Don't you know she's gone? "Excuse me? I'm here to find a Trissa Keita?" The voice startled Isla Pérez out of her thoughts. She had been studying for her history test tomorrow- stupid America, why must you fight so much?!?- and wasn't paying attention to her surroundings. The person who had spoken to her was a middle-aged man with an uncomfortable look on his face. Isla wasn't sure why. They were in a library, after all. Who could dislike being there? "That depends. Who the heck are you and what do you want with Tris?" Isla questioned. The man looked even more uncomfortable now, shifting his eyes from side to side. "I'm her... uncle. Her father needs to speak with her." Isla frowned, tugging on the dyed pink strip in her sandy brown bangs. "Why did her father not come?" The man gulped. "He was busy. Please, can you just tell me where to find her?" His words brought back a memory. Something Tris had said to her when Isla asked about her family. ------------------------------------ "I'm going to visit my parents this weekend." Trissa looked up from her book. "Oh?" Isla nodded. "It's my brother's birthday." Tris smiled faintly. "Tell him I said happy birthday." "What are you doing over the weekend?" Isla asked her roommate. "Cause if you don't have plans, you can come with." Tris shook her head. "Nah. I won't interrupt your family get-together." Isla tilted her head, setting down her computer. "Will you visit your family?" Tris froze. "No. they'd be too busy to see me, even if they wanted to." Isla got up, plopping down on the couch next to the other girl. "Their loss." ------------------------------------ Isla snapped back to the present. The man was still looking at her. "I'll call her and see if she'll agree to meet you," Isla informed him. "No!" he insisted. "I need to meet her now!" Isla flinched back at his sudden volume change. "I'm really sorry, but I won't just have her meet some random person from the library." "I'm not random," he said, "I'm her uncle." Isla frowned. "Still. If she agrees, I will meet you back here at 4:00 pm tomorrow." The man relented. "Fine. I will see you then, Miss..." "Isla. I'll see you then." ------------------------------------ "Tris! I'm back from the library!" Isla called out to her girlfriend- It felt so nice to call Tris her girlfriend, even if she'd only been able to do it for a couple of weeks- so she would know Isla was back to their dorm if she hadn't checked her texts. Which she hadn't, apparently, considering her surprised "Oh!" "Are you baking again?" Isla asked, walking into the kitchen. Tris had been, based on the supplies scattered around the counters and the white flour sprinkled across Tris's dark skin. “Hey, Bookworm!” Tris said, raising her brown eyes to meet Isla’s green ones, “How was the library?”

Isla puckered her lips. “Fine, but something weird happened. There was a man there who insisted that he was your uncle and that your dad was looking for you-” A loud crash cut her off as Trissa dropped the mixing bowl she was holding. “W-Wha-What?” Tris’s voice came out shaky.

“Whoa!” Isla exclaimed, running over to her girlfriend and wrapping her arms around her. “I didn’t tell him where to find you. I know… I know you don’t have the best relationship with your parents. I told him we’d meet with him only if you wanted to.” Tris’s breath caught. “I’d… I don’t know. I want to make things right between me and my parents, but they aren’t going to accept me if they wouldn’t accept me then. But still, I want to try.” Isla nodded, rubbing circles on Tris’s back. “Ok. we’ll meet with him tomorrow, assuming he’s actually your uncle.” Tris closed her eyes, leaning into Isla’s embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Isla smiled as she pressed her face into Tris’s black hair. “Course, Love. Of course.” ------------------------------------ Trissa got out of class fifteen minutes before Isla got out of gymnastics. Which meant she had twenty minutes before she and Isla were supposed to go to the library to meet her father. Oh, joy. “Uhhh,” Tris whispered to herself and her dog she was taking on a walk as she went to Isla’s gymnastics studio. “Why do I have to do this?”

No one answered, which allowed Tris to try and think of what she was going to do when she and Isla went to meet her family. She checked her watch as the gymnastics studio into view. Twelve minutes.

“Do you think Isla would like a scone when she gets out?” Tris asked the dog, Waffles. Waffles, being a dog, didn’t answer other than barking and wagging his tail.

“Yeah, I think she would,” Tris decided. There was a scone place right around the corner.

Tris tugged on Waffles’s leash. “Let’s go, puppers. We need to hurry if we’re gonna get food.” ------------------------------------ Isla got out of gymnastics class to find Tris sitting with Waffles at a table in front of the studio, eating a muffin.

“Hey, Bookworm!” Tris called. “I got you a scone!” Isla smiled. “Hey, Butterfly. How long have you been here?” Tris shrugged, standing up and handing Isla the bag. “Not super long. Ten minutes, maybe?” Isla opened the bag, taking a bite of the scone. “Ready to go?” Tris gave her a weak smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” ------------------------------------ Tris nervously twisted the ring around her finger. Back, forth, back, forth.

“He should have been here by now.” Back, forth, back, forth. Isla glanced over. “It’s two minutes after four. Calm down. Read a book.” Tris shook her head. Back, forth. “Nope. I couldn’t focus on reading now, anyways.” Back, forth. Isla shrugged.

Back, forth, back, forth.

