We have a few drinks and talk about the regular things- where we’ve been, where we want to go. All the things that scratch the surface without breaking any skin.

“Love Sick” by Dylan is playing on the jukebox. I remember two things- walking back showered by stars in the rural south, and you. With a brain full of emotion.

She makes a joke and I touch her hand- briefly. Everything about tonight is brief. The kisses are brief. The hand holding is brief. I could even say our connection is brief.

She leans over, hand on my knee, and whispers a joke in my ear. I don’t hear it- the bar is too loud, but I laugh just the same. She starts laughing before I do.

We walk out of the bar, she’s in front and I study the lines of her dress. They caress her as I long to. She takes my hand as I walk her back to her apartment.

She starts humming a tune. I don’t recognize it- at first. After the first few bars I know it’s “Standing in the Doorway” by Dylan. Out of Mind is apparently our soundtrack. We kiss and our hands wander. Outside her apartment, as the rain starts to fall, we taste salt.

And it did.

They met at a bar- one with loud music and tvs and all the usual distractions. They spied a back room for a while- then finally made it their own.

There was a glorious empty bar, with tables to the side. A pinball machine was in the corner unplugged.

They took a seat at the bar, facing each other in the mirror.

Her eyes sparkled with a solar system all her own. He told her this. She returned the compliment. But I have no way to verify this.

They talked for hours.

Two? Three? Five? Time seemed to stand still around them.

They shared a few cigarettes, talking of the mild night. But not in the usual way people talk about the weather- they talked about the mild night with a gratitude that comes from having someone to share it with.

There were electric touches between them as they shared cigarettes- but without the static. Focused. On each other. On the moment.

He walked her home- there was no wind to speak of. Just voices and laughter and the occasional hand brushing against the other.

When they arrived at her apartment, they embraced.

“I’ll see you soon.” he said.

“Soon.” she repeated.

Then there were the sparkles in her eyes all over again- and it was all he could do to walk home.

I can picture you in the moonlight; I can pick out a strand of your hair from memory. I can hear a smile from your eyes; if I close mine. I can almost feel your skin the moment before it touched mine.

But that takes concentration.

I’d much rather stand here, bathed in the moonlight and trying to clear my head. Trying to make sense out of the craters on the moon; trying to guess at the temperature of those far away rocks. Wondering if they’d be warm to my touch. Wondering where you are.

Bob Dylan is playing in the background; I wish he’d shut up. He makes not concentrating difficult.

I take another drag from the cigarette I’ve been holding but neglecting to mention. Exhaling, I notice that there are two sets of clouds in the sky tonight- one moving slowly and the other breezing by. I steady my gaze on the moon, and the cloud system that is almost static to its side. The other set of clouds hides and reveals the moon at a pace that’s almost like a pulse. I feel fortunate to witness the equivalent of an interstellar circulatory system. And sorrowful that there is such a thing. That nature lacks creativity and imitates its progeny.

This hasn’t always been my face. Years ago, those creases didn’t hide cancer grease, they were instrumental to smiles. But that was years ago.

Now the lines on my face are like the lines on a rose long ago dried. Each crease just a miracle about to break. Now the lines on my face no longer carry my emotions- they carry the scars of a tomorrow and a today.

What do you do when all you see is death in the mirror? Outside of breaking the mirror, of course. Which I’ve done. Long ago. Or at least I meant to.

But I didn’t. Because, cancer or no, I hoped to see myself each day in the mirror. I wanted to know I lived, I wanted to move side to side; to try to outpace my reflection and fail. I wanted to stare blankly at myself each time I brushed my teeth and wonder if I was staring at another dimension. I wanted to look from an angle and be surprised the mirror didn’t simply reflect what was in front of it. I wanted to live.

Because the moment you outpace yourself, the moment your refelction dances away, you really die.

You remember the highs of laughter, the lows of groans, like an impromptu played by a well known composer.

You try to remember the piece- you try to make whole the perfume.You look at the woman walking past you, who you do not know, and try to superimpose your memories of the perfume onto her. But of course that doesn’t work. The perfume wasn’t meant for you; and you weren’t meant for her.

So you walk on- the weather is much more mild than you expected. You brought an umbrella, but you now realize you didn’t need to. You’re just another silly human being carrying an umbrella with not a cloud in sight.

You didn’t used to carry umbrellas. You didn’t used to mind the rain. But now you seem to carry umbrellas and mind everything.

And that’s when you see it- a bird landing, perfectly, on a tree branch.

The branch shouldn’t be able to support the birds’ weight. In fact, it doesn’t. If you don’t trust your eyes. But the rules of gravity have no bearing on the world you know to be true. In the world you know to be true, the bird rests wonderfully on the tree, a perfect example of nature propping each being to some sort of higher purpose.

