It all started with Mr. Banerjee. All Enakshi saw was the gaze – his gaze directed at Mrs. Nirupama Thakkar who was cradling her six-month-old in her arm, her head thrown back in laughter at something her husband said. All it took was a look and Enakshi saw the naked truth. The pain and the longing, mingled with joy, was evident on Mr. Banerjee’s face. He remained silent, his eyes bright with unsaid emotions and sipped his lemonade. But for Enakshi, her farewell party was ruined. Oddly, the idea of a party on the beautiful roof garden of the office belonged to her colleague Nirupama. Irrespective of the fact that it was two in the afternoon, the party was in full swing, the golden sun hovering over them. Laughter and music mingled with the wafting smell of nicely cooked meat and the tangy breath of lemons. Very early in her job, Enakshi realised that unlike most parts of the country, summer was a cherished season in the high mountains of Uttarakhand. Thus, sitting on a chair, nursing her lemonade, she enjoyed the sun until Mr. Banerjee happened. After that single gaze, memories – memories that she kept hidden – rushed back like waves on a beach. It was a party just like this. There was laughter and music with the mouth-watering smell of cooked Hilsa and fried rice. Eleven years ago, Enakshi visited Uncle Sameer with her husband Indrajit and six-month-old baby in tow. Uncle Sameer was no blood relation to her but he was her father’s best friend and guardian to her and her sisters. During her years in boarding, Uncle Sameer became a fixture in her life because he lived only a few kilometers away from them. Over the time, he had become something akin to family, courtesy the absence of their career-driven mother.

The visit was an unplanned one. It was her twin Meenakshi who put it in her head to visit Uncle Sameer and their youngest sister Nikki, who lived nearby with her husband. Once the idea was sowed in her head, there was no changing it. Indrajit didn’t mind it; he was rather excited to meet them because theirs was a court marriage with only Enakshi’s mother as a witness. He had heard enough of Uncle Sameer and wanted to meet the beloved uncle. A day before her arrival, she informed Nikki that she was coming. Nikki had shrieked with elation and the next day when Enakshi arrived, she had been greeted with warm hugs. Enakshi wanted to visit Uncle Sameer the very day but Nikki postponed it for two days. Her husband Meghnad, a man whose eyes always twinkled with mischief, in an odd turn of event, solemnly agreed with his wife. At the time, Enakshi didn’t mind it; She was rather happy to be reunited with her sister. Two days later, on a summer afternoon, she visited the old Zamindar mansion of Uncle Sameer with her family, along with Nikki and Meghnad. The sun was shining high and bright, its golden rays upon the parched lands. Every leaf on the trees stood still and yellow, and stared pleadingly at the sky. The old mansion stood tall and majestic under the assault of fiery rays of the sun. But the residents living in the house were simple folks with warm hearts who were descendants of cold, awe-inspiring men of old. Aunt Poulomi, wife of Uncle Sameer and a short plump woman with a round lovely face, welcomed her with open arms, “My Eenu! How I missed you! Come inside. Oh, is that little Arin? Oh, what a sweet child! Come in.” Aunt Poulomi led them to the living room where Uncle Sameer waited for them. Tall and lean with grey hair, there was only one word to describe him – stalwart. He was one of the respected individuals of the town and was well loved by his family. With open arms, he hugged Enakshi and said with a kiss on the top of her head, “It is so good to see you again.” His soothing voice was husky with emotions but Enakshi didn’t address it. She knew the reason behind his emotions. She looked up, eyes full of knowledge and understanding, “ It is good to be back. ” Uncle Sameer nodded, his eyes full of pain and then glanced over her shoulder. With a gruff to shake off his emotions, he asked with a wide smile, “Won’t you introduce me to the dashing man you have brought, Eenu?” With a laugh, Enakshi had introduced him to Indrajit and the baby boy in his arms. He welcomed Indrajit with open arms and affection and doted on Arin. He was also attentive towards Nikki and Meghnad, and before long, Aunt Poulomi was taking them down the memory lane, narrating past events of childhood innocence to Indrajit. There were excerpts of what a fiend Enakshi used to be in her school days and how Meenakshi had been made a Prefect to rein her in. There were some embarrassing stories of the many boyfriends she had during her teen years, thanks to Nikki. Indrajit, who was never blind to her adventurous streak, heard the stories with interest and told them about Enakshi’s later adventures that had them laughing. Enakshi could see the approval in Uncle Sameer’s eyes, mostly in the moments when Indrajit talked about her.

It was one in the afternoon when Aunt Poulomi announced lunch. Though Nikki and Enakshi tried to get out of it, Aunt Poulomi was strict when it came to feeding her children and honorary children. No child of hers shall ever be allowed to leave her house with an empty stomach, irrespective if they had lunch earlier. She had prepared a lunch that resembled a banquet. Though Enakshi wasn’t hungry, she had a little of everything because she missed Aunt Poulomi’s delicious dishes.

After lunch, they went back to the living room. Aunt Poulomi was on the chaise lounge, cradling young Arin in her arms and cooing at him. It was evident that she had fallen in love with the little imp. Uncle Sameer was talking to Indrajit and Meghnad, discussing about the threat of imminent war, looming over the nation, in one corner of the room and Nikki and Enakshi were talking about their old school mates in the other when they heard the creak of a door, coming from the courtyard that laid across the living room.

Everyone looked at each other with confusion but Aunt Poulomi said, still smiling at Tintin, “Don’t mind it. It’s Shanti. She uses the kitchen door.” The moment of confusion was gone and they had returned to their former selves when a tall, lank figure in blue shirt and black trouser, strode across the courtyard, entered the living room and stopped in front of Enakshi. Enakshi was stunned to see the golden-haired man and in that moment, she knew she had made a mistake by coming to visit. The piercing blue gaze of his eyes fell upon Enakshi as Nikki rose from her seat and addressed the man with wide eyes, “David! What are you doing here?” David grinned at her but there was a cold anger in his eyes and his voice held a faint accusation, “I can ask the same of you, Nikki.” At that moment, Uncle Sameer joined them, his face grim, “David, I didn’t expect you to come back so soon.” David said with a crooked smile, “I wasn’t expecting myself too. But thank the gossiping ladies of our town. I met Mrs. Pal on my way and heard about Enakshi visiting. I came back and went to Nikki’s place. But the nieghbour said that she, along with Enakshi, came here.” He turned to Enakshi who was holding her breath and said, “Well, Eenu! You look beautiful. And I see you are married too. Won’t you introduce me to your husband – the man who slayed the great temptress?” Though he laughed at the end of it, no one was deaf to the sharp edge to his voice. Indrajit and Meghnad were standing a few feet away from them, the former with curiosity and the latter with dread. Aunt Poulomi still cradled Arin but she was biting her lips and tapping her left foot silently against the floor. Enakshi rose from her seat and did what she wanted to do from the first second she saw him – she hugged him. David wasn’t the only one who was stunned. Nikki barely managed to stifle her gasp and Uncle Sameer took a sharp intake of breath. Indrajit watched the episode with an interested smile while Meghnad rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Enakshi said, her face buried in his chest, the familiar scent of papers bringing back past memories of love, “I have missed you terribly.” A moment later, David’s arms wrapped her and he whispered, “So did I.” She looked up at him and found his blue eyes, shining with unsaid words. But those words had no place in this life – in this world. With a smile that made her chest ache, Enakshi led him to her husband who was waiting for them with enthusiasm, “Indrajit, this is David Phillips, Uncle Sameer’s nephew and one of my oldest friends. Though he is Nikki’s best friend, he and I have been partners in crime when we were young. David, this is my husband, Lieutenant Commander Indrajit Dutta.” Indrajit offered his right arm and said, “I have heard so much about you, David.” David took the proffered arm and said, “I hope it was all good.” The men laughed when David glanced over Indrajit’s shoulder and said with narrowed eyes, “Is that Eenu’s child? Dear god! No one told me that you had a baby!” His eyes sparkled with unshed tears but David smiled and approached his aunt. He took the baby from Aunt Poulomi’s hesitant arms who kept muttering “Mind the head!” and rocked the baby in his lean, strong arms. His eyes were wide with astonishment, joy and pain and he said, his voice breaking a little, “Well! What a fine child! He looks like Indrajit mostly but he has Eenu’s eyes and nose.

I hope he has Indrajit’s temperament – his mother is quick to emotions.” Indrajit agreed with a chuckle, “You are right, David. She is quick to anger but she is a very intelligent woman.” Indrajit beamed at her with all the love and pride in his heart and it made Enakshi smile with joy. The love between them was not lost upon David who grinned at them, his eyes soft, “You are a fortunate man, Indrajit. My Eenu loves true and she loves you. ” Those words twisted Eenu’s heart and she saw David, cradling her baby and talking to him in hushed whispers. The rest of the afternoon was bitter-sweet. Her interactions with Aunt Poulomi and Uncle Sameer were filled with love but the ones with David were fraught with grief and agony. She never understood why David sought the company of her baby and Indrajit. It was evident to her that the presence of Indrajit and her child was shredding his heart.

It was during one of the conversations between them when David suggested a pet name for her son, “You know what, Indrajit? You should call your son Tintin. After his mother’s favourite detective-journalist.” Indrajit had laughed but had warmed to the idea. Once the sun had set, Nikki announced that it was time to go. It was a tearful goodbye because Enakshi was leaving the next day. Aunt Poulomi’s face was laced with tears as she made Enakshi promise to send them letters. Uncle Sameer needed no tears or promises. All he wanted was a warm hug and a reassurance of the next visit. His old dark eyes were filled with memories and loss as he let her go. Finally, the dreaded parting – David gave her a quick hug. But in that embrace, she felt all his pain, longing and joy. When it came to Indrajit, he parted with a smile on his face, cheering Aunt Poulomi, promising Uncle Sameer a visit and a hearty laugh of goodbye for David.

