Nishelle and Idris, beneath the canopy
There are certain dinners that feel as though they have been arranged by the universe and others that feel as though the universe merely happened to be passing through the kitchen. This was the former.
Nishelle’s Secret Canopy hung impossibly high above the world, suspended somewhere between the sensible height of trees and the rather less sensible height of dreams. The branches had been coaxed into arches overhead, their leaves trembling whenever the night wind moved through them, though there was no obvious source for the wind. Below, London glittered in fragments. Above, the sky was clear enough to make the stars look indecently close. A candle burned between Nishelle and Idris, its flame leaning occasionally towards one of them as though it had chosen a side.
Dinner had three courses because Nishelle believed certain conversations deserved architecture.
The first was a delicate burrata with blood orange, basil oil and pistachio, followed by salmon with herbs and lemon. Dessert was dark chocolate fondant with sea salt and cherries, which Idris announced was “an emotionally manipulative pudding.”
Nishelle poured the wine.
“You say that about everything you like.”
“That’s because I distrust anything that knows it’s beautiful.”
She looked at him.
“You’ve just described yourself.”
Idris smiled.
“And yet you invited me.”
“I invited you because I wanted to discuss signs.”
“You invited me because you knew I’d disagree.”
“I knew you wouldn’t behave.”
“That’s a much better reason.”
The wine caught the candlelight between them.
Nishelle rested her fingers against the stem of her glass. “Why do you think people keep checking for signs?”
Idris took a piece of pistachio from his plate.
“Because they don’t trust themselves.”
“That was fast.”
“I’ve been accused of many things. Being slow isn’t one of them.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No. I’m answering it. People ask the universe for something, then become suspicious when the universe doesn’t send them a receipt.”
Nishelle smiled despite herself.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
He leaned back.
“They see 11:11. Then 222. Then a song. Then someone’s name. Then a white feather. Then the same car three times. Then they see the person’s birthday on a restaurant bill and suddenly they’re writing a dissertation entitled The Divine Is Obviously Trying to Get My Attention.”
Nishelle laughed.
“You’ve clearly been reading people’s journals.”
“I’ve been reading people’s behaviour.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It usually is.”
She looked down at her plate.
“Perhaps signs matter because people need reassurance.”
“Exactly.”
“Then why are you mocking it?”
“Because reassurance is addictive.”
The smile left her face.
Idris continued more softly.
“And because the moment you need another sign, the last one wasn’t enough.”
That was the first silence of the evening.
It was not an uncomfortable silence.
It was the sort that arrives when someone has managed to put a hand directly on the bruise without knowing where it was.
Nishelle looked out through the branches.
“The trouble with you,” she said, “is that you make cruel observations sound seductive.”
“The trouble with you is that you notice.”
She looked back at him.
There it was again.
That slight pause.
That little shift in the air that had been occurring all evening whenever one of them said something too honest.
Neither acknowledged it.
Both noticed.
THE FIRST SIGN
Nishelle lifted her glass.
“Let’s suppose someone has asked for love.”
“Of course.”
“They’ve imagined it. They’ve prayed for it. They’ve written about it. They’ve tried to let go. Then they begin seeing signs.”
“Which signs?”
“Anything. Repeating numbers. Songs. Dreams. Coincidences. The person’s name. A place connected to them. Someone mentioning them unexpectedly.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It can be beautiful.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She gave him a look.
“Would you ever take a sign seriously?”
Idris thought about it.
“Yes.”
Nishelle looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“After all that?”
“Don’t confuse scepticism with cynicism.”
He reached for his wine.
“If something repeatedly catches my attention, I notice it. I’m not going to pretend the experience doesn’t exist just because I can’t immediately explain it.”
“So you believe in signs.”
“I believe in attention.”
“That’s different.”
“Very.”
He looked at her.
“That’s the entire point.”
Nishelle waited.
Idris continued.
“Imagine you want someone. You think about them constantly. Suddenly their name appears everywhere. You see it in a book. Hear it in a restaurant. Someone mentions them. You notice their favourite flower. You hear a song you associate with them. You could call that the universe communicating with you.”
“You could.”
“Or you could say your attention has become sensitised to anything related to the person.”
“Which is what?”
“Psychology.”
She smiled.
“You sound like Elvira.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Careful, Nishelle.”
She took a sip of wine.
“Why?”