You light a cigratte and try to get the perfume out of your memory, but it’s no use.

What would you prefer, a bad story often or the cream of the crop, every blue moon?

Don’t answer. There is no proper answer. From the start, it was a question that would only serve to prop up my ego for a couple more days. And there’s no cream of the crop on blue moons, as any good farmer knows.

So, instead of a story, let’s pretend we’re sitting next to each other, crops growing underneath the moon, which is above our feet on a porch.

“I met Martha on my way down to Lake Charles, Louisiana. She was sitting in a diner in Porter, right north of Houston.”

“Why were you going to Lake Charles? Following a Lucinda Williams song?”

“Does it have anything to do with Martha?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then listen.”

“I walked into the diner- her hair was black, but it didn’t look that way. It looked brown, and there wasn’t even that much light on her. But her eyes had all the empathy anyone could ever want. There were lines next to her eyes, of course, as all empathetic eyes have, but I knew, with just one look, that she was love itself.”

“So why are you so down?”

“I left the diner.”

Spring in New York is heavy with compromise- winter coats vs. jackets, frowns vs. smiles, valentine chocolates vs. genuine shrugs.

When Brian walked out of the subway he had none of these things on his mind. He had just devoured a serving of Pad Tai on the train and opened the fortune cookie. It had simply said, “Love will find you around the block.” He had tried to exhale the fumes of desperation. Instead he let out dry coughs.

Brian walked around the police horses next to the subway exit. Missed the warm smile he received while almost tripping in a quasi-run to get around the corner. Once there he stood. Waiting. And waiting.

Finally, when the music in his head began to fade, when the piano began to play long notes instead of vibrant, sharp, ones; he rested his back onto the concrete. Maybe good fortune did only happen to others he reasoned. Maybe the rain was acidic; maybe not only luck was missing- but reason as well. These things started to make sense. Made perfect sense. Until the woman with the ignored smile approached and said hi and rendered them irrelevant.

She’s standing next to me, I can hear her soft breathing. But I don’t say anything. I’m waiting for her to speak to me. I’m wearing a two piece suit, she’s wearing a dress, black like a funeral, but in a cut that betrays love. Finally, she speaks.

“Did you know I was here?” She looks at me when she speaks.

“I smelled your perfume.” My eyes are trained on a single light, at the top of a single building.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You’re always here.” I’m looking straight into her eyes. There’s makeup around them, but they seem more real then ever.

I see the tears build. I want to kiss each one of her eyes. I want to hold her in my embrace, tell her that love is the four letter word to cure all of our maladies. But I don’t say anything.

I brush my hand down the top of the back of her dress, let it rest on the small of her back. I’m touching spaghetti straps that are behind her when I rest my hands on her hips, on her sides.

We kiss, silently.

He thinks to ask her if she loves him. He thinks to ask her if she’ll be back soon. He doesn’t say anything.

He closes his eyes and remembers the previous night. The party and all the people to meet. And he remembers her. Running into her must have been a million to one chance. But she entered in the loft apartment, perfect and clichéd. She wore a bright blue dress, the kind that sucked all the light out of the room and radiated it right back out.

There was dancing on the balcony. There was holding on the balcony. There were hints of kisses on the balcony. There was her hair on his hands, pulling his eyes towards her. There was the hint of love in between them.

Later, when the party thinned out, there was the question of rides home. They were talking to Rick, the host.

“You can always stay, Mary Ann.”

“Oh, thanks Rick, but Mark offered me a ride home.” He had done no such thing.

“Are you OK to drive Mark?” Rick was looking at Mary Ann.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re welcome to stay, you know that, Mary Ann.”

“I appreciate it Rick, but I just need to sleep in my bed, you know?”

Mark says, quietly, “will you be back soon?” as Mary Ann steps outside the door.

I’m taken aback. I sit on the hotel bed, springs trying to bounce me off a bit too much.

I think back to a boy and girl who loved each other a whole lot, and their walk to the symphony. She was a cello player, trying to culture the boy, like bacteria in a petri dish. He had no idea what he had to learn but was just glad to have the chance to follow the girl to the concert.

They were standing outside, rain dripping all around them, rain matting the girl’s hair. The girl tried to light a cigarette, rain drenched the cigarette.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.” He said, as he led her to the awning and lit the cigarette.

“I know.” She ashed her smoke.

“Then why do you?” He looked into her eyes.

“It’s just something to do, you know?” Her eyes were pleading.

“Something to forget we won’t see each other soon?”

She smiled.

“Give me one of those,” the boy said.

He put a lonely cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

“It tastes like your lips.”

The girl grabbed the smoke from the boy’s lips and said, “Kiss me instead.”

He did, earnestly.