The next day, Enakshi alighted the train to Dehradun, waving goodbye to her little sister, her eyes full of tears. During the train ride, when her baby was sleeping and Enakshi was tugging the blanket around him, she felt her husband’s keen eyes on her. With a smirk, she asked, “What is it?” Indrajit smiled, the left corner of his lips tilted up a little, “It’s David. Something that he said.” Enakshi said with a smile that hid her fears, “What did he say?” “He said that I am fortunate to have found you. To have your love and our baby. It was the way he said it that made an impact on me. There was longingness in him – an emptiness that pains him. It felt like he was unlucky in love.” There was an odd twinkle in Indrajit’s eyes. Though he said the words without a hint of accusation, Enakshi knew what Indrajit was asking her. Asking her to bare her heart. To share her pain even if it meant that their marriage won’t ever be the same. This was the moment for Enakshi. She could tell him the truth, set herself free from the lies that had dragged her down during the entirety of her marriage. Her marriage would break but Indrajit would never abandon her. He would stay with her, the bitter knowledge shredding his heart. Enakshi smiled, “I can’t say I am aware of any such lady in David’s life.” Enakshi was pulled out of her memories by her twelve-year-old son who joined her at the table with a plate of kebabs. Bespectacled with dark hair, Tintin resembled his father closely and was growing taller every year. One day, she would have to look up to speak to her boy. At that moment, her son was hungrily devouring the kebabs. “The party might be lousy but the food is good.”, Tintin said, his undivided attention on the food. Enakshi chuckled, “It is a party for adults! It is natural for you to feel bored. But the party is not for me – it’s for my colleagues who…”

“…suffered you for fifteen years!”, Tintin said with a grin. “Oh, Tintin! I was going to say that they needed a break. You really are a fiend! A sly fiend! ”, Enakshi said with a frown. But it made Tintin laugh, “I’ll tell Aunt Nikki that you called me fiend! She says that you were one too!” Enakshi frowned disapprovingly but her eyes couldn’t hide her humour. Tintin knew that his mother wasn’t truly angry at him and said with bright eyes, “Ma, I spoke to Uncle David and he said that he is coming back from England a day before we reach. He says that he would take me and Marya to the Science Auditorium. Do you think Aunt Nikki will let Marya come with us?” Enakshi said with a grin, “She’ll let Marya visit hell as long as it is David who is taking her there. Don’t worry and enjoy your kebabs.” Tintin saw someone over her shoulder and said with a drawn face, “Ma, Mrs. Pattanaik is here and if she finds me, she is going to take the flesh out of my cheeks. I am hiding with Mrs. Thakkar. Bye!” Enakshi laughed as she saw her son, running to Nirupama and asking her to shield him from Mrs. Pattanaik. Nirupama didn’t fail Tintin and let him hide behind her. Enakshi’s eyes found Mr. Banerjee, talking to his best friend and colleague, Mr. Thakkar. But every now and then, his surreptitious gaze would fall upon Nirupama’s glowing smile and his heart would be once again ablaze with pain. Enakshi knew that there was only pain for Mr. Banerjee. He would never cross the line with Nirupama who was the wife of his childhood best friend. The agony in his heart would be his lifelong companion. She wondered what Nirupama felt. Is there an ache in her heart too or does she live in blissful ignorance?

Enakshi wondered if Indrajit knew the truth. Had he known that she was the cause of David’s misery? Had he known that in their brief marriage, even after bearing his child, she couldn’t be faithful to him? That her heart always belonged to someone else? Was she disrespecting the memory of her husband by going back to the town where she grew up – where her heart lived? No. Indrajit was not an unkind man. He would have never wanted her to live a lonely life. He would have wanted Tintin to be surrounded with his family. Indrajit wouldn’t have begrudged her for wanting to return to the place she loved. Enakshi knew that she would never have the answer to her innumerous questions. But she was certain of one thing – Indrajit wanted her to live her life to the fullest. He knew he wasn’t going to return home and this war would be his end. In his last letter from the trenches, he wrote that all he ever wanted from her was that she keep him alive in her heart and live her life, and that is what Enakshi was going to do. She smiled at Tintin who was laughing with Nirupama.


I had thirteen missed calls from Trudy, and I had ignored all of them on purpose. My phone tumbled down from the couch as I pointed the remote control to my over-used television. I had canceled work today and had glued myself to the same spot on my couch. There was no one, not even Trudy, that would get me off. It was only minutes later though when she came barging in through my front door. “I told you those keys were for emergencies only.” I glared as she stood above me, raising her eyebrows disapprovingly. “This *is* an emergency, Layla.” She reached inside her backpack and pulled out a blue and pink box. I knew what it was right away. “I told you, I don’t need to take one.” I pushed her hand away as she handed me the tests and glanced over behind her at the TV. I regretted telling Trudy about my missed period and now it was the only thing she could talk about. This was the second time she brought me a pregnancy test and the second time I would deny it. Things were so great with Ed, and I wasn’t about to let anything ruin that. “You’re in denial.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “You can’t ignore this forever. Even Ed will start to notice.” “Ed won’t notice anything because there is nothing to notice.” I snapped at her. “He would be so mad if he knew what you were implying.” Ed never wanted to have children, and frankly, neither did I. This was definitely not happening to us. “Layla,” Trudy sat on the coffee table in front of me and reached over to grab my hand. “Do it for me. So I can breathe again.” I sighed heavily and rolled my eyes at her. I couldn’t believe she was making me do this. I glanced at her other hand holding the box. Its colors vibrated angrily at me and demanded my attention. I swallowed a stubborn lump in my throat and sighed again. I knew it wasn’t possible, but somehow my body was rattling with nerves. Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the cold bathroom floor next to Trudy. I could see the surface of the bathroom counter with a short peed-on stick. This whole week I had disconnected myself from any emotion and suddenly I could feel them rushing back in. Slowly, my heart began to speed up and I could feel sweaty drops at the palms of my hands. I wondered what my mother would say. I leaned my head back on the wall and closed my eyes. I could see her face, her long dark hair, and her kind eyes. I always saw her in red, probably because it was her favorite color and it was most of her wardrobe. She would say she loved the intensity of it, and that it was the only color that spoke to her in a language she could understand. A part of me likes to think she looks over me from above, or wherever she is. And if so, I pray she isn’t looking now. I opened my eyes to find Trudy standing over the counter. I could see her face in the reflection of the mirror as she stared down at the stick with wide eyes. “Oh no, Layla.” She whispered.  \  When Ed got home from work that day, Trudy had left and I was sitting on our dining table, staring blankly at the walls. The table sat right in between our couch and kitchen. We had chosen a tiny apartment in the basement of a neighbourhood house, mainly because it was just going to be the two of us and we didn’t need more space than that. The walls were short and the floor creaked with every step. I loved how cozy it was, and it never felt crowded with just Ed. Just Ed and me. No one else. “How was your day?” He said as he kissed my forehead and sat on the chair next to me. He immediately frowned at was probably a terrified expression on my face. I had no idea how this was going to go. I reached for my pocket and pulled out the pregnancy test. He watched my hand in confusion as I placed it on the table in front of him. We both sat there for a while, him staring at the stick and me staring at him. I waited for a reaction for what felt like years. I could just picture my mother behind him, tapping her foot expectantly. She had always been so impatient. She would have probably smacked him in the head by now, desperately demanding him to say something. “I know it’s crazy.” I broke the silence. “I didn’t even think it could be possible. Trudy just forced me to take one just in case. And when I saw that it was positive, I just –”. I stopped myself mid-sentence as he suddenly stood up from the table. I felt like it had been a long time since he had looked at me. He turned around and walked towards the door. I immediately stood up. I could hear my heart as it threatened to rip out of my ribs. “What are you doing?” My voice bounced off the walls as it came out much louder than I had expected. But the walls heard no response. Without even turning around, Ed reached for the door and quickly shut it closed behind him. I stood still. I could feel wet tears slowly trickle down my cheeks and my mother’s fingers gently brushing them away. She would tell me to breathe because answers only come when I let them in. I bit my shaking lip and closed my eyes. I imagined my young self with her in red vibrant dresses as we danced in our empty house. Her long hair swaying from side to side and her radiant smile that amplified our walls. I breathed in one more time, hoping it would be enough for any type of answer to reveal itself. But nothing came and my heart began to sting in pain. Although my body was not alone anymore, I somehow felt emptier than ever.


“Quiet down!” I yelled at my oldest daughter Anne, who is nine, as we got into the car.

“But Tommy won’t leave me alone.” She whined as her six year old brother poked her.

“Tommy, leave Anne alone. Anne quit whining.” I tell both of them and turn the music up as I pull out of the driveway.

The last Sunday of every month, we have a family tradition. We always go to our local grocery store, get the groceries that we need, and then go get ice cream from the ice cream shop down the street. We eat the ice cream in the car and when we get home, we make chicken and baked potatoes and eat it while watching a movie.

Michael, my desisted husband, was teaching my oldest boy, Jake, who is sixteen now, to make the chicken before he passed away. Jake still makes the chicken every Sunday though in memory of Michael.

We pull up to the store and head inside. I grab a shopping cart and turn it around so Jake can put Tommy in it but Jake wasn’t there. I look outside and see him running towards the store.

“Sorry.” He said when he gets inside.”I was texting my girlfriend.”

“It's okay.” I tell him as he sets Tommy in the cart.” I was just a little startled.”

“Oh and speaking of my girlfriend, can her and her family come so you can all meet each other?” He asked. They had been dating for two weeks now but only Anne and Tommy have met her because of busy schedules.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun, just make sure we have enough food, okay.” I tell him.