“What are you reading?” Back, forth. Isla flashed her the cover. “These Violent Delights. It’s a Romeo and Juliet retelling, but they’re all gangsters in Shanghai. And also there are monsters.” Tris smiled. Back, forth. “Sounds cool.” Back, forth.

Isla set down the book, grabbing her hands before she could twist the ring again. “Hey. It’ll be fine. Ok?” Tris sighed. “Ok.” Isla smiled. “Good. besides, I think I see the guy.” Tris turned around. And yeah, there was her uncle. Great.

He caught sight of her. “Trissa!” Tris bit her lip, squeezing Isla’s hand tighter. “Uncle John.” He walked over to them. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you for a while. Your father would like to see you again.” Tris stiffened. “Would he now,” she said, barely audible. Her uncle sighed impatiently. “Yes. Now come along, he and your mother are waiting for us.” “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met,” Isla interrupted. “I’m Isla, Trissa’s girlfriend. Pleased to meet you.” John frowned. “Yeah, kid, nice to meet you, but my niece and I need to get going, so you can run along with home, ok?” Isla’s smile shifted into a glare. “No, I don’t think I will run home. I’m staying with Tris.” “And besides,” Tris spoke up, “I’m not going with you.” “Your father-” “My father,” Tris interrupted, “didn’t care about me when I was a kid. My father is a terrible parent and a terrible person. I don’t want to see him, and I don’t want to see you. I thought maybe something would have changed, maybe you guys would care about me as who I am, not who I can be. But since you don’t, please. Leave me alone.” John stared at her in shock, and Isla whispered “Good job.” in her ear. Tris stood up suddenly. “Come on, Isla. Let’s pick up some pizza on our way home.” Isla nodded, shooting John another glare as she and Tris left. “Good job, Butterfly. You did amazing.” Tris smiled. “I know. And I’m not going to go back.” Isla grinned. “Good. Now, I believe I was promised pizza? We can even get it with pineapples, you weirdo.” “I’m not weird, pineapples are the best!” Isla sighed jokingly. “Why do I love you again?”


“How’s your crumble, Val?” Derek sits across from me, his forest green eyes twinkling. Candles flicker next to us, casting an ominous glow all around our table, but we are uncaring. He flashes me a smile, and I can see his cheeks darkening, as he tries to focus on me. With all of the wine we’ve consumed, I am surprised he’s sitting upright. Tipsy, but still manages to ask me about my dessert – what a wonderful man!            “It’s perfect,” I tell him, and sigh contentedly. “Are you having a nice time?”            “I’m having a lovely time!” He blushes even more, if that’s even possible. “I hope you are too.”            “Yes, of course I am.” The nervous vulnerability in his eyes makes him more endearing to me. I bat my eyelashes at him, enjoying the small breeze flowing through the restaurant. “But how about we get out of here? Go somewhere a little bit more… private?”            “Oh, ye- yes, that’s a great idea.” Derek signals for a waiter, and fumbles with the cheque – which of course, we argued about, until he eventually won. We wander out the restaurant, hands clasped in each other’s, and we walk on together, as the sun begins to set.            The sky is a mixture of orange shades, and the sun is rapidly disappearing behind the clouds. Everything is painted in a pink, cloudy haze, with almost a romantic aura painted over the town. On Valentine’s Day, that’s to be expected, with millions of happy couples passing by, wishing them well. Under the dimming light of the sun, we set off at a leisurely pace, and eventually end up at the beach.            I slip my shoes off and dip my toes in the warmth of the sand, before we start strolling across the beach. The crash of the waves is a gentle lullaby, sending warm vibrations through my body. The whole night is tranquil, with no interruptions other than the occasional seagull, which preys on leftover chips. As we walk along, my eyes adjust to the diminishing light of the setting sun. In the distance, I can see something. Some sort of a machine, chunky and enormous, whirring away at the end of the beach. Fuelled by curiosity, I let go of Derek’s hand, and rush over to the machine.            As it grows nearer the harsh whirring becomes louder, grating my ears. It smells like petrol, probably because of the thick layer of petrol it has been coated in. Various bugs and other unknown substances stick to its side, unable to be freed. Right at the top of the machine, there is an antenna, a chubby, metal finger that points to the sky. It seems to be emitting a pulsation that travels through my body, sending chills down my spine. I’m fascinated by the machine, infatuated by it… however, looking over at my boyfriend, I see he doesn’t feel the same way. He looks uncomfortable, and mildly irritated, by the fact this machine has taken priority over our date. He coughs, and we are plunged into an awkward silence. I can’t help it; as a mechanic, metal and machines are my life. I have a right to look over this strange contraption… so why is it such a big deal to Derek?            “What’s the issue?” I ask him, starting to feel a little agitated. My hands are planted firmly on my hips to show him I’m not fooling around anymore. He seems to understand.            “I’m just saying, this is our date. Our date. We get one day a month where we can go out, and not have to think about work. And yet here you are, still thinking about work.”            “I’m not thinking about work!” I say incredulously. “There’s a weird machine on the beach that has suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and you’re not even a little bit curious?”            “Nope.” He says simply, and sits down on the nearest bench he can find. “I’m just bloody freezing. But it’s fine, you go and explore, make sure you spend the whole night looking at this machine, otherwise I’ll be disappointed!” Rolling my eyes at him, I vow to take as long as possible, just for the sarcastic tone he uses. I circle the machine, wondering what it is, when I see a plaque on the back, engraved with writing. I step forward to see it clearer. “Time machine? Wow, this has got to be good,” I laugh, and signal to Derek. “Here, Derek, we have a time machine here!” “Brilliant,” he replies monotonously. “Can we go now?” Ignoring him, I turn the flashlight from my phone on, and advance on the machine. Underneath the plaque, there are more words, this time in a smaller, cursive font. I reach out to swipe the dust away from it, and as my bare skin connects with the cool metal, it sends tingles through my body. I feel like I’ve just had electricity soar through me. There is a snap, as I immediately pull my hand away from the machine. At least the ruckus has got the attention of my boyfriend, who walks towards me, alarmed by the noise. “You okay Val?” He questions, but I can’t move. My mouth won’t open, so no words come out, and my feet can’t be taken off the ground. I start to feel dizzy, and I’m fairly sure I can see stars now. A cloud, thick and heavy, starts swarming around me, and I’m trapped in the cloud of violent fluff. I can’t see Derek – or anything else for that matter – and I use my hand to cover my eyes from the dust which is swimming in the air in front of me… Suddenly, everything stops. The cloud dissipates, the tingling sensation in my body is gone, and I’m able to move all of my limbs. My jaw, locked in place before, can now move, although it is sore. Rubbing it, I look around for Derek, but he’s not there. Neither is the beach. Looking around my surroundings, I’m somehow now in a forest. Trees tower up to the sky, protecting me from the torrential rain that is falling from it. Soil crunches beneath me, obviously infertile, as I try to figure out where I am, and how I got there. I spend the next few hours wandering up and down, hiding from carnivorous creatures, and attempting to uncover crucial information about where I am. In the depths of the forest, I claw through the bushes, searching for a clue, or anything. I spot a sign in the distance, rotted and ancient, but still standing. Rushing over to it, I bend down to read the sign, and as I stare at it, my sanity dissolves. “1968?” I say, disbelieving my eyes. “How am I in the year 1968?”


