as beautiful as ever with her long auburn hair swept to one side, and with a few strands artfully framing her piercing green eyes. Something’s different though. Something’s changed. I notice her eyes are so dreadfully sad. Pleading to me.

And without warning, she throws herself into my arms and I can feel her warm breath on my neck. I can smell her sweet perfume – Davidof’s Cool Water, a gift I had given her one day out of the blue. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she confides in me, ‘I missed you too much.’

I hold her tighter. So tight she began to feel faint, but she doesn’t let go. No, this moment, this very moment was too precious to her. ‘I know it’s pathetic,’ she explains, fighting back tears, ‘I know we were together only a few days ago, but I don’t care.’

We had met at the local café, you see. It was one of those ostentatious cafés with the comfortable arm chairs, the small round tables, and where the conversation is always light and pleasant. It’s one of those places where one can order an expensive cup of Kenyan coffee prepared however one desires, and where a plate of biscotti comes complimentary with every order.

The coffee would be bitter enough to savour the beans and topped with a touch of foam. Now, I’ve always been a bit wary of the foam in coffee, so there’s only enough to make the cup aesthetically pleasing, but not enough to overwhelm the aforementioned bitterness. Complicated, yes. But the cute waitress and I are on a first name basis (hers being Jenny and mine being, well, mine) so she would know immediately that I favour bitter Kenyan beans with a touch of foam. I’m a regular, you see.

How nice it is to be considered a regular.

Oh, where was I? I seem to have lost myself. Ah yes, we had met one day in this café. She: a young eager philosophy graduate and I: a young mathematician had somehow woven ourselves into a delightful debate on the various merits of the classical philosophers: René Descartes, John Locke, David Hume, Emmanuel Kant, and so on. We complimented each other well and revelled in the fascinating conversation which in these days is such a rarity.

Now back to the present: As she stands desolately on my doorstep, I notice what a stark contrast we make. She: mournful, red-eyed, unbuttoned and wrinkled shirt. Me: smart, suave, and collected. She looks down, as if realizing this for the first time and makes an ill attempt to straighten her shirt and smooth her hair. For all her beauty, she’s a bit of a mess at the moment – distressed and emotional. She knows it. I know it. And she knows that I know it.

Nevertheless, I coolly take her hand and guide her in. Ah, what marvellous hands she has. Small, slender, and what seems to be a perfect fit for mine. I guide her to the dinner table and ask her if she would like to join me for dinner.

‘Nothing extravagant,’ I remark casually, ‘but I had some time to prepare a little something: du foie gras avec de la chanterelle – a superb duck liver plate served with a modest creamy sauce seasoned with mushrooms.’ As I hold out the chair for her, I coolly add, ‘I’m sure that you will adore it’. I like it. Forceful and insistent, but with all attention to manners.

I pour her a glass of red wine and delightfully regale to her how my particular selection of grapes will compliment the meal perfectly. While I pour myself a glass, she brings the glass to her lips, but stops, realizing that a toast was in order. Unruffled, I raise my glass in the air and boldly say, ‘To possibilities!’

Our glasses touch softly.

The meal is delicious but humble, and we savour the conversation more than the food. As I stand up, she touches my arm and asks, ‘Shall I help you put away the dishes?’ clearly concerned that I had done so much for her while she had done nothing to deserve such royal treatment.

I shake my head and smile ruefully. ‘That can wait,’ I say, ‘tonight, you’re my honoured guest. Tonight, everything will be perfect’.

Fast forward, and now we’re on the couch. Vivaldi is playing in the background and the light is suitably dim. Not so dark for her to think I was hiding something, but soft enough to set the mood. I sit away from her and sip my wine quietly. It’s clear that she wants me to break the silence. To make the first move. But I continue to sit there, unmoving. Confident but restraint.

She looks wistfully at me and shakes her head sadly, wondering why it had taken her so long to have found the true love of her life. Why she had to suffer through the Neanderthal-like treatment of so many men: Jimmy, Chris, Paul, …. None of her past affairs had remotely prepared her for this charming gentleman before her – not Jimmy, stock broker Jimmy, who had mastered the cuisine of fine microwavable dinners, or Paul, Paul with the long blonde hair, Paul who understood that sneakers were not to be worn with a suit. No, this man before her was different. And it killed her.

‘From the moment I first met you,’ she said fervently, ‘I realized that I would never be good enough for you. Though our love burns with the passion of a Tristan and Isolde, I knew it would never be meant to be.’

Stop. Way too melodramatic. It needs to be more realistic. More subtle and from the heart. Okay, take it again from, ‘From the moment I first met you, I realized that I would never be good enough for you…’

‘But I let myself hope. I wondered every day whether we could ever make it work…’. Her lip trembles and she begins crying. ‘Could we ever…? Could you ever…? Could you love someone like…?’ She can’t bear to finish.

I put my arm around her and reach in my jacket for my handkerchief, which I use to dab softly at her eyes. ‘Now, now,’ I murmur while stroking her hair. She leans forward and I can now feel her heartbeat. It quickens. Tilting her head upwards, her eyes glistening with tears, she silently pleads to me. Slowly, deliberately, I lean forwards to kiss her…but nothing happens.

It’s dark. Very dark. Except for the faint glow of the monitor before me, I can’t see a damn thing. I reach forwards and grope for the small table lamp. My hands knock something and I curse, feeling wetness on my fingertips. Ah yes, there it is. The gentle click of a switch and the light blinds me. Still groggy, I examine the now illuminated mess. On my left, there’s a blue mug with fresh coffee I have just clumsily split. Not a big deal, it’s already a bit of a mess here. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice that ‘mess’ is a bit of an understatement. On my right, there’s a watch, two heavy medallions, some Polaroids, and a few scattered documents. More papers filled with unintelligible scribbles are strewn before me, as well as an innocuous-looking folder. Damn.

I sigh, at last realizing that I’ve just been plunged back into the descript pit known as reality. Welcome to Phil’s Proof.