“Because I might start looking for signs.”
She laughed.
And for a moment the canopy seemed warmer.
THE SECOND COURSE
The salmon arrived beneath a veil of herbs. Idris looked at it with suspicion.
“You’ve made fish philosophical.”
“I made dinner.”
“Same thing with you.”
Nishelle broke the fish with her fork.
“Do you know what I think the real problem is?”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“People don’t know when to stop looking.”
Idris nodded.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
She continued.
“A sign appears. They become excited. Then they look for another sign to confirm the first sign. Then another to confirm the second. Eventually they’re not living their lives anymore. They’re conducting surveillance.”
“Exactly.”
“You agree too quickly.”
“I told you. I observe behaviour.”
Nishelle looked at him carefully.
“What happens when you want something?”
“I go after it.”
“And if it doesn’t happen?”
“I change tactics.”
“And if it still doesn’t happen?”
“I move.”
“That’s it?”
“Usually.”
“Don’t you ever wonder why?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you ever sit with the uncertainty?”
“Only when I’m forced to.”
She smiled.
“That’s what I thought.”
Idris leaned towards her.
“You’re misunderstanding me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his voice.
“I don’t believe signs are instructions.”
That caught her.
“What do you mean?”
“A sign can be interesting without being an order.”
He picked up his wine.
“That’s where people lose themselves. They see a coincidence and immediately ask, What does this mean I should do?”
Nishelle nodded slowly.
“And you don’t?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t outsource my decisions.”
Something in the sentence made her look away.
Idris noticed.
“You do.”
It wasn’t a question.
Nishelle’s fingers tightened around her glass.
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“Enough.”
“Why?”
She looked at him again.
“Because sometimes wanting something makes you irrational.”
“Wanting always makes you irrational.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
He smiled.
“Desire is supposed to interfere with you. That’s why it’s desire.”
She laughed softly.
“You make everything sound indecent.”
“Only the interesting things.”
THE GIRL WHO KEEPS LOOKING AT THE CLOCK
Nishelle set down her fork.
“Let me give you a real example.”
“Please.”
“Someone is waiting for a message from someone they love. They see 11:11. They feel hopeful. They check again at 11:22. Then 12:12. They wake at 2:22. The next morning they see the person’s initials on a billboard. Later, a song comes on that reminds them of that person. Then someone says their name.”
Idris nodded.
“Classic.”
“What should they do?”
“Nothing.”
She frowned.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing because of the signs.”
“That’s very different from what people teach.”
“I know.”
“What should they do, then?”
“Ask the person.”
She stared at him.
“That simple?”
“Yes.”
“What if they can’t?”
“Why can’t they?”
“Because they’re afraid.”
“Then the problem isn’t the signs.”
Silence.
Idris’s expression softened.
“The signs have become a theatre for the real question.”
“What question?”
“Do they love me?”
Nishelle looked down.
“And because you don’t know the answer, you keep checking the environment for one.”
He was no longer teasing.
“You see the number because you can’t see inside their head. You see the song because you can’t hear their thoughts. You see their name because you’re desperate for reality to tell you what another human being hasn’t.”
The candle flickered.
Nishelle said quietly:
“That is painfully accurate.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because pain is sometimes the first honest thing we’ve heard all evening.”
THE THIRD SIGN
Dessert arrived.
The chocolate fondant broke open beneath Nishelle’s spoon, and dark chocolate ran across the plate.
Idris watched it.
“That’s obscene.”
“You said you liked it.”
“I do.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.”
“And yet what?”
He looked at her for a moment too long.
“And yet you keep inviting me.”
Nishelle’s cheeks warmed.
She ignored him.
“Suppose signs aren’t instructions. What are they?”
Idris thought.
“Mirrors.”
She looked up.
“Explain.”
“They may tell you more about the person looking than the universe being looked at.”
Nishelle considered this.
“That sounds almost cruel.”
“It is.”
“Everything with you is.”
“Not everything.”
The words came quietly.
She looked at him.
He was no longer smiling.
For one strange second, the entire canopy seemed to disappear.
There was only candlelight.
His hand resting beside his glass.
Her fingers near the edge of the plate.
The distance between them.
The things neither had said.
Then Idris looked away.
“Continue,” he said.
Nishelle swallowed.
“A sign as a mirror.”
“Yes.”