Zihuatenejo was one of those places that seemed to widen as you wandered its streets. There was a very large and very busy central part of town with traffic from all parts junctioning. There you would find movie theatres, street vendors, a lot of sweet-smelling portable taco grill stands, shops, a brown leafed plaza park, dust noise and even a few beggars. Thankfully, the day was finally ending, though its warmth kept time moving slowly. Shops had opened after siesta and musics ranged from ballads to charro to rap to clashing cymbals of Mexican rock. The dust raised by traffic kept their notes lingering before dropping. The Guerrero bar looked just as it did when I passed it earlier in the day. The normal sized green door was shut. There was no sign showing hours on the raised grey stucco wall. There was dust stuck to the stucco dabs that seemed very old and embedded. I didn’t know what to do so I went to the door and heard music as I stood there with my hand on the shiny silver-plated door handle. I turned it and heard the soft click of unlocking. I pulled, recognising Green Dolphin Street and Cal Tjader’s vibes, it open to face multi-coloured fly beads draping an interior of darkness and almost cold air. I went in and through the beads, liking their tiny wooden clunking and cool caresses over my upper body. The music was getting my head nodding. ‘You come on a boat, a yate?’ the bartender asked. ‘Yeah.’ I answered a little surprised. ‘The big schooner at the end of the beach. We’re taking it to the San Sebastians in the Caribbean.’ ‘Through the Panama Canal?’ ‘Yeah. Definitely. No Cape Horn for me…’ I nodded slightly, unsure of why I had said that to a stranger. He smiled. ’I always wanted to do that… go through that Canal. Hey, you know Pepe Maya,’ ‘Yeah.’ I answered, referring to the little open bar on the beach and the owner who sat with me when I landed the dinghy. ‘I like Pepe. Interesting guy.’ ‘Hey, he told me this morning about chu. We lookin’ out at that goleta, schooner.’ ‘Really. I’m famous.’ I glanced around the bar. ‘Maybe famoso. No, I eat breakfast with my compadre almost every day. He is partner in Guerrero here.’ ‘Really?’ My lips widened and I shook my head at another surprise from my simple-seeming friend. ‘Yeah. We been open about four years now. The outside was his idea. I like it, and the inside was the other partners. They two of them. No, they, there are two of them. He want, wanted to call this Guerrero Negro after our second presidente but they no not, don’t want that.’ He seemed to take a gulp of air, then looked back at me, ’Lo siento, this English giving me a headache.’ ‘Have a rum and tonic.’ I offered the bartender. ‘Good idea.’ He started to turn when the door opened, the beads parted and several people entered talking rapidly in Spanish. The workday was starting at the Guerrero. The door started opening a lot for the next couple of hours and the evening came closer with each opening until it was night outside and four rum and tonics inside. Tony, the bartender, kept bringing me the things every time my glass, that seemed to grow taller with each serving, reduced itself to one-third. He missed once and I hit ice and lemon wedge, but that was as far as I reached before another appeared. I was talking to a professor from the college about the Aztecs of all things when I noticed the elliptical eyes of a very beautiful woman lazily staring at me. I smiled and she looked away. She was sitting at the other side of the U-shaped bar and was alone. With the small crowd, music, dancing and conversations I thought her being alone was very strange. I studied her and felt she was genuine, but maybe a prostitute. I asked the professor and he said she was no prostitute, but a wealthy mulatta ‘…from your country.’ He winked and confided, ‘She is waiting for her man.’ Was the way he carefully chose his words. And, he chuckled. ‘Before I would have thought that you could tell me what she was doing…’ he chuckled again. It was getting late my drink told me. ‘Tony?’ I called. ‘Hey, Rod, what’s up?’ he eyed my glass. ‘No. Can you give the mulatta Americana whatever she is drinkin’?’ ‘Libby?’ He eyed me curiously, then shook his head, looked over at her and back to me. ‘It is curious but I know you now. She is taken, man. There will be a couple of students in about a half-hour, man. They are hot, too. Libby ain’t gonna even talk to you, man.’ ‘That’s cool but can you?’ ‘I bet chu the drink she turn it down.’ ‘Got a bet, my man.’ Now, I was saying man, I thought, wondering if I had drank too much and dismissing it as how can I drink too much? ‘Cool.’ he nodded with a smug smile. Tony mixed her drink and took it across. She eyed it, him and as he spoke, she eyed me. She nodded her head and demurely waved me over. Tony’s eyes were big as he came back, passing me with, ‘That never happen before, Rod.’ I slid off the stool, feeling a bit unbalanced after sitting for three hours drinking. But, I felt I could still score. ‘Thanks’ she said, as I tried with awkwardness to mount the stool that kept moving.

