I sit at the end of the bar, invisible in the dark, and watch as you, the protagonist, prepare unknowingly to meet the love of your life. Every inch of this place is known to me, is indeed a part of me. When I inhale, this world fills me like my lungs fill with breath. When I brush my fingers against the grain of the wood table my drink rests on, I feel my fingers scratching against the corners of my mind, I feel the drink's condensation cool and moist in my imagination.
For how long had I written and rewritten this scene for it to become so intimate a part of me? For how long had I pondered the taste of sweat in the air, the scent of cheese curdling just south of stale, of spilled liquor, the sound, the bass grumbling below it all?
You met in my mind a thousand times. His approaches timid, then confident, once he spilled his drink and stuttered am embarrassed hello. You found his awkwardness endearing, or his confidence arousing, or were struck by the tenor of his voice, the unique hazel dots in his eyes. Now, at last, I watch the 'real' thing.
He walks up to you, sly grin on his lips. "Is this seat taken?"
You hesitate. I know you recognize this moment, an echo of words on a page. A foretold dream, half-remembered through sleep's mist.
He sits. "My name is-"
"Not important, we need to- he's, he's-"
You point behind him, directly at me. He turns and gasps, fear and recognition in his eyes.
"That m-man?" He stammers
"He's from my dreams."
"He writes and what he writes, it happens. Is he... God?"
"No, not quite. Now let's go!" You grab his arm and flee.
I smile as you leave. You think I don't know where you will go? This has already been written. The path you take already pre-ordained.
I rise, in no hurry, sliding into the night. Everything but the path I follow lost in the fog of non-description. It is irrelevant to my story. Therefore it does not exist. Not yet. Have you never wondered at how small your world is? How things seem to slip into non-existence when you are not present?
You lead him to your home, locking the door.
He gasps. "Well if he's not God, then-"
"Who am I?" I grin, already there as I am everywhere.
I AM THE AUTHOR OF THIS MOMENT. This voice comes not from me, but is read directly the urtext of the world around us. YOU ARE BUT WORDS ON A PAGE. IDEAS IN MY MIND.
"I am irrelevant to you. As God is to me," I whisper. They quaver from my world's roar.
"Focus not on me, but each other. You are in love."
With that The Author recedes into the Real and the lovers look at each other. Afraid but not remembering why. Tentatively they embrace, like they had before in unremembered alternate presents. In a thousand acted passions, plays enacted only in my mind and on the page. Vaguely wondering at each coupling: "Why does this feel so familiar?"
After a while, even that fades.