“So if I keep seeing signs connected to someone…”
“You may be revealing how much attention you’ve given them.”
“Not necessarily that they’re thinking about me.”
“No.”
“Not necessarily that they’re coming back.”
“No.”
“Not necessarily that we’re meant to be together.”
“No.”
She looked almost disappointed.
“Then what good are they?”
Idris smiled.
“They tell you what has captured you.”
“That sounds less romantic.”
“Perhaps.”
He leaned forward.
“But romance is not supposed to be evidence.”
THE PROBLEM WITH MEANING
Nishelle looked out through the leaves.
“Maybe humans need meaning.”
“They do.”
“We see patterns because we are pattern-making creatures.”
“Yes.”
“We connect events because randomness is psychologically difficult to live with.”
“Yes.”
“Then isn’t there something beautiful about signs even if they aren’t objectively supernatural?”
Idris smiled.
“There you are.”
“Where?”
“Back in your own territory.”
She looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t actually need the universe to prove that something mattered.”
Nishelle became still.
He continued.
“You loved someone. They mattered. You lost them. It hurt. You saw things that reminded you of them. That doesn’t need divine certification.”
Her eyes softened.
“That’s almost tender.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
He took a sip of wine.
“I have a reputation.”
“For being heartless?”
“For being difficult.”
“You’re not heartless.”
He looked at her.
“How would you know?”
She smiled faintly.
“I pay attention.”
That silenced him.
WHEN A SIGN BECOMES A SUBSTITUTE FOR ACTION
The wine was almost gone.
The city had disappeared beneath a veil of mist.
Nishelle traced the rim of her glass.
“I think people keep checking because signs allow them to stay in possibility.”
Idris nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Possibility is safer than reality.”
“Yes.”
“You can imagine the person coming back without asking them to.”
“Yes.”
“You can believe they’re thinking about you without risking finding out they’re not.”
“Yes.”
“You can see a number and feel hope without having to make a decision.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because you finally understand.”
“What?”
“That sometimes signs are not evidence of movement.”
He leaned closer.
“They’re evidence of hesitation.”
The sentence landed between them.
Nishelle’s eyes held his.
“Meaning?”
“You keep asking the universe for signs because you don’t want to make the decision yourself.”
She looked away.
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
He paused.
“But it may be true.”
THE THING ABOUT INTUITION
Nishelle finally turned back.
“Then what about intuition?”
Idris smiled.
“Now that’s different.”
“How?”
“Intuition doesn’t usually arrive with a PowerPoint presentation.”
She laughed.
“Go on.”
“It’s quieter.”
“Quieter than signs?”
“Much.”
“Then how do you distinguish intuition from fear?”
His expression became thoughtful.
“You don’t always.”
She looked surprised.
“You’re admitting uncertainty?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He continued.
“Sometimes intuition is a quiet knowing. Sometimes fear is a quiet knowing that something isn’t safe. Sometimes desire disguises itself as intuition because you desperately want something to be true.”
“So what do you do?”
“I look at the evidence.”
She smiled.
“You really are more sensible than you pretend.”
“Don’t ruin dinner.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He put his glass down.
“People romanticise intuition because they want certainty without investigation. They say, ‘I just know.’ Fine. But if your intuition tells you someone loves you while their behaviour consistently tells you they don’t, eventually you have to decide which information you’re willing to respect.”
Nishelle nodded.
“That is difficult.”
“Reality usually is.”
THE ROMANTIC DELUSION
The candles had burned low.
The branches overhead had become silhouettes against the stars.
Nishelle said, “There’s something beautiful about believing the universe is speaking to you.”
Idris nodded.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you keep dismantling it?”
“I’m not dismantling it.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the burden off it.”
She frowned.
He smiled.
“You don’t need the universe to arrange every detail of your life for your life to be meaningful.”
Nishelle was quiet.
“And you don’t need every coincidence to be a prophecy.”
He reached for the wine bottle.
“That doesn’t make the coincidence worthless.”
She watched him.
“You’re saying signs can matter without being instructions.”
“Exactly.”
“Can they mean something?”
“Of course.”
“What?”
“That depends on you.”
“That sounds frustratingly subjective.”
“Welcome to being human.”
She laughed.
“You are impossible.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“I mean it more now.”
THE SIGN SHE DIDN’T EXPECT
Nishelle stood to clear the plates.
Idris caught her wrist gently.
“Leave them.”
“I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”
“I know.”
His fingers remained around her wrist for only a moment.
Then he released her.
Something had changed.
Not dramatically.
Nothing cinematic.
No thunder.
No sudden revelation.
Just the small, dangerous awareness of another person.
Nishelle sat again.
“You know what I think?”
Idris smiled.
“I’ve been waiting all evening.”
“I think sometimes we ask for signs because we’re afraid to ask for the thing itself.”
He said nothing.
“We want the message, but we’re afraid to send one.
We want reconciliation, but we’re afraid to knock on the door.
We want love, but we’re afraid to say, ‘I love you.’
We want certainty, but we’re afraid to hear the answer.”
She looked at him.
“So we ask the sky.”
Idris’s expression softened.
“And then we become experts in clouds.”
Nishelle laughed.
It was quiet.
Real.
The kind of laugh that escapes when someone has found the precise sentence you’ve been carrying around for years without knowing how to say.
THE LAST GLASS
Neither of them moved to leave.
The dinner had ended, but the night had not.
That was the trouble with certain conversations. They refuse to understand the concept of dessert.
Nishelle poured the last of the wine between their glasses.
“One final question.”
Idris smiled.
“Dangerous.”
“Why do people keep checking for signs after they’ve already received one?”
He looked at her.
“Because they want certainty.”
“And can they have it?”
“No.”
“Not from signs?”
“Not from anything.”
She nodded.
“What, then, do we do with uncertainty?”
Idris looked towards the stars.
“Live.”
“That sounds almost disappointingly simple.”
“It isn’t.”
He turned back to her.
“Living without certainty requires courage.”
She watched him.
“And what if the sign is real?”
“Then it will still be real whether you stare at it for five hours or not.”
“And what if it’s meaningless?”
“Then staring at it won’t make it meaningful.”
“And what if it is the universe trying to tell me something?”
Idris smiled.
“Then perhaps the universe expects you to use your own mind.”
She laughed.
“You really won’t let me have my magic.”
“I’ll let you have all the magic you want.”
His voice lowered.
“I just don’t want you mistaking magic for permission to abandon yourself.”
That silenced her.
Because beneath the flirting, beneath the jokes, beneath the mythology of signs and numbers and timing and cosmic breadcrumbs, there was the thing neither of them had wanted to name.
The danger was not believing in signs. The danger was believing in them more than you believed in yourself. People check the clock because they want reassurance.
They check the numbers because they want confirmation. They check the songs because they want permission. They check social media because they want evidence. They check dreams because they want prophecy. They check the universe because they are frightened of asking another human being a question whose answer might hurt.
And perhaps this is why the most seductive signs are always the ones that leave room for interpretation.
A number cannot reject you. A coincidence cannot say no. A song cannot disappoint you. The moon cannot leave you on read. A sign is wonderfully safe because it can never look you in the eye.
Nishelle looked at Idris.
“And what if I want a sign from you?”
He smiled slowly.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re asking for one…”
He leaned closer.
“…or waiting for permission.”
She held his gaze.
“And if I am?”
“Then stop looking at the stars.”
Her breath caught.
“Why?”
“Because I’m sitting here.”
For once, Nishelle had no clever answer. The canopy had gone very quiet. Somewhere below them, London moved through its endless machinery of taxis, trains, lovers, strangers and people awake for reasons they would never explain in the morning.
Above them, the stars remained exactly where they had always been.
Beautiful.
Distant.
Silent.
Nishelle looked at them once. Then back at Idris. And perhaps that was the smallest lesson of the evening.
Not that signs are meaningless. Not that every coincidence is divine. Not that intuition should be dismissed. But that there is a moment when looking outward becomes a way of avoiding the person standing directly in front of you.
Sometimes the universe gives you a number. Sometimes it gives you a song. Sometimes it gives you a dream. And sometimes, inconveniently, it gives you a man sitting across the table who has been watching you all evening.
The mature question is not always:
What does this sign mean?
Sometimes it is:
What am I afraid to admit without one?
Idris stood and offered her his hand. Nishelle looked at it. Then at him.
“You know,” she said, “this could be a sign.”
He smiled.
“No.”
“No?”
“This is dinner.”
She placed her hand in his.
“And what happens after dinner?”
His eyes met hers.
“That,” he said, “you’ll have to find out.”
And for once, she didn’t look up.