Finally climbing aboard and seated, I responded, ‘Say. Tony told me you were American, so I decided that since you were African-American, and you were in a foreign land and I am an African-American and I am in a foreign land, and you were too beautiful to be alone and…’ I lost the train of thought, ‘uh, I would offer that small token of my comradeship and adoration.’ It sounded like shit as the last part came out. ‘Shit.’ She began laughing. ‘Was that a sentence? I usually get hit on more smoothly but that, well that, was schmaltzily patriotic enough to warrant at least an introduction. Libby.’ Libby’s hand came from the tall glass of under-lit chunks of ice in liquid and stretched over to me. Her fingers were long with no rings, short manicured nails painted red. The skin was youthful and tanned. I hadn’t thought of her age, but as I took the hand in a shake I studied her face and saw hidden forties, low or high ones and I saw that those years were well hidden. She took care of herself. ‘I am fifty-one as of three days ago.’ Libby answered my study. ‘I guessed wrong. I thought you were too young for me. I’m Rod.’ ‘Now, that was better.’ ‘Happy birthday, Lioness.’ My eyebrows were up, I think, like I was sophisticated or something. ‘I can’t say you’re smarter than you look.’ ‘Oh-oh. Does that mean I look dumb?’ We both chuckled at that. Aside from the obvious beauty she exuded, I felt a warmness coming through her hand that stayed even as she drew it back to her glass. Libby’s eyes studied mine. ‘I don’t usually let this happen’, she allowed. ‘Usually, I have a few drinks, my man shows up and I have a couple more while he socialises, and we leave.’ ‘Your man?’ I looked around. ‘Is he here?’ ‘Naw.’ She looked at the watch on her left wrist. The dangling gold chain links holding it looked expensive. Her tan was only slightly covering the place on her third finger where a wedding ring had once been. ‘He will be here in fifteen minutes, mas o menos.’ She looked back at me. ‘Mas o menos’ she repeated to somebody or herself. ‘Rod, is it?’ ‘Yeah, Rod.’ ‘Very phallic. Look, do you see that woman over there?’ Her head turned and sly eyes directed me to another beautiful woman at the end of the side of the U that I had sat.