“Okay, thanks.” He said and grabbed the cart from me.

We finished all our shopping and headed to the ice cream shop. We went inside and we all got our normal orders. Tommy got twist ice cream in a cone, Anne got twist ice cream with gummy bears in a cup, Jake got an M&M blast and I got a cookie dough blast.

I paid for the ice cream and drove home. I pulled into the driveway around three oclock and we started unloading the groceries. When four oclock finally rolled around, Jake grabbed what he needed and started cooking. Most of the time it only took about an hour but with more food to cook this time, it took about an hour and a half.

Jake had finished cooking dinner and was in the shower when the doorbell rang. I got off the couch, set my book on the coffee table and went to answer the door but Tommy beat me to it.

“Hi Lizzy!” Tommy said excitedly.

“Hi Tommy.” Lizzy, who I assume is Jake's girlfriend, said.

I walked to the door and shooed Tommy off before greeting her.

“Hi, I’m Amber, Jake's mom, you must be Jake's girlfriend.” I said and shook her hand.

“Yes, it's so nice to meet you finally. I wanted to come the past few weeks but we have just been super busy.” she tells me.

“No worry.” I tell her and look around,”Where are your parents? I thought they were coming?”

“They are. They had to go get gas but will be here in a few minutes.”She explained.

“Oh, no problem. How about you come inside. Jake is in the shower but should be out in a few minutes.” I tell her and lead her into the living room.

“You have a beautiful home.” she told me and looked at the photos on the wall,” I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Jake talks very highly of him.”

“Thank you.” I tell her and sit down on the couch right as Tommy comes running in.

“Lizzy! Lizzy!” He said, jumping in excitement,”Come see my room.”

“Lizzy looked at me and asked,”Is it okay if I go?”

“Yeah, go right ahead.” I told her and Tommy grabbed her hand and led her down the hallway to his bedroom. I grabbed my book and was about to start reading when the doorbell went off again. I set my book back down and opened the door to see.

“Henry?” I asked,” Is that you?”

“Oh my gosh. Amber? Long time, no see.” He says.

When I was in eighth grade, Henry moved to this town and we became friends fairly quickly. We were friends until freshman year when we started dating. We dated all the way until we were juniors when we decided we were better as friends and broke up. We stayed friends until the end of college when we both went our separate directions and lost contact.

“Yeah, I guess it really has been a long time.” I tell him,” Around seventeen years now.”

“Cool but how do you two know each other?” the women beside him asked.

“Sorry honey.” He apologized,” Amber this is my wife Kelly. Kelly, this is one of my high school friends, Amber.”

“It's very nice to meet you.” I tell her.

“And you. You don’t even know how excited Lizzy has been to meet you. She hasn’t stopped talking about it.” Kelly tells me.

“Well, come in.” I tell them and lead them to the living room

“Is that chicken?” Henry asked,” Because if it is, it smells amazing.”

“Yes. It was Micheals family chicken that we make the last Sunday of every month.” I tell him.

“Oh, where is Micheal by the way?”

“He passed away in a car accident last year.” I tell them, "And then we moved back here. I wanted to reconnect to old friends and live closer to my family.”

“I’m so sorry. He was a good man.” Henry says.

“That he was.” I say and wipe the tears from my eyes.” Now, enough with the sad talk. Let's eat chicken and watch movies.”

I sent Anne to go get everyone and then started filling my own plate. Once everyone's plates were filled, we sat down and watched “The Croods”. By time the movie was done, Tommy was out like a light and Anne was close to passing out.

I put them to bed and sat back down in the living room.

We all talked and caught up until ten o'clock, when Henry and Kelly decided it was time to go home.

“Well, it was great meeting you.” I tell Lizzy.

“You too.” she said and Jake walked her to her car.

“It was also great meeting you and seeing you again.” I tell Kelly and Henry.

“We have to do this again.” Kelly suggested.

“Yes, we do.” Henry agreed,” How about the second Sunday of this month, you come to our house for dinner and a movie?”

“That sounds amazing. See you then.” I tell them.

And that is how we began a new tradition.

Six years later, after Jake and Lizzy finished college and got married, Anne started high school, and Tommy had started middle school, we still met for dinner on the second and last Sundays of every month and now, Lizzy and Jake will be bringing a new member to our tradition. A baby boy.


THE DATE

Against my better judgment, I accepted the offer of a date from a guy called Shane. I simply did not want to go.

I’d known him since I was six and he was eight. Our mothers were best friends, our parents socialized. Well, as much as my parents did so with other couples. They both worked very hard, and of an evening it was all they could manage to come home, have dinner, and collapse onto the sofa or into a recliner and watch a cop show flit by on the television.

I went through school with Shane, and witnessed him go from a nerdy kid who liked comic books, to a borderline scary redneck who had a rifle rack in his jacked up pick up truck. He dated girls with big hair and even bigger mouths, the kind who smoked in the high school’s basement bathroom and called me a dweeb out of the corners of their frosty lipsticked mouths.

“Why does he want to go out with me?” I asked my mom. I had a feeling, deep down, that it wasn’t going to go well.

“I don’t know, but he does, so just go.” She was annoyed with me, so I agreed, not wanting to mar her relationship with her best friend. I wanted his mom to still like me, too, because she was a nice lady who acted like I was someone special.

Shane and I talked on the phone briefly before the big night. “Do I dress up or is this casual?” I asked.

“Casual, wear whatever you want,” he assured me. I took him at his word, wearing my favorite green shirt, jeans, and a pair of Van’s. He, of course, comes to the door dressed like he’s going to the opera. He told me I didn’t have time to change. I somehow got into his gigantic truck without the use of mountain climbing equipment or a Sherpa guide, and we set off for the closest “big city,” Fort Wayne.

“Here,” he said, turning on the radio and pushing the scan button over and over, each station emitting a brief blip before he moved on again, “let me find something you like. Orchestra music, right?” “Huh?” I managed, confused.

“Classical music,” he answered. “I figured that’s what you like.” Why would he think that? “No, put it on 92.3, that’s the alternative station. They play the good stuff. Classical music makes me sleepy.” He did as I requested, and made it halfway through a Smashing Pumpkins song before he turned the radio off completely. “I like country,” he muttered.

I never realized how far the 35 miles between my house and Fort Wayne could be until that night, riding in a vehicle with another person that kept yawning, who then only spoke to apologize for doing so. I tried chatting about TV. He doesn’t watch much. Books? No time to read. The only sport he liked was racing, which to me only rivals golf on the boredom spectrum. Soon I was out-yawning him 3 to 1.

We exited I-69 and swooped into the middle of a three-laned, gasoline-scented, white-knuckled hell ride, also known as the Summit City on a Saturday night. He swerved clear over to the right and flipped on the blinker because the seafood joint he was taking me to was basically under the very bridge we just crossed. I rubbed my poor stomach with trepidation. A restaurant. Under a bridge.

Getting out of the truck was even scarier than getting in, and I jumped, at first fearing a broken ankle, then realizing it might instead be a good excuse to go home. With nothing fractured, we walked into the place, and everyone inside craned their necks to see how dressed up I wasn’t. I made my way past the other diners and saw lobsters, dismembered and scraped hollow on their plates, and appealed to the gastronomical gods that there might be a cheeseburger somewhere on the menu.

No such luck. I ordered fettuccine alfredo and he ordered, what else, lobster.

“Why didn’t you order lobster?” he asked, on the verge of offense.

“I’m not really into seafood.” He laughed derisively. “You coulda told me that-“ “You didn’t tell me where we were going.” After a long silence I decided to display my casual knowledge of forensics. “You know, if a corpse is dumped in the ocean, lobsters will attach themselves to it and strip it of all soft tissue in a matter of hours.” The woman behind me must’ve been eavesdropping as I then heard a muffled, “Oh my God,” and a clank as her fork hit her plate. I allowed myself a twinge of guilt, but realized listening in is rude, and I felt like I was fighting for my life here amongst the overdressed boomers and red gingham tablecloths.

“Yeah, that’s gross,” he said as he wiped his brow and looked around the room.

I stared at him for a moment and realized he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He had glossy black hair, and a nice complexion. His eyes weren’t quite right though. Almost everyone goes crazy over blue eyes, but his were an eerie, pale shade, and stopped just this side of crazed.

Our orders arrived, and much to my disgust, they had inserted shrimp into my supposedly seafood-free meal. “Sea bugs,” I whispered as I worked to remove them from the pasta and cheese.

“What’d you say?” he asked between ear-splitting shell cracks.

“Sea bugs,” I repeated. “You know when you step on a big icky bug and goop comes out? This,” I said, stabbing a shrimp with my fork and holding it aloft, “looks like that goop.” “Oh, that’s it,” the woman behind me said. She got up to leave, swung her giant Vera Bradley bag onto her shoulder, and gave me a dirty look as she departed.

We were done soon as well, and I asked, “What’s next?” “I’ve got to find a way to salvage the evening,” he said under his breath as I tried to hoist myself up in his truck for the second time, only making it halfway on the first attempt, hanging there like Hans Gruber for a few moments. Another attempt and I was in the seat next to my companion for the evening, who had resumed his bad habit of yawning.

We hung a right onto Washington Center and wended our way down to one of the seediest places in the city, and that’s saying something. It was an Off Track Betting Center, housed in what was once a cafeteria-style restaurant. The lot was littered with bottles, smashed cigarette packs, and old cars, some held together with duct tape, Bondo, or both.

