We’re cold. Not dressed for a frost. It’s a sunny spring morning. He said we’d be warm enough without coats. Ellie wears a short-sleeved black dress. I’m in jeans and sweater and Robert is ever-elegant in slacks and a striped shirt. God, what some men wouldn’t do to look like Robert.
Robert seems oblivious to my feelings, though that can’t be the case, which makes the whole thing worse. Ellie says he’s a poser. He’s gone to the café for coffee to warm us up. Ellie goes on about people who say it’s warm enough without coats only to find that we should have worn them.
‘Bloody poser,’ Ellie mutters lighting a cigarette, ‘Just because he didn’t want to spoil the line of his smart trousers.’ Her nose twitches at the word ‘smart’.
I smile. Typical Ellie comments. She doesn’t rate him so there is no good in him at all. Ellie has no idea of the Andromeda Syndrome.
There’s a thing to conjure with, the Andromeda Syndrome. Ellie would never consider the possibility. I’m not the most imaginative person, only common sense keeps me sane. I’d never imagined the things I’ve seen in the past two weeks. Since I’ve known Robert. Would I have avoided him had I known? Possibly. But then, I wouldn’t have this story to tell, would I?
We sit drinking hot coffee, Ellie and Robert chatting idly, me lost in my own thoughts, aware Robert can read them any time he wants. That’s part of it, you see. Mind reading comes easily to Andromeda symtolites. That’s what he is, a symtolite. He looks human but he’s not. He’s from Andromeda, in the galaxy beyond the Milky Way, the sultry world of the symtolites.
He smiles, ‘Come with me?’ he says.
Polly Robinson © 2013