I was surprised that I hadn’t seen her, but maybe she was one of the students Tony had mentioned or a teacher. She was blond and deeply tanned. I could see the tan because of the opaque under-lighting of the bar. It made her almost black contrasting the white look of the long thick braid laying between a shoulder and her chest with a simple white shoulder-less blouse. There was a patient smile playing at her lips and she was alone. I started to wonder if this bar was gay. I looked back at Libby, wondering if she was a man. ‘You… I mean, well is this a gay bar?’ She looked at me. ‘You’re not gay, are you?’ ‘Naw, I’m not. I danced with a transvestite earlier without knowing it and there are two beautiful women sitting without men on their shoulders…’ I looked around and saw that there were other good-looking women with men talking and some dancing. ‘Sorry, just got a little freaked. I’m from San Francisco, so you’d think it wouldn’t matter… Anyway, naw, I’m not gay, and all my stuff is intact.’ She was smiling, ‘Too much information. How many drinks have you had?’ Then Libby looked back at the blonde. ‘She is a rich one, that one. And spoiled. A man has to be careful, she would eat you up and spit you out.’ ‘Whoa there, Libby. Who is she and why do you want me to get into her when I am looking at you?’ ‘Because you are looking at me, exactly. I just wanted to help you out. You look like you are on a quest and I thought maybe you could quest her. She is there for the pickin’.’ Quest automatically went to the boat, but another thought pulled into my brain that I must look horny to Miss Un-ringed Libby. ‘Libby, I am attracted to beauty, but I am not ruled by the bulge you’re creating in my trousers. If that is what you mean by quest?’ ‘It is.’ She looked at my crotch, ‘You have a bulge?’ ‘I can.’ She started laughing, surprising herself. When she stopped laughing, with tears in her eyes, she lifted her glass in a toast to me and flirtatiously sipped with her eyes digging into mine. ‘Okay’ lingered, coming from her wet lips. I tilted my head to get an understanding. ‘Okay?’ ‘No, I mean she is looking for a man. I have one.’ I looked at the blond again. ‘There are plenty of men here.’ My mind went back to the gay bar concept. ‘No. She is looking for somebody just like you.’ ‘How do you know that? Woman’s intuition? Do you know her?’ ‘Yes. I might say she is a friend. Her name is Sammy and she is a woman before you question the name.’ ‘Samantha?’ ‘Yes. Are you interested?’ ‘I don’t get it.’ ‘Let’s start with I am taken. Securely taken…’ ‘Okay, got that. Now, what is the next thing? Why?’ ‘Why? Why are you asking?’ She inclined her head toward the bar, ‘There is a beautiful woman and I think she would appreciate you, from what I have seen, and you would probably enjoy her… You have self-doubts, or are you gay? Or, is it a racial thing?’ ‘Hunh?’ ‘Racial thing…, you know, you don’t like white women racial thing?’ ‘Well, actually, I don’t tend toward them but I’m not prejudiced, just they tend to be a little too nice or too naughty, if you know what I mean.’ ‘Actually, no, I don’t know what you mean but maybe I am pushing her on you too hard. Let’s forget it, and thanks for the drink.’ I noticed she had turned slightly toward the bar and her eyes followed, leaving me sitting next to her by myself. I looked over at the blonde and sighed. My mind moved my body with thoughts of rumours that I had been offered beauty but I was a racist, or gay, or just fucked up mentally. I thought of this Sam finding out that I was sitting here trying to get into Libby’s pants and couldn’t, then defeated myself before approaching her. She would see me as a loser. Another rum and tonic appeared sitting next to my unfinished one. I looked at Tony and he looked at Libby. Libby looked at me. ’Now, we’re even in the drinks department.’ ‘I’ll go meet your friend.’ Libby turned back to me, smiling. ‘You’ll make her happy… what’s your name again?’ ‘Rod.’ ‘How could I forget Rod?’ I stood up, feeling off enough to hold onto the stool. To overcome the feeling of a little too much alcohol I reached over and took my unfinished drink and drank it down. I smiled to Libby in what I thought a sophisticated way, though I doubted that it was at the same time and replaced the glass of lonely ice. I left the other drink and walked around the bar and down to the blonde, whose name I had forgotten already. She was facing two or three couples dancing almost next to her. I tried to remember her name but couldn’t. She started to dance suddenly moving from the bar. Alone, she moved round and round making smiles of conversations. Her movement was peaceful, graceful, forceful with traces of African sensuality merged into the ritmo of a new world. Then she was back standing at her chair. With a smile she turned and faced me. There was a concern in her eyes and a curiosity in the tilt of her head, and there was a knowing friendliness that comforted me. ‘Libby sent you over?’ ‘Yeah. Yes, she told me you wanted my company though I don’t know why.’ ‘And you did as she said?’ Her face, beyond the smile was naturally sulky in an extremely sensual way. The face was almost symmetrically perfect. The eyes were a light colour in the beating darkness of the room, sparkling under the light of the bar and a small sequinned ball hanging from the ceiling that I hadn’t noticed before. Her lips tempted. There was a smile beneath her smile, an acknowledgement of her strength of beauty. And softly, she said ’You can go now.’ ‘What?’ ‘You have done as she said, so go.’ She was still smiling but both smiles and the tone was almost pleasant and I was almost surprised. ‘This a game you two play?’ ‘No. Actually, no. Just go.’ ‘Okay. Sorry to stand near you. But, seeing how beautiful, at least superficially, a woman can be was worth even this part of whatever this was.’ Her head tilted to the left. ‘Wait’ she softly commanded. I stopped my about to be leaving movement and smiled. ‘I am waiting for my boyfriend.’ ‘That makes sense. Everybody is waiting for their boyfriend today.’ ‘He will be here any minute.’ Her eyes ran up and down my face. ‘Maybe you know him?’ I just looked back at her. She plastered on a thinking smile. ‘My boyfriend used to be her boyfriend, and she thinks when he shows up and sees me talking to you… he is mixed race also… that he will turn back to her.’ ‘Come on. That’s ridiculous.’ ‘No. He is extremely jealous. He is an artist, so a bit crazy.’ She smiled, ‘He is crazy, actually.’ ‘An artist?’ ‘Yes. I am too. At least I am studying to become one.’ ‘What’s his name?’ I didn’t really want to hear what she would answer. ‘Esteban.’ ‘Just Esteban? Are there many artists around Zihuatenejo named Esteban?’ I must have smiled sarcastically. ‘Then you do know him, don’t you?’ ‘Hunh? Oh, well, just through reputation. I’m a journalist.’ ‘Yes. Yes, he is one of the greatest artists in Mexico. I want to help him get an exhibition of his work in Boston… Where are you from? A journalist? Where are you from?’ She was contentedly smiling now. ‘San Francisco.’ ‘San Francisco? Wow. Why are you here?’ ‘Uh, I’m assisting the return of a historical schooner to the San Sebastian Islands.’ ‘That’s a tax haven, isn’t it?’ ‘Yeah, they have that too, but you want me to leave before he gets here, don’t you? I think I had enough to drink for tonight anyway.’ ‘No. No, please stay. I think Esteban will really like you. Look at the way I am talking to you already. And Esteban has a lot more to say than I do. I know he’d really like you. Not too many mixed-race people around here. I mean there are Mexicans who are mixed Indian and Spanish but not many Blacks and Whites here.. ‘I’m not really Black and White.’ ‘You know what I mean.’ ‘Not really. Anyway, I don’t really want to be a part of this love game thing.’ ‘No. It’s okay. When he finds out you’re a reporter he’ll probably want to show you his work. And, anyway, I’ll probably have to share him with her again tonight, so that part is no big deal.’ I shook my head, said good night, turned without waiting for a response. I went over to Tony to pay my tab. I don’t remember going out the door but I was walking along the sidewalk, breathing in the warm night air with the moon splattering light on the bay. A man came walking toward me and I looked up to see myself. His mouth was open as mine probably was looking at my physical body only with dreadlocks. He smiled at me and I know I was smiling at him. ‘Esteban?’ ‘Yeah.’