If the outside was bad, the inside was worse. It was sparsely furnished with a few sets of long tables and chairs, the walls were painted a dismal mauve, and somehow the stench of poorly prepared food still hung in the dank air. Maybe enough of it had spilled onto the hideous blue and green swirl patterned carpet. There was a counter where bets were placed, and a bank of televisions on the opposite wall, showing races and sporting events of every kind on dusty screens.

Shane went up to bet on something. To this day I’m not sure what. I didn’t ask. He came back with a couple of watered down sodas. I sipped mine, watched the other occupants of the hall, and heard him bitch about losing a lot of money for a good solid hour.

The only people having any luck at all were a group of Amish. There were four couples and their driver, a droopy little man with messy white hair, huge aviator glasses, dressed head to toe in blue fleece.

The Amish men would go up, bet, win, and apply their new loot to rolls of money as big as Christmas oranges. They then would return to their wives, who offered encouragement or even advice to their husbands, and the cycle would start all over again. While the men were away, one of the wives noticed me staring. I waved, and then they all waved back. They were lovely, cool and calm, their dresses in crisp shades of mint, periwinkle, coral, and shell pink. Something clean for my eyes to rest on in such a grubby setting.

After yet another loss of funds, my escort proclaimed that we were leaving. Walking out into the pitch black night, in that neighborhood, I wondered what he would do if we were suddenly beset by ne’er do wells. I sized him up as he strode angrily to his truck and figured I was probably on my own, which was not a pleasant feeling.

I scaled back into the truck, realizing I was actually getting better at it by now, closed the door, and waited for the right moment to say something. He turned on the heater full blast so I practically had to shout, “Now I get to pick something to do.” He frowned at me and asked, “Like what?” “It’s a big city. Drive around. I’ll know it when I see it.” We drove up Coliseum, and turned into the mall. No, I said, not it. Drove around by the cheapo movie theater. Definitely no. But there, across a rough, overlooked parking lot just across from Target, was a little white house with purple neon sign in the front window - PALM READER.

“That’s it! Stop!” We inched across the lot, which was more pothole than pavement, and parked right in front. Still open, no wait, my luck was about to change.

We walked in, and it was a home, the front door opening directly on the living room, which doubled as the waiting area. A disinterested teenage girl went to get her mom, who then beckoned us into her dining room. The violet hue of the sign permeated both spaces, lending an air of mystery to an otherwise very domestic scene.

She had me sit at the head of the table and Shane to my right. She sat on my left, and took my left hand in both of hers. She leaned down, studying each line carefully, as I examined the hutch across from me, filled not with plates, but statues of the Virgin Mary and several tall candles of varying colors. Some were lit, some were not, and the wavering flames began to lull me into a sort of hypnotic state. I tore my eyes away to study the palmist herself; petite, mid fifties, her hair dyed black, with grays just beginning to peep through at the part.

“Ok,” she began, patting my hand as a signal that I could withdraw it. “You recently lost your father. Right?” I could only nod. “He says you were with him at the end. What you said helped him cross, and he’s very grateful.” True, all true. I sat there with my mouth hanging open, still unable to speak.

“He wants to remind you of the promise you made to him. This one,” she warned, pointing at my date, “can’t help you with it.” Her eyes went from him to me. “You will get married, but not to each other. You,” again directing her attention back to Shane, “will marry twice. You, honey, will only marry once, but it will be for life.” For life? Almost sounded like a prison sentence.

“You’re a writer, and I see you surrounded by the things you’ve written. Write every day, it brings you joy.” Joy, great, I thought. I need it to bring me money.

She stopped abruptly and I knew the reading was over because she then extended her own palm. I paid her the $20 fee and we walked out into the cold night air. I realized I was shaking and sweating.

On our way home, between yawns, Shane remarked on her accuracy. “How’d she know that about your dad? And why’d she say that to me, about getting married twice? She never even looked at my hand.” “The palm reading is a cover,” I reasoned. “She’s really some sort of mind reader, that’s all I can figure.” “What’d you promise your dad, if you don’t mind me asking?” “Uh, you know, you’ll promise anything to someone when they’re sick. To make them happy, keep them calm.” “What was it?” he insisted.

I was suddenly very embarrassed, and hesitant to share, but I figured he wouldn’t let it go. I sighed, and spit it out. “I promised him that I would get married and find a guy to take care of me, so he wouldn’t have to worry about once he was gone.” “Sounds like he is worried.” “I hope not, because it’s certainly not going to be easy,” I said, almost to myself.

“Well, from what I’ve seen tonight, it’s probably going to be impossible,” he grumbled.

I felt completely defeated. All I tried to do was make everyone happy by going on this ill-considered date, and then when it went pear shaped, I resolved to rescue the evening by adding a little lighthearted fun to the entire ordeal. I expected the palm reader to be an old fraud, and make wildly amusing and horribly inaccurate predictions about us both. What she did instead was draw the curtain back on a painful memory, and open it up to commentary from someone whose opinion I didn’t care about one iota. There was nothing of that nerdy, nice kid left in him.

Now he would tell his mother he had a rotten time, his mother would tell my mom, and in turn she would be disappointed in me for being such a social nightmare.

I needn’t have drawn such a gloomy portrait of things to come. I’d underestimated Shane’s willingness and ability to fib, and his reluctance to disappoint people he actually cared about. He eventually told both his mother and mine that he had a “glorious” time.

I’ll always remember it as miserable.


There’s a girl looking at me. Her eyes stare into mine. She looks like she doesn’t really live or lives somewhere out of this world. I want to know who she is, what she feels, what she thinks, but she’s inscrutable. In her eyes are oceans so deep you can’t see what lays at the ground and the surface of the water is frozen, cold and hard under a pale moon. Who is she? Who is she supposed to be? Suddenly the sun is rising. Its rays fill the landscape. The kind of sun rays that comfort everyone. The ice changes. Flowers start to cover it. Little flowers. Cute flowers. The kind of flowers that make everyone happy. Funny creatures start to jump around. The kind of creatures that make everyone I wonder how this happened. “How did you do this?”, I ask. She looks at me. “I don’t know how I can do it. I just can.” The sun goes down. Impenetrable darkness. “Light it up again”, I beg her. With the upcoming moon I can feel a shiver. I can see the ocean again. With frozen surface. Nothing has changed. Not the smallest amount of melting. “Why are all the flowers gone?” I ask her. “Have you ever seen a flower surviving on ice? Have you ever seen creatures survive without a home? Have you ever seen the sun melting ice hidden under the earth?” She wants to walk away. She doesn’t want me to look in her eyes. But I want her to stay. Because I want to see the sun rising. I want to see the flowers and funny creatures again. She makes it happen. For me. Or not for me? “Can you keep the sun up?”, I want to know. “Yes, but not forever. I need the moon to rise now and then to keep balance.” “Why? What would happen if you just kept it down?” If she has the power to make the beautiful landscape and also to remove it, why can’t she just leave it sunny and stop bringing up the darkness? She looks in my eyes. “If I would imprison the moon it would only become stronger. Stronger. Stronger. It would break out. Fill the beauty with coldness. Kill the sun. Kill the flowers. Kill the creatures. Kill the ocean. One day it will. One day it will kill. One day it will kill all. One day it will kill all and overwhelm it for good.” I am scared. She scares me. But I want to help her. Even if she scares me. “What can I do against it?” I ask. There is this girl looking at me. Her eyes stare into mine. My eyes stare into hers. I can hear her breathing. I can see her moving. I can smell her scent. But when I touch her, it is not her who I touch. What can I do against it? I wait. She waits. Then she whispers. “Break the ice.


Mother was ill again. Mother was always ill. Lying in her bed, her face pale, her black hair spread across the pillow like seaweed floating on the ocean. She would be fine by tomorrow. It had been this way for years since I was 15 years old. This was what my life was. An endless cycle. One week she would be fine. Shouting at me, screaming, barking her orders, crying and emotional. The next she would take to her bed. Lying there so still, not making a sound, barely breathing. I would brush her long hair across the pillow till it shone like silk. Paint her lips crimson and rouge her pale cheeks. Mother always liked to look good, no matter what. I never called the Dr when she got ill. Mother did not trust them, and she never had. She blamed them for killing my father all those years ago. She told him not to see Dr Green. To take his poison pills as she called them. Things were never the same after my dad’s heart gave out. The heart of the family just stopped beating; we all died that day. Before that we were a real family, the kind you see in a magazine, smiling and happy. We took vacations, we played games and I went to school. All the dreams we had, my future and potential I had perished with him. Mother spiralled into depression after that. She drank. She stopped going out, eating even cleaning the house. Stopped caring about me, about anything. She still always had her crimson lipstick on. I think mother has died. She is no longer breathing, her chest still, and the gurgling noise had stopped. I wrap her in the bedsheet nice and tight and hoist her limp body over my wide shoulder. I carry her to the back garden that was once her pride and joy. Placing her gently into the waiting black, gaping hole. Dark night surrounded me as I gently shovelled the earth over her still form and lay her to rest. Finally, at peace and with my father again. I say a quiet prayer for her soul and go inside. I have a busy night ahead of me. I carefully packed the waiting backpack with duct tape, a knife and mothers crimson lipstick. Slinging it onto my back I head towards the front door. On route, I pass the pinboard hung on the wall in the hall. It is full of photos and newspaper clippings featuring pictures of my mother. Her pales skin, dark hair and big eyes looking back at me from every photo. For some reason, the newspapers never seemed to get her right. Calling her Mellissa or Mara. Mothers name was Emma. The headlines all announced she was missing or kidnapped. She was never missing; she was always here, with me and I was taking care of her. I lock the front door as I leave and walk towards my panel van. Being careful to not step any of the six graves of my mother as I cross the manicured garden.


