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A reincarnation story, 'Seven Days with the Comte de Saint-Germain' by Christopher Farris is an unorthodox tale of young love.

Seven Days with the Comte de Saint-Germain Reading Length: 10 Minutes Tags: Young love, Past lives, Reincarnation By Christopher Farris Day 1 ‘Your coffee molecules cause too much noise. It is totally messing with my harmonic sensitivities,’ she said. She held a plastic cup of boba tea in her hand. Her nails were chipped and black. The unburst beads rested in the bottom of the cup like Russian caviar. ‘I’m sorry,’ the boy replied. ‘Why were you staring at me?’ she asked. ‘I… uh…’ ‘I can always tell when someone is staring, you know,’ she continued. ‘I have powers.’ The boy liked her eyes, hazel with a gold centre, large and startled. Her mouth, even pursed, looked like it kept promises, spoke curling words. He liked her smudged lipstick and the rounded curve of her cheek, her flyaway hair. He liked her. He shrugged and looked at his tennis shoes, embarrassed. ‘Are you meeting friends?’ she asked. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘That’s okay,’ she said, ‘I don’t have any friends either, just followers.’ He smiled when she did, tentatively, and she reached out to briefly touch his hand. Her fingers were cool and damp from the sweaty clear teacup: thrilling. ‘I’m the Comte de Saint-Germain. Would you like to sit with me?’ she asked, tilting her head and looking up at him. The smile lingered on her face like a guest, reluctant to leave. He stared for a moment. ‘I… I’d love to,’ he replied. They sat across from each other at the window. She looked at him frankly, studying his face, his expression, his inner self. She looked through her fingers, bent in strange shapes, reached out and pulled his hand to her. Flipped it palm up and hmmmmed over it. She traced faint lines with her fingers. Her nails left savage little dents in the pads of his palm. He tried not to wince and took quick little sips with his eyes, catching the edge of her neck, the bird-like movements of her greedy hands. He learned her by angles. He moved his coffee as far from her as possible; interposed the silver napkin dispenser to protect her from the drink’s molecular influence. She noticed his precaution and glanced up at him through secret eyes. She was not, he thought, displeased. ‘So you are the—’ he began. ‘Yes, the Comte de Saint-Germain, have you heard of me?’ ‘Maybe. You don’t… D-d-do you m-mean the eighteenth-century nobleman? The e-e-e-explorer, uh, philosopher… I think, uh, musician and uh, uh…’ ‘Alchemist, sorcerer, magician… yep, that’s me,’ she said. ‘I have lived for more than one thousand years.’ ‘Okay.’ He said. She put his hand back on the table, turned it palm down and patted it gently. ‘I’ve had many bodies over the years, been many people,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky you met me today – I’ve grown tired of being a female. I’ll be transitioning again soon. You have a nice hand, by the way.’ His palm twitched on the table and he pulled it back slowly. ‘It’s a whole alchemical process thing,’ she continued, ‘I’ve been doing it for years. Requires the philosopher’s stone. Have you heard of it? Not that Harry Potter thing; the real thing.’ ‘Yes,’ he said before she could rush on, ‘It was u-u-used for turning lead to gold w-wasn’t it? You have one? Really? A philosopher’s stone?’ ‘It’s in storage,’ she said. ‘Nobody ever really made that gold thing work. That was just a gimmick.’ ‘Really? Huh…’ he paused, looked down at the table, eyed his coffee cup but left it quarantined. He glanced up at her smiling mouth. The curve of her white teeth against her red lips. ‘Um, transitioning?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was thinking maybe an older man this time, or possibly a horse. I’ve never been an animal. I haven’t decided. Don’t you think horses are beautiful?’ ‘Yeah… yesss. They are… b-but why?’ His voice broke a little at the end. ‘Just, you know, well… maybe you don’t. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been lots of people. People always leave, you know.’ ‘Oh. Okay.’ He paused. ‘I just… just liked… like… talking to you.’ ‘Me too. Don’t worry. We’ve still got seven days.’ ‘So… y-you speak French?’ ‘Oui. Aren’t you going to ask me out? I just said we only have seven days.’ ‘Ask you out?’ His mouth opened and closed; no sounds emerged. ‘Right,’ she said with finality. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ ‘Nuh-nothing, I guess.’ ‘Good.’ Day 2 They met for drinks at Suds ’n’ Duds, the local coin-op laundromat. Saint-Germain brought two Hello Kitty thermoses – one filled with orange juice, the other with vodka. ‘Laundromats remind me of breakfast,’ she said. The sun was setting across the street. The cold outside fought the heated inside, and the giant panels of sheet glass sweated with fog and moisture. She was wearing a purple silk robe tied tightly around her narrow waist. Lemon-shaped sunglasses held her hair back. He thought she might have had a few drinks before he arrived. Someone had drawn stars and moons on the robe with a permanent marker. He thought she was beautiful, but didn’t know what to do or say. He carried her basket of delicates in from the car. ‘Don’t look at my pa...

'Seven Days with the Comte de Saint-Germain' by C. Farris | Fairlight Books