 We met in Tokyo under the city lights. Everything about you intrigued me; even your silhouette was beautiful. You taught me the art of falling in love. Eventually you taught me the art of letting go. I still dream about you sometimes.

*** The cherry blossoms bloomed again this spring. Some days I go and sit beneath their branches, listening to them whisper in their native language about the past. They asked me about you. Remember those days when we were just children? How we used to chase the falling petals as they descended to their resting place in the fresh green grass; how you used to fall asleep under them in the light of the midday April sun? I used to watch you, lying there with petals stuck to your dark mess of hair, and dream about a world where you and I could go and live under the cherry blossoms forever. To be completely honest, I still dream about that world sometimes. Maybe someday you’ll come back to me and we can live in that world of eternal springs together. Until then, I will use my power to relive our fondest memories together and wonder what our lives could have been like if only you had decided to stay. I closed my eyes and willed myself to return to the day you and I first met.

It’s April 14th, 2014, at 5:58pm. I have a 6:00pm train to catch. I’m running across Tokyo Station carrying a map in one hand and lugging a rolling backpack in the other as it trails behind me in a purple flurry; pausing every few seconds to apologize to the people glaring at me with brand new scuffs across the toes of their work shoes. Everything is whirling past me so quickly that I almost miss it, but just as a train zooms past I see something that makes everything in my frenzied world come to a sudden halt. There you are, young and beautiful like I always remembered you. You’re standing on the other side of the tracks with a book in one hand and the other shoved into the front pocket of your jeans. I can’t help but stare in awe at the way you always make everything around you appear to move in slow motion, almost as if the entire world is taking its time absorbing the mere beauty of your existence. Your eyes meet mine, and I get the feeling that time and space have conspired together for some cosmic reason to bring you and I before each other once again. Suddenly my train rolls to a slow and steady stop on the tracks between us, blocking you from my view. As I board the train and frantically look out the window in an attempt to find you again, I hear someone sitting down next to me. I smile solemnly as I observe the way you shuffle your Nike tennis shoes on the floor, making me remember how shy you used to be. For a moment I close my eyes and thank God for allowing me to live this moment again. To merely exist near you even once for so many years was something I know I never deserved. You glance over at me, and for the first time it occurs to me just how young we were when we fell in love. I see that your cheeks are still rounded like that of a child, pieces of your hair stick straight up in certain places, and your eyes still have that unscathed, innocent and magical glow resting inside them; the eyes of someone who does not yet understand what cruel elements this world is made from. Tears begin welling up in my eyes from the intensity of the moment, and I look straight ahead, trying to find something to distract my mind. I notice there’s a newspaper tucked away into the back pocket of the seat in front of me. I glance at it to see a headline about the ongoing war in China that has everyone glued to their televisions and walking around whispering in hushed tones about how this might affect our country. The sound of your voice brings me back, and I notice that your voice never changed; the way you said “hello” on the train and the way you said “goodbye” while I ran out into the rain in the middle of night and begged you to come back to me both had that same husky tone to it. You ask me my name, and after a few minutes of awkward silence, you and I hit it off the way I already knew we would. I listen to you tell me stories that I already have memorized word-for-word, and I tell you that I’m new to the area, and my father got a job offer in the city about a month ago. I tell you I miss my hometown of Nikko and am homesick to the point where I have dreams every night about moving back. By the time my stop comes, you and I are already planning the next time we’ll meet. You ask me to meet you at Shinjuku Gyoen tomorrow at 12:00pm so you can show me some of your favorite spots. I agree, and before I have time to reflect on what’s happening, it’s already the next day. I look around and find myself standing in the middle of the Shinjuku gardens, watching the mid-afternoon sun cast a glow on your sleeping figure. I take a deep breath and try my best to savor this moment. There are wars being waged in foreign countries not too far from where I’m standing; people are dying by the second and countless others are being left behind to deal with the damage. So many terrible, awful things are happening right now in this world, but here I am, standing in the most beautiful place on Earth. I walk closer to you, moving at a slow, steady pace to ensure I don’t disturb the quiet stillness of time. One wrong move and this moment could disappear into the mild spring wind, leaving behind not a single trace for me to hold on to. Everything seems too beautiful to be real...yet here you are, just a few feet from where I’m standing, fast asleep beneath the falling petals of the cherry blossoms in the glow of the April sun. Here you are, the calm in the midst of the storm, the peace in the midst of the chaos. I hold my breath, so afraid that if I breathe you’ll vanish before my eyes and I’ll never be able to remember the way the petals stick to your hair. I am so afraid that the universe will take this memory away from me because it has decided that it has fallen in love with you, too. I stare in awe at the peaceful sight I’m fortunate enough to behold a second time. It feels like a fantasy, like a dream that I never want to wake up from. How I wish everyone in the world could share this moment with me; how everyone would immediately lay down their weapons and their harsh words just to bask in your beauty forever.