21/05/087 Dear Diary It’s finally happened. My own personal Fate has graced me with her presence. She’s currently 5 metres away, looking like that classic humanoid haze everyone describes. I can’t actually tell if she’s a woman or not, I suppose fate doesn’t really have a gender, but I figure it makes the whole thing a little less terrifying if I can just pretend she’s one of the girls.

Maybe I’ll name her, something non-threatening like Alice or Lilly. I’ll have to think about it. Obviously, the first thing I did when she appeared was call Sarah and being the one person in this world who truly knows me, the first words out of her mouth were, “You can’t dress it up.” Which of course I knew. I had already flung many hats at the hazy part I assumed was the head a good number of times, before realising they were just floating through her. Sarah had been touched by her own fate 6 months ago, during a one night stand with some random guy she met after a night out. Right as the man found his release. She said it was the worst end to sex she had ever had in her life. It was clear what that touch meant and now six months later she’s waddling about with her swollen belly, making me wait on her hand and foot. I was surprised she kept it, having always insisted she wasn’t going to have a baby for at least another ten years, but after some (probably too intrusive) probing, she revealed that when her Fate touched her, it turned into what she could tell was her future child. She couldn’t terminate after that. I suppose that’s the thing about Fate. Everyone's is different. Sometimes they’re with the person for only a week. Sometimes it can be a year. But the outcome is always the same. Fate starts a good distance away and as you get closer to the event that will change your life, Fate gets closer too. And finally when the event happens, Fate touches you on the shoulder and the hazy figure turns into someone relevant to the event. The event itself can be anything. Good, bad, pregnancy, death, a particularly embarrassing case of diarrhoea. Anything that will forever change your life. In most cases Fate only comes once, but for some people they can come multiple times. I suppose it depends on how exciting of life you lead. God I hope I have an incredibly dull life. Anyway, time to sleep. If I even can with the annoying haze in the corner. I wonder if she’ll be closer in the morning… 22/05/087 Dear Diary, She’s not any closer. Looks like I’m in this for the long hull. Today Sarah forced me to the doctor’s. I didn’t want to, but she went on a whole passionate speech about how I’m her best friend with my best interests at heart and that we should check if the Fate is anything that can be helped. Honestly I said yes just to get her to stop talking. The doctors checked everything. If I’m pregnant, if I’m dying, anything that might indicate what my Fate could be. I suppose it could be useful to know if your unfortunate Fate is dying early. Fortunately, I am in perfect health and I have no spawn growing inside of me, which is an immense relief. I am more than happy to just be the fun aunt of Sarah’s kid for the near future. Like most Saturdays we spent the day together, which consisted of me making fun of her waddling and her using such creative language to fight back, I was half tempted to somehow cover her stomach so the growing baby couldn’t hear its mother’s colourful language. Sarah says I’m the most obvious Fate carrier there ever was. Even as we talked I’m apparently just staring at it. At one point to amuse myself I even asked it what type of coffee it wanted. I would have carried on if Sarah hadn’t stopped me, saying I look insane. Which is probably true considering I'm the only one who can see my hazy, distant friend. It also didn’t help when I told Sarah I decided I’m naming her Hazel, because of the haziness. She proceeded to remind me that I am the dumbest person she knows which I, in turn, reminded her that she is the most suck up person I know. Honestly I love her so much. 22/07/087 Dear Diary, Two months. Officially two months of freaking Hazel and her freaking hazy nothingness following me around everywhere. She’s about 2 metres away now and I actually cannot stand this. How. How on earth do others do this?! The fact I have no indication as to what the hell it might be is driving me insane. How did Sarah do this?… Sarah. I’m starting to worry it might be something to do with the baby. It’s the only obvious event that’s going on in my life. If it is, maybe I’ll just love the baby so much that will be the event. Maybe. Because god knows what I would do if anything happened to her or the baby. I don’t know. I don’t know what I would do. 29/07/087 They signed me off work today. I’m not sure what happened, but one moment I was at my desk and the next I was hurling a stapler at Hazel. I thought she was smirking at me. She doesn't have a face but I’m sure she was. Still is. Because she knows. She FUCKING KNOWS what my Fate is and she’s a smug son of a bitch about it. Sarah forced me to see her therapist. I would have said no but it’s pretty impossible to do that to your heavily pregnant best friend. It didn’t help. The therapist was nice enough I suppose, but telling me that Fate related panic is normal has not stopped my Fate related panic. I couldn’t tell her about my fears for Sarah and the baby, I wouldn’t even tell her how close Hazel is. Because what if saying those things out loud gives Hazel ideas? What if she’s planning horrific things right now. I know that if I tell anyone that they’ll call me crazy. That the Fate is more of a messenger than a catalyst, but what if they’re wrong?! What if she’s reading this diary right now… getting ideas. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing in this. 04/08/087 Dear Diary, Sarah gave birth today. She gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl I have ever seen. Both of them are healthy and doing well and I can’t believe I’m an aunt. Sarah named her Amelia Emily Mason, the Emily part obviously after me. Although I am so happy for them, I do feel like a complete fool. During the whole birth I couldn’t stop looking at Hazel, terrified of her lifting her arm to touch me. But she never did. She’s still a metre away anyway. Because it was a no complications birth Sarah was discharged that evening and I drove her home. I’m staying with her for a bit whilst she finds her feet, because even though she’s a single mum, I’m determined she will never be alone. Anyway, I’ve got to go and hide. By the sound of Sarah’s moaning in the other room, Amelia’s done a particularly stinky one and I am definitely not equipped to deal with that. God I love being the aunt. 01/09/087 Dear Diary, It’s any day now. Hazel is right by my side just being her usual ominous self. However the closeness does mean I can pretend to chop off her head whenever I feel like it (apart from at work, best not to get signed off again). It is pretty fun watching my hand glide through her hazy neck. Despite how close she is, I’m finding it easier to cope now I know Fate has nothing to do with the birth and (even though I will never admit it to her face) Sarah was right about the therapy. I finally opened up about everything, all my fears relating to Hazel, the horror of what my Fate could be and she had me realising that there is no reason my Fate has to be a bad one. It could be good or equally, something in between. Not all change has to be good or bad. Sometimes it is just different. Or… Maybe a modelling agent will see me walking down the street and make me into a superstar. Either way I wish the bitch would hurry up and touch my shoulder because the waiting is actually getting ridiculous now. 03/09/087 I don’t understand. Why didn’t she touch me? Why is she still here? Was this not life changing enough? Was this NOT ENOUGH? WHY IS SHE STILL HERE WHEN MY BEST FRIEND IS DEAD?! why why I don’t understand It was just a walk. We’ve walked that road a million times. We’ve crossed that road a million times. The light said we could go, we did nothing wrong, she did nothing wrong. She pushed the pram away right before the car broke my best friend. There was so much blood. I don’t even know where she was bleeding from. Her face. Her face. She had no face left. Sarah’s face was gone and Fate still didn’t deem that life changing enough to touch me. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT HAZEL?! HOW MUCH MORE CAN MY LIFE BE RUINED BEFORE YOU DEEM IT LIFE CHANGING ENOUGH?!” I HATE YOU! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?!

IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATYOU 05/08/087 Dear Diary, I had a visitor today. I was already holding Amelia when I opened the door. I think I’m scared to put her down. It was the executor of Sarah’s will. Her very, very, simple will. Everything is to go to me, except for a portion of savings which will go to Amelia when she turns eighteen. And Amelia… If I want to.. If I feel ready to… Sarah has named me her legal guardian. And that was when I felt a familiar, comforting hand on my shoulder. There was Sarah, smiling at me, trusting me to do the right thing. I could never say no to her.


We fill our minds with fear then get surprised when our hearts get broken, our bodies get beaten and our souls gets bruised. Where am I? I got out of my car, parked on the side of a random street. It was almost 4am and I could barely stand up straight let alone drive. Jesus, I hope I have some clothes in the back. Despite how drunk I was, I could vividly remember how I ended up here with vomit on my dress. I don't know what got over me, I don't know what drove me to say what I said to her. I didn't mean it. I swear I didn't mean it. I found a hoodie and a pair of jeans in my trunk. I stripped off my dress and put on clean clothes. God, the look in her eyes. I had to go back. I left them. How could I leave them? I got back in my car, praying the cops wouldn't stop me. It wasn't that far, just a few blocks away. As I drove back, I thought of what I would say. Could I apologise? I saw Leila walking down the street with Thomas and Celia. Thomas must've offered to walk them back to our student residence. "Hey!" they turned their heads towards me, Celia and Thomas waved me over, glad to see me. Probably relieved that they wouldn't have to walk back in the dark. Leila continued walking forward, whispering something to them under her breath. I made a u-turn at the next traffic stop and followed after them. "Guys, please, come in." with my window rolled down, I leaned over to talk to them. Leila wouldn't look at me. This was going to be hard. They walked towards the gas station, perhaps they were calling for an Uber? I drove past them into the gas station and parked my car, getting out. "Leila, please, just get in the car." "Oh now you've had a change of heart, when you left us! You left us Vera!" She was screaming at the top of her lungs, causing all the other night crawlers at the station to stop and watch our encounter. We were arguing in front of people again. There's only so much I can take. The thought that all these strangers would have this idea of me as a volatile person is unbearable. Because the person I was a few minutes ago is nothing like who I am. I care about what people think. "I'm sorry." Celia walked up to me, giving me a hug while Thomas got into the passenger seat. Leila stood at the curb, watching the other two get in the car. She shook her head and turned, walking away. "Leila. Come on, it's too late for this." Thomas grumbled tilting his head back against the car seat. "We can talk about everything tomorrow." Celia urged with her sweet voice. Nothing worked, Leila continued walking away. I ran after her, calling her name, apologising. She continued to ignore me. "Leila, get in the fucking car!" the sound of my own voice surprised me, scared me even. It was another version of myself that I didn't recognise. It felt as if everyone around me was startled, as if my voice echoed through the entire city. Whatever happened, however I managed to channel so much rage into one moment. Well, two moments actually. It worked. She stopped, turned around and it was like she was looking at me for the first time. In that moment, I was no longer the friend she could take advantage of. I was no longer the girl who said yes, who pleased, who'd take away from myself just to give to others. Maybe that was the reason for the fight earlier. Perhaps I'd pent up all this anger, all this subconscious frustration as a result of Leila's unending demands. "Vera, give me a ride to the mall." "Vera, let's go to your place." "Vera, give my boyfriend a ride home." "Vera, don't bite your nails." "Don't eat that." "You know you can't make it." "I doubt you could do it." "Come here." "Go there." "Do this." I'd kept quiet, and justified it all up to it being her way of loving me. I'd once told her she'd reminded me of my mother. In the way she spoke about things, the way she connected with me. Naturally, that sort of thing would keep me away from her. I tended to steer clear of anything or anyone that reminded me of home. But her mother was like mine. Hurtful, spiteful and unkind. Perhaps that's why she was drawn to me. I reminded her of her own mother in some strange, unforeseeable way. Are we all just projections of our parents? Of their mindsets, their beliefs? 'Doomed is the child that's birthed into a broken home.' I pray for my sake and others, that it's not true. "I'll never talk to you again." Leila finally walked past me towards my car and got into the back seat with Celia. I was just relieved that she got in the car so I could take them all home safely. Even though I was the reason they would be at risk, walking this late at night in this part of town. We drove in silence. The usual joy and excitement that often accompanied our car trips were a memory now. I knew that once we got back to our college residence, our friendship would be over. I knew we would never all hang out like this again. I was right. Thomas and Celia would greet me as I passed them by at school or in class. Leila wouldn't say a word. I started hanging out with another group of friends from my drama class. Stoners, kind of hippy like. It was great, so different to when I'd hang out with Leila and the others. Instead of drinking, we'd smoke weed and reflect a lot on our childhood, our past. Talk of our dreams, debate wild conspiracy theories. I'm writing this down now because I've learnt the power in facing my shame. Maybe by writing it down, I can begin to move on from it, I can begin to heal. Perhaps, even forgive myself. Years have past, yet, I remember everything about that night. We got tickets to that event weeks in advance. We looked forward to it so much, we even went shopping together for outfits. We got ready in my room for hours, styling each others hair, doing each others makeup. Leila helped me with my eyeliner, she told me I had beautiful eyes. The party was packed with high rollers. I remember the sounds of engines revving from the hood of their luxury shells. Lamboghini's, Porches, Aston Martins, you name it, it was being driven by some flashy man who got an ego boost out of showing off. Off course, I couldn't participate with my entry level VW polo. But we stood and watched and inhaled the fumes. Dreaming of the day when we would be the girls climbing out of the vehicles with their future bankrupt boyfriends. I drank a lot that night, mostly because one of those flashy men, who probably had his car on a lease, took an interest in me. Offered me and my girls a table in VIP and bought us drinks. I remember how he took me outside, said he wanted to talk. He did more than talk. I just wanted to go home you know? That's it. But when I got to my car, I was too drunk to even put the key in the ignition. My friends where still partying so I took a nap. Woke up a little while later to open the driver door and throw up in the parking basement and went back to sleep. When I woke up, Leila was standing by the passenger door. "Vera, get up. I'll drive." "No, I just want to go home. Let's go." "Jesus Christ, she's so drunk." Leila was talking to someone else, possibly Celia. "We've been looking everywhere for you." "What happened?" "Are you okay?" Too many people talking all at once. I was a little more sober, the sleep had helped. As I sat up, I could feel the ache between my legs. "She always fucking does this! Dissapears without telling anyone. We literally spent hours looking for you!" Leila was shouting, the way my mother always would. For no reason, why couldn't she ever speak reasonably, gently. "Why wouldn't you come to my car first. You know I always come to the car to sleep because you guys never want to go home." I grabbed the keys in my lap, managing to wiggle it into the ignition. "No way, you're not driving. Get out!" "No, I'm fine. I've driven drunk a hundred times. Just get in." "I'm not getting in the car with you." Celia was trying to reason with me. "Vera, just let one of us drive. it's not that big of a deal." "It is when Leila's keeps barking orders at me like I'm her fucking child." "Excuse me?" I started the engine, "Are you getting in or not?" "God, you're so messed up Vera." "And what do you know? You act like you're so put together and happy when you can't even stand up to your own abusive mother. So you push around everyone else just so you can feel in control of something." It didn't even make sense when I said it. But I said it. And it was when she slammed the door that I put the car in reverse and drove away. We fill our minds with fear then get surprised when our hearts get broken, our bodies get beaten and our souls gets bruised. I was afraid of being a horrible person, which is why I tried so hard to make people happy, make them laugh, even a smile would do. I didn't want to hurt anyone like my mother hurt me. I bet Laila felt the same way, she just went about it in her own way. We didn't want to become our mothers. Yet, it was this exact fear that led me on the same path as my mom. To be mean, spiteful and unkind. Maybe I didn't hurt Leila physically, but I broke her heart. It's not really about what I said. In context it didn't really make any sense. It was just the fumbled mutterings of a drunk teenager. But I saw what it did to our friendship. I saw the light die in her eyes. I, more than anyone, knows how she felt. I know how it feels, how much it hurts to be hurt. Through bitter words and physical humiliation. Yet, I still inflicted pain on someone I love. It's been six years now... God, it's been six years? I miss her everyday.


Let me tell you the story of my 17th birthday- a story of how someone once saved my life. As long as I had been alive, I had been running for my life. I lived in a small town; an attractive, tranquil place nestled alongside a lake, the kind of scenic village you may see in a postcard. I would not have minded growing old here, yet I feared greatly that old age was not something I would live to see. As I grew, I had borne witness to much change; people came and went from my life in the endless song we all sang. But only one person had been constant, and that is the one who chased me. I believed that one day, this town would be my resting place. At some moment, I would inevitably collapse, unable to summon the strength within me to keep evading. The hunter kept after me, and I was beginning to tire of chase. The moment of submittance was near, that I could sense. My will was weakening, and my eyes shed tears. This life was not sustainable, that I knew; but it was the only life for me, so I would have ran until my last, dying breath had left, when the cavity of my chest had let in death. For all of my years until this point, as sure as the moon chases the sun each night, my shadow had hunted me. He was the darkness that followed me, and only when the moon shined upon us did he vanish. But night did not bring relief; in darkness he molded unto the world itself, and in this state the harassment was ceaseless. He would enter my mind and whisper words of darkness into my soul, corrupting me and the little light I still held dear. There was no escape, or so I thought- I could not outrun him, I could not hide from him, and I certainly could not outlive him. He was the corruption bound to my soul, and I knew not of how to release him. The new moon was with us on this night; the new moon is from whence darkness thrives more than light. As the sun set, fear grew inside me, consuming me, and feasting on the little hope I had within me. And again, I found myself walking alone after dark, roaming the streets of this place that meaned so much to me. Streetlights flickered solemnly, guiding me to this town's heart. But the light cast my shadow behind me; a reminder of why I walked, and of why I could not stop. Towards this town's center I continued further, dragging heavy legs farther, farther and onwards. Closer I came, and then, among shuttered storefronts and paved sidewalks, I saw many small, flickering flames illuminating the dark. The Candlemaker was a well known, and well loved figure in our town. A jovial old man, the Candlemaker was always happy to see the children of this town come into his store and smell the candles, even if they were not to take any home. The Candlemaker ran the store with his wife; he made and sold candles, while his wife sat in her old, rickety rocking chair and knitted beautiful garments for the poor and needy- a necessity in our cold, cold snowy seasons. The Candlemaker's passion was in crafting light, and it was light he and his wife shared with all the people who visited his store; a smile he said, was much brighter than anything he could make with wax and wick. The amalgamation of dim lights intrigued me on this night- the Candlemaker was not known to run his store after dark, so seeing these lights in the distance was very unusual, nearly cause for fright. As I approached the storefront, I could see that the Candlemaker had dragged that old rocking chair onto the porch before the store. Surrounding him, was what must have been hundreds of lit candles. They were haphazardly strewn around the porch and railing, each casting only a small amount of light; as a whole, however, they shined greatly, illuminating the creases and wrinkles on the Candlemaker's ever aging skin. He was humming a tune that buzzed more and more incessantly in my ears as I grew closer and closer. It was a familiar melody, yet one I could not place. A song I had heard it all my life, but the name remained elusive- it felt as if the stars were singing to me directly; a mysterious tune, yet meant to be lucid. He was watching me, and in this moment, I felt as if he had been waiting for me all this time. "Your eyes carry the weariness of your travels, young Starboy," the Candlemaker spoke. "What is it that saps your strength?" "All my life, I have ran from my shadow. I grow tired, and I fear I will soon lose the will to continue on." The Candlemaker waited a moment to speak, as if captivated by thought. "When," he spoke, "are the times, where the shadow that haunts you is gone?" "In total darkness, my shadow is not behind me, but it becomes all that is." The Candlemaker waited again, as if this time letting me become captivated by thought. "And?" I remained silent, not sure of another answer. He spoke again, "What is a shadow?" "Darkness," I replied. "Yes... your darkness..." the Candlemaker spoke, "and darkness dissolves within light. When does total light eliminate your shadow?" I struggled to answer this at first, but I soon saw where he was trying to lead me. "At noon, when the light is greatest," I spoke, "my shadow is not behind me." "Where then," the Candlemaker spoke again, "does it go?" "Well... I suppose as noon approaches... the shadow grows nearer and nearer to me... so at noon, it must be completely within me." "Yes, yes," the Candlemaker chuckled as he continued to talk, "you see that quite clearly. Now, is it not that at noon, under the most light, you feel most alive?" "I suppose it is," I replied hesitantly. "Well then," he spoke, "you know what must be done. Follow the light, and you will find your peace; you will need not to run any longer." He opened his hand, letting his palm face upwards to the vast expanse of nothingness we call space. And then, from seemingly thin air, materialized a radiant, golden butterfly, casting a great amount of light all around it. And then suddenly, the candles extinguished all at once, and the Candlemaker was gone. But the golden butterfly was not. It took off, flying ever so peacefully in a direction towards the outskirts of town. It drifted ever so softly in the night's breeze, floating lazily along, yet with purpose and direction. I knew I needed to follow this light, and so I did, letting it lead me further and further away from civilization. Into the dark forest we went, with only that butterfly to illuminate our path; onwards we walked, until sunrise was near. It stopped, and here there was the mouth of a cave in front of us. It should have been ominous, yet it was oddly comforting instead. The radiant butterfly continued on again, leading me deeper and deeper into this cave. The air down here was stale, and I could hear the dripping of water from the caves ceiling as I walked further into the unknown. And then we came into an expansive chamber at the bottom, with no way out but the way we had come in. Above where we had come in, a small, angled hole led all the way to the surface; it looked vaguely man-made, yet I was unsure of it's purpose. On the far end of the chamber was a small, still pool of water, and a small flat rock in front of it. The golden butterfly flew to this rock, before exploding in a brilliant golden flash. Darkness came, but not totally; I could now see the purpose of the small hole, as the rising sun began to cast light down it, and it flooded into the chamber. I walked over to the flat rock, and waited for something to happen, staring into the pool of crystal clear water. As the morning sunlight hit my back, it cast my shadow in front of me, into the pool of water. Here, I could see it clearly, for all it was; it was but a reflection of me, staring back the same way I stared at him. I felt love and compassion, a deep, aching sadness for the darkness that engulfed him. In this moment, I understood clearly; that shadow was not only a reflection of me, but it was me, as much me as I was me. Into the pool I waded, and I sat there, staring at the reflection of me staring back. Here, I decided I was done running, and I let my shadow become one with me. We merged, and I felt the pain of a thousand repressed memories become mine; deep sadness, anger, and hate overwhelmed me, and threatened to destroy me. But it could not destroy me, for it was my true being. By accepting my darkness, and allowing it to be a part of me, a part I acknowledge and let be, I found my true self- I had found true peace. Without my darkness, I realized, I was nothing more than a shell of who I was meant to be. That darkness was as much part of me as was the light inside of me. Running from it did no good; all this time, I was only running from myself, and all I had to do was allow my shadow to complete me. The greatest birthday gift I had ever received- the pieces missing from me. I left the cave, and time went on, as it tends to do. I left town, grew old, and married the kindest soul on the earth- someone who had accepted her own shadow as well, and together we were even more complete. But I had an itch calling me back home, so with my wife I went, to the town of so many memories. But when I arrived, I saw that candle store had closed- the Candlemaker and his wife passed away many moons ago, a tragedy indeed. And in that pang of sadness, I knew what would truly complete me. And so I write this from my little candle store I opened in that small town, a place where I can show my light to all who wish to see how bright life can be. The kids fill my store with laughter and love, and I am thankful for the opportunities that have been presented to me. I see the next one now, roaming the dark, empty streets. They call me the Candlemaker, and soon the cycle will repeat.


