“I think your hair was a different color when I met you,” his words sliced through our circle of girls and explained the pensive eyebrows and stealing of glances. 

I’d been noticing and ignoring him simultaneously. But now he had my full attention because—synchronicity.

“Probably. I was just wondering which CVS store is still open and what color I’ll buy.” 

Truth is, I color my hair all the time, and the other, more subtle truth was that I vaguely remembered meeting him, too. I couldn’t remember where and frankly wasn’t giving it much thought. Too busy grooving on the creative caucus happening with my girl crew. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside the Key West Film Festival party, sipping our rum drinks and having a lively discussion about writing, filming, editing, animation, inspiration. 

But synchronicity turned the volume up on the guy. Not because he noticed the nuances of my hair color—that’s nice, but no longer enough to get me going (it’s too easy, and I want a guy who works for it for a change)—but because he voiced the very topic I’d been silently discussing with myself. 

Synchronicity not only gets me going, it’s what I live for. Seemingly random little things line up, and turn into a big thing forming a rapidly established connection that surprises and delights the two people it’s bringing together.

Synchronicity comes from someplace big and beyond—God, The Universe, celestial beings—and shines down onto some little, seemingly inconsequential moment a couple of humans are having here on Earth.

Like a little gift, strengthening my belief in (and downright dependence on) divine orchestration. 

Synchronicity would strike again between us, and not long after…

I’m biking home from work. I never pay attention to the exact path and I don’t know street names. I flow with my bike, rolling in the general direction of home. I’d worked late, Thanksgiving week, and there were finally people on the island again keen to do watersports. 

Crossing Eaton (I know that one because Eaton Bikes sits on the corner) I see a dark horse of a bike coming from my right and wonder if I can get across before him.

And then I recognized him. From two nights ago. On the sidewalk.

“Heyyy,” I call out, making him look up from his phone. 

“Hey!”

“What are you up to?” It’s an unusual thing to say, suggesting I maybe want to hang, but I want my home and my bed.

He says he just got done at The Studios and has to be back at 6:30am to set up the Holiday Artisan Market. 

It’s 10:30.

“Ahh, the clopen!” I feigned an exhausted look to go with the term that, as far as I know, I invented. “I was thinking of going to that market.”

If he’s amused, he doesn’t let on. “Come early, it’ll be a shit show!!”

I laugh.

“I’ve never done it before and don’t operate well early.”

“Me neither! But I do love a good shit show. You’re selling me.” I slowly start to roll on. 

“You better be there!” he calls into what is about to be my dust.

“It better be a shit show!” I turn and yell backward. Smiling all the way home.