Did you know you could stop wars? I bet no one ever told you.

Did you know that I loved you? Of course not. I know I never told you.

      *** It’s been years since I’ve seen you. Tokyo looks different without you. These city lights don't shine quite as bright without you standing there beneath their glow, illuminating the way I once loved you. Midnight doesn't have the same sleepy excitement that it used to, back when you and I would stay awake all night, discussing dreams that only crazy people would dare to imagine. I know we ended on bad terms, but your empty coffee cup is sitting untouched on the counter, and though I don't drink coffee I still brew some fresh every morning, just in case you ever decide to stop by. It's okay if you don't, but I wish that you would.

I miss you.


It’s been 412 days since the rains last came. Everyone collected as much as possible, and for a while, water was plentiful. Now, the roads are dry and cracked, starved of moisture. Most of the reserves are gone. My canteen is running low, and my wallet even lower. Sweat beads up on my forehead then breaks loose of its hold, rolling gently down the side of my face, teasing me with its wetness. “How much farther?” Ciara asks. I look over at my 12-year-old sister and swallow down the annoyance that’s rising up my throat. She holds her hand up to her forehead, trying to create some shade on her face, her hat long gone. “Stop asking me that,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “I told you, we’re almost there.”

In truth, Portland Town, rumored to be a bustling tradepost in the middle of the Oregon Desert, is a lot farther than I envisioned. We’ve been walking along Columbia Road for a week now with no sign of it. It’s hard to imagine this road was once a river, lined with trees. It’s even harder to imagine that trees ever grew anywhere in this wasteland.

“Annika, look,” Ciara says as we turn a corner. Finally, in the distance I see some structures. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. I’ve been fooled by mirages before, the image of something you want nearby that’s not really there, and I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. “Portland Town.” Relief pours through me like the glass of water I envision buying. “I told you we were almost there.” Ciara’s smile at the sight of the town almost makes the trip worth it. Soon, people are strolling around us, tipping their hats toward us in greeting. They don’t look quite as dirty as we are, which means there must be a way to bathe here.

“Maybe mom and dad are here,” she says, her pace quickening. “Maybe,” I agree, “but don’t get your hopes up.” It’s been a month since we were separated from our parents after a group of raiders stormed our camp site in the Idaho Desert. We were on our way to Cannon Beach, where the Oregon Desert meets the salty sea, and where there is rumored to be a fully functional desalination plant, providing water for all who need it. “They would be almost a month ahead of us, so they’re probably already at the coast.” But even as I say the words, I start scanning the crowd for their faces, and I see Ciara doing the same.

When we hit the main road in town we start passing stores, mostly selling dried food and canned goods or medical supplies.

“They’re selling water!” Ciara calls out pointing at a nearby shop. It has a sign on the window saying “bottled water available.”

“Let’s go.” I grab her hand and we walk inside. The shelves are only lined with canned goods of course, it would be too risky to leave water unlocked. I approach the woman working behind the counter. “How much for a bottle of water?” I ask. “A hundred dollars,” she says. “A hundred?” Bottles were closer to fifty last time I tried buying one in a store instead of trading for one.

“You can look elsewhere for a cheaper one, but you won’t find it,” the lady says. Ciara puts on her best sad face, but it garners no sympathy. I only have a hundred and fifty left in my wallet and we need some food and supplies too. I still have half a canteen so I’m not sure it’s worth it. “How far to Cannon Beach from here?” I ask. “About two days walk. Water isn’t any cheaper there.” A half of a canteen won’t last us two days. We can live without food for that long, though. I reluctantly hand over my hundred dollar bill in exchange for the bottle of water. I pour it into my canteen and hand her the bottle back so she can reuse it. Ciara and I mumble thanks and walk out. At the far end of town we come across a large warehouse with a sign reading “workers needed.” “Maybe I can get some work,” I tell Ciara as we walk up to the man out front. He’s large and towers over us, his muscled arms threatening to rip his shirt. “Hi, I’m Annika, what work do you have? I’m available.” “I need unloaders to move boxes from a shipment we got today. It pays one water bottle per day.” “Can my sister work too? She’s strong.” He furrows his brow at me. “How old is your sister?” “She’s thirteen,” I lie, “but she’s stronger than she looks.” Ciara flexes her arm muscles to show him, which makes me laugh, but he doesn’t even look at her. “I don’t hire kids.” “Ok, just me then.” I show him my ID which proves that I'm nineteen.