Right now, someone is walking out of their apartment wondering where their car went. The black Honda held their work clothes along with their school papers isn’t parked on the street where it had been left. The man pulls his phone from his pocket and dials his work, tells them that his car has been stolen, and then he dials the police. That black Honda is a city away, under the roof of a large warehouse where it is being cut into pieces along with unnumberable bits other vehicles. The interior has been stripped. Personal items that are either identifiable or worthless to the new owners have been trashed. The engine has already been removed. The tires, springs and doors are being shopped around for buyers while they are in the process of being stripped from the cars frame. Walking from that warehouse is a man. Counting five hundred dollars in cash, he figures that he can pay for his half of the rent and he will be able to buy his daughter a small gift for her birthday. He doesn’t get to see his daughter as much as he would like, she lives across town, in a nice area. Her mom refused to let her child grow up in the streets that he could afford to live on. On her nice streets, his daughter is walking home from school right now. She’s excited about her test, wanting to put it up on the refrigerator. Proud, she wants to display her latest A to the world. When she gets home she has to celebrate alone though, because her mother is still at her office. At work, her mother, has to get the bosses schedule straight, set up meetings, presentations and lunches to go along with interviews and phone calls. But the hardest part is keeping a smile on her face while he hits on her. The man sits on her desk, smiling, asking if there is anything he could do to make her job more comfortable. Back at the boss’s home his wife, who didn’t wait for her husband to make the first betrayal, was busy in the bedroom with an old flame, a true love that she had never been able to shake. The woman made the decision to marry into money and live comfortably, but she hasn’t been able to stop making the mistake of seeing the man her heart longs for. Her love was a man who had never fit well into anything, her family, a nice school or a steady job. He seemed to get rejected from every aspect of life that he put himself into. Now he was trying to keep hold on an art career, waiting for it to take off. Art was the current love of his life. His fist painting had finally been sold by his agent, a friend of his. It was sold at a much lower price than what his friend had promised. But he had needed to make room in the gallery for items that would actually attract some interest from buyers. The painting had been picked up by the agent’s son, to be delivered to the buyer’s home this evening before his son went to work tonight. That was when his son realized that it wasn’t just his work things that were in his car, and dials the phone number for his father.


France, Near the Front Lines, November 11, 1918 The cognac was deep amber, in a corked bottle with the brand name Martell scribbled in sky blue across its white label. It sat on a roughshod table that looked as if it had been constructed by a buck private with nothing better to do—four uneven cuts of plywood supported by four legs that bowed outward.             Next to the bottle was a worn crystal tumbler, fingerprinted with a crack along its side, and next to that a dove-white silk scarf folded into a neat square, a crimson five-pointed star facing upward.             That was the prize, the German pilot had said in Second Lieutenant John Ruland’s dream. That was what he had earned.             Wear it proudly. You vanquished your enemy.

Der Sieger bekommt die Beute.             He didn’t speak any German, but somehow Ruland knew what that meant: To the victor go the spoils.             “Welcome to the club,” Major O’Leary said in a bright tone to Ruland with a hint of an accent from the old country, before holding his arms high to get the attention of the fellow pilots and assorted officers that had gathered in the drab khaki tent for the ceremony. The sunlight from the entryway created long shadows of men along the walls. The tent itself smelled like the sweet tobacco of Bull Durham cigarettes.             “Attention please,” he went on, looking past Ruland to the gathered crowd. “We are here today to celebrate the induction into a prestigious club a man who has only been in France for two months. In those two months—eight weeks, no less—he has shot down five Hun planes. He is now an ace.”             “Hear, hear,” came a chorus of voices surrounding Ruland.             Hear, hear, added the German-accented voice located deep within the caverns of his mind, which Ruland tried to silence by inconspicuously shaking his head.

Das ist dein Moment..  Ruland knew this to mean: This moment is yours.             But the only German words Ruland knew for sure were curses like

scheisse .             “Now, if I may have the squadron leader approach the table,” Major O’Leary said, which prompted a pilot bearing a striking resemblance to the gallant motion picture actor Douglas Fairbanks to rise and step forward. Around his neck and over the chestnut uniform Ruland, too, wore, was the same silk scarf, the crimson star pointed outward as if to make a point. It complemented his prominent jaw, seizing black eyes that seemed to cut through Ruland’s torso, and equally dark hair combed across his head from left to right. The only thing missing was the fetching actress Mary Pickford on his arm, the fancy of every man Ruland knew.             This man was Captain Charles Baines, the unquestioned commander of the 44 th  Pursuit Squadron of the United States Army Air Service. It had taken Captain Baines just three weeks earlier that year to become an ace and earn promotion to his current rank. Rumor had it that the reason for his success had been the shot of Martell he took before every mission. He now had twenty-two kills, closing in on the Air Service record of twenty-six by Captain Rickenbacker in the 94 th .             Hence, the ceremony, the ritual. The scarf had become something greatly coveted by many, and achieved by few.             Captain Baines spoke.             “Second Lieutenant John Ruland,” he began in an imperious tone, crossing his hands at his belt line. “Yesterday, you achieved a major milestone, destroying your fifth enemy plane, making you a flying ace. As such, I am proud to award you our squadron’s highest honor, admission to the Legion of the Silk Scarf. My congratulations.”             Captain Baines held out his hand, but Ruland didn’t take it.             He hadn’t intended to kill yesterday. The mission was to be a routine reconnaissance flight, but the German air corps, sensing the end of the war to end all wars, seemed bound and determined to fight to the last man. He saw the Fokker biplanes on the horizon—six of them, in front of a sun that made them appear to be specters. He had assumed the captain would order retreat in order to avoid any loss of life with such little time left in the war.             Instead, he pointed forward, his own silk scarf trailing straight and true behind him.             Engage them.             Destroy them.             Truth was, Ruland didn’t remember much about the dogfight, save the fact that the German had made a mistake by attempting an Immelmann turn that dropped him within Ruland’s gunsights.

Clip-clip-clip-clip , and moments later it was over; the Fokker’s engine caught fire.             There was no escape, so the German pilot jumped.             He seemed to hang there in the sky, as if he was willing himself to land safely on the fertile French farmland below. Simply sailing along gracefully.

            He was a bird, a falcon perhaps. Or an eagle. But not an American eagle.             Then in an instant he became helpless, both arms and both legs waving until Ruland saw him no more.             That moment felt like ages ago.             So did this moment.             Captain Baines lowered his arm, and in order to save face, he turned to an aide, who handed him a small, perhaps foot-long and -tall box, white with a cover, the kind that one saw at those new department stores back home. The captain returned his attention to Ruland, and attempted to hand him the box. Ruland demurred.             “And that’s an order,” he added, which elicited snickers and guffaws from the men gathered.             Ruland accepted the box, fumbled with the cover, looked up at Captain Baines and then down again at the box.             No. He wouldn’t open it.

            No, no, no.

Verstehst du, was ich sage?             Do you understand?             Captain Baines leaned forward and said, this time with no mirth but a cold command, “That

is  an order, second lieutenant. Open the box.”             Ruland slowly tugged at a corner and pulled it up, then looked at Captain Baines.             Now smiling again, the captain said, “Go on.”             The box cover landed on the table next to the bottle of Martell cognac.             Contained within was a black leather flight helmet, German standard issue. Ruland took it in his hands and it was cool, but there was no blood or any other indication that a dead man had been wearing it upon colliding with the earth at the conclusion of a two-thousand-foot drop. Etched in the leather inside was the name Schmidt.             But Ruland already knew that. The dream had revealed he had shot down

Leutnant

Jurgen Schmidt. Same rank, different insignia.             Different army.             “He must have somehow pulled off his helmet while he was falling,” came a voice from behind Ruland. “We found it about twenty feet from him. We couldn’t find his goggles.”             There were now murmurs, and someone muttered, “His eyes were open, laying there in the field. I saw him.”             Ruland had troubled sleep last night. He hadn’t—couldn’t have—seen the German pilot’s face as he whirled in the air like a dervish, but in his dream, it was quite clear. Wavy blond hair with dimpled cheeks from excessive smiling and the ocean-blue eyes of not a killer, but an adolescent, a call-up from someplace like Munich or Berlin to try to stave off inevitability.

            He had killed little more than a child, a child that had more to say beyond death.             Jurgen Schmidt. Maybe nineteen. Maybe twenty.

            Second Lieutenant John Ruland had just turned twenty-one.             You bested me, he said.

Herzlichen Glückwunsch .             Congratulations.             Ruland had awoke in the soft hours of that morning realizing what was coming at 0800, the face and the voice of Jurgen Schmidt fading into nothingness. He had considered volunteering for another morning reconnaissance flight, possibly even with a different squadron, but this would only delay the inevitable. Plus, word in the army traveled fast: the expectation would be that he would pridefully don his new uniform accessory as the latest member of the Legion of the Silk Scarf.             But he simply didn’t want it.

            There was no escape, however, so he rose, put on his uniform, slicked his hair back, had a cigarette, and walked across the aerodrome to the ceremonial tent.             Captain Baines was now staring at Ruland, brow furrowed, apparently unsure of what to do next. But he was in command. The show would go on.             After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he took hold of the bottle of Martell, pulled the cork, and poured two fingers into the tumbler.

Leutnant

Jurgen Schmidt’s flight helmet was back in its box, though uncovered. Ruland’s purported silk scarf sat undisturbed, but Captain Baines gently took it up and unraveled it, holding it in both hands across his chest, with the intent of placing around Ruland’s neck.             “For God and country,” the captain said, bowing his head slightly, a cue that Ruland should do the same.

            He did not.             Captain Baines lowered the scarf and spoke.             “You’re a man now, son,” he said, the daggered words cutting through the now-silent tent. “You’ve done man’s work. This is your reward. Don’t you see?”             A voice behind Ruland muttered, “This is bad luck for him.”             Ruland considered speaking. He considered telling the captain and anybody else who would listen about Jurgen Schmidt, everything he had learned overnight, including the fact that almost all of his schoolmates from home, mostly infantry, had been killed in the trenches. That he was an only child and that his

Eltern , his parents, were unaware of his demise, to say nothing of how it occurred. Word travels slow in a country that is being destroyed from without and within.             He considered speaking on Schmidt’s behalf.             Instead, he spoke on his own.             “I respectfully refuse to participate,” he said, his voice not wavering, though clipped, on the cusp of cracking, but he caught himself. His strength, and that of Jurgen Schmidt, carried the moment.             Captain Baines was now frowning. He peered down at the tumbler of Martell.             “Drink it,” he demanded.             Ruland didn’t move.             “You want to be on desk duty, son?” Captain Baines said. “You really want to ruin your relationship with your mates? I suggest you change your tune.”             “What’s he doing?” came a voice on the other side of the tent.             “Yeah, what are you doing?” said another pilot, the handsome son of a rich New Yorker, one born with a silver spoon in his mouth who was not a member of the Legion of the Silk Scarf, and likely never would be.             “Leaving,” Ruland said, and he turned on his heels and departed the tent.

            As he trod across the uneven, truck-scarred dirt toward his own tent, voices erupting behind him, Jurgen Schmidt spoke to him again.             I have no ill will toward you,

Kamerad.

Du bist mutig.             “That’s right,” Ruland replied. “I am brave.”             Ruland never flew again, at least not for the United States Army Air Service. The war ended three hours later, at 11:00 a.m. on the 11 th  day of the 11 th  month of the year of our Lord 1918.


The Fire of Miss Moffat By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. A steady stream of burnt oranges and fiery reds; just the ticket to brighten my mood. I reflected on my sleepy surroundings. It must have been where Sleepford got its name with endless rows of trees enclosing the town, only there was a clearing where the branches were thinner, showing the pale patterned bark of the branches. I paused to take a peek at my reflection in a puddle amongst the leaves. I am still sixteen year old Will Kahn. I still have deep olive skin, short charcoal hair, a flat nose and keen yellow eyes, overshadowed by thick dark brows.

My face emitted rays as I thought about my old-fashioned hometown with its thoughtful, troubled trees that trembled the leaves to the ground; an echo of my troubled mind before I stepped outside and found Autumn waiting for me. I'm still the high school loser, getting pushed around all of the time, yet out here, under the autumnal sky, I could be anything, maybe even a superhero. Autumn with its crisp chill but with enough warmth from a sliver of sun to warm you through and cheer your heart, made me feel I could skip about; there is something about the briskness of nature at this season that gives me a rush like nothing else. My favourite tree of the oak variety stood tall and faithful on one side of the path I had walked on many times; even from this distance, I could make out where I had engraved my name coupled with a girl's with a heart above, in hopes it would bring us together one day. A red squirrel crossed my path, and as I watched it taking up an acorn on the other side of the path, then scurry into the bushes, Lucy Moffat came to my mind, whose long auburn locks and sea green eyes earned her the title of school beauty; she was the most popular girl in school. I wondered what she would do if she found out I was a nature freak, and then there was the child genius/concert pianist angle I wouldn't wish to go down; so it seemed like I had no chance of winning the girl I had dreamed of since nursery, who would probably laugh in my face at the very idea. My classical music background that saw my Japanese mother become a pro cellist and my Asian father play concert piano on t.v. had always remained a secret to my other life, in high school; it wasn't exactly what the cool kids boasted about and their hostile behaviour would be more humiliating than I could bear. In between the musings of my mind, I could hear the distant sounds of a violin concerto, as if by magic the wind read my thoughts and carried it to me to soothe away the problems Monday morning would bring with it. A sudden u bend in the road forced me to do a sharp turn and what my eyes beheld when the road straightened out again, filled me with a trembling beyond all control; there was Miss Moffat a few feet ahead of me in all her glory, under an arch of trees highlighted by a fire of reds, oranges and browns, matching the tones of her hair where the rays of sun shone from above in a halo of light. Is it possible she needs a place to escape on a Sunday afternoon as well? After watching her with a gaping mouth, I allowed my eyes to rest on her hands and what they contained. She held a violin and better still, strummed it skillfully sounding out the concerto I'd heard in the distance; I stared with eyes that appeared far away until her hands rested from the crystal clear sound of her piece. Before I could tell what possessed me, my hands came together in a loud applause and she pivoted fast, her hair plummeting over her shoulders. She asked what I was doing there and I answered in a firm voice that surprised even me, that I was probably doing the same as her. "I doubt that. This is my secret place," she replied, her voice as sweet as the music from her violin. "Mine as well. My favourite row of trees. I could play the same concerto on my piano." "You can't drag it out here." "I would try, for you." "Do you want to bet?" My finger hovered over my lips. "We can make like a secret pact." "Well, if you promise not to tell, I won't tell on you, either." "It's a deal." We edged closer to each other, meeting in the middle of the archway, our faces searching each others. "You're not like the rest of them. I'm the popular girl, but this would ruin everything." She lifted the violin with one hand. "I have dreams of being a concert pianist someday, but find opposite reasons to keep it private." She tilted her head on one side the way she always did when speaking that drove me crazy. "How's that?" "You might have noticed popularity is not my problem. If they found out I was a child prodigy, I'd be utterly ruined." "Being popular isn't as spellbinding as you might assume; there are rules of coolness that need to be met to keep the status." "We're better matched than we seem." My voice trailed away and I glanced at her cherry red lips. "Not so different," she whispered. We rushed at one another, holding a strong embrace. The kiss was firm and loving. The fire of Miss Moffat ignited my bones in a way nature never could; she reminded me how important just being yourself is, taking whatever chances life throws at you and always fulfilling your dreams; how different life would be with her by my side. Fall will always have a special place in my heart, but when the fire of the leaves dies down, and the season we will always enjoy together is no more, Miss Moffat will still be there to lift my spirit and brighten any season.