“Straight through there,” he says, pointing inside. “Ok, just one sec, I’ll be right back.” I take Ciara by the arm and we walk over to a nearby bench under a tree, where I sit her down. “Wait here for me. Close your eyes and get some sleep, and when you wake up I’ll be done.”

She nods and curls her backpack up under head and lies down on the bench. I hurry back inside the warehouse where I see an assembly line of workers moving boxes. I jump into the line and start hauling boxes from the carriage onto the shelves inside. The weight of the boxes quickly slows me down, and I can’t keep up with the speed of the men around me. “You,” a man not in the assembly line says to me. “Come here.” I get out of the line and walk over to him. His button down shirt looks freshly washed and there’s only a hint of dust at his temples. “You’re slowing everyone down.” “I’m sorry, I’ll pick it up.” “No, come here.” We walk to a storage room. There are boxes on the ground filled with mason jars of various pickled items. “Unpack these boxes and line the shelves with the jars. If you steal anything, you go to jail. If you break anything, you don’t get paid for the day, understand?” “Yes, no problem.” “As soon as you're done unloading this room you can come see me for your water bottle.” He turns and leaves and I exhale. This is much easier work. After I have two boxes unloaded, its contents neatly lined on the shelves, I hear a voice. “Annika!” I turn and see Ciara rush into the room next to me. “What are you doing here? I told you to wait outside. How did you even get in here?” She shrugs. “I snuck in. I got bored. Can I help?”

I hesitate, but two can finish this a lot faster than one. “Ok, but be careful not to drop anything. If you hear anyone coming, hide in one of the empty boxes.” She smiles and my heart mends, as it does little by little every time I see that grin. Together, we make quick work of the job and before we know it all the boxes are unloaded, and all the mason jars are lined neatly on the shelves. “Ok, can you sneak out without anyone seeing you?” I ask Ciara.

“Yep, I know how.” “Ok, I’ll get our water and meet you back by the bench.” She takes off and I go to find the man that gave me the storage room job. He inspects my work carefully and then produces two water bottles. “Here, take two,” he says, crinkling kind eyes towards me. “You look like you need it.” “Thank you so much,” I say, staring at my new treasure. Two bottles will make all the difference. “Come back if you need more work.” He shows me out and I run to the bench where Ciara is waiting.

“He gave me two bottles! We have enough now, we can start heading to Cannon Beach.”

“And find mom and dad!” She throws her arms around me. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get her this far. Mom and dad always told me if we ever got separated to meet them at Cannon Beach. It hasn’t been easy slugging the kid through the desert, but we’re so close now. Two. More. Days. I spend the evening getting some jerky and new socks with the rest of my money, and with my last dollar I pay for a salt-water bath; a luxury only coastal deserts have. We set up camp under some trees nearby, and at first light we start the last leg of our journey.

I use the compass and the map I have and head west. Ciara doesn’t say much. The anticipation of our arrival and reunion with our parents is too great at this point. There’s nothing left to say. We walk 15 hours the first day, stopping only briefly for lunch. It should leave us with less than 8 hours to go. We camp under the stars that night, giggling and taking small sips of water here and there. We’ve learned how to ration it. I can’t wait for Cannon Beach, but I’ll also miss having this alone time with Ciara, time we normally don’t ever have together. As the sun peaks over the horizon, our eyes shoot open. “We’re gonna see mom and dad today!” Ciara exclaims. We pack up our camp and hit the road as soon as possible. We practically run the remaining distance. By late afternoon, the roads start getting busy with travelers. They’re cleaner than any travelers I’ve seen in quite some time. By the beach, you can take salt water baths for free whenever you want. We cross one last hill and the sight of the never ending sea sprawls in front of us.

“It’s not a mirage is it?” Ciara asks. “Just a vision of what you want?” I take a deep breath and smell the salty air. “You can’t smell a vision.” I grab her hand and we run into town, smiles plastered on our faces. Our eyes start frantically searching the crowds as we shuffle through the now-busy streets. How are we going to find them? The dirt beneath our feet starts changing to sand. We’ve reached the beach. It’s lined with tents up and down the coast as far as we can see. Just past them, waves, beautiful watery waves, crash on the shore. No wonder everyone here is so clean with so much salt water at their fingertips. Ciara and I start walking up and down the rows of tents, searching all the faces. “Annika?” I hear a voice in the distance. Was it calling my name? “Annika!?” I turn, my eyes darting at a speed faster than my quickening heart rate, when I see them. A few tents away from us my mom and dad emerge and start running towards us. “Annika!” They call. I sprint towards them, Ciara at my side, until we are nothing but a mess of arms and hugs and tears. Finally, they pull back and my mom cups my tear-filled face in her hands. “I can’t believe you made it. How did you get here?” She asks. “Ciara helped me.”

Her eyes crinkle with worry as she drops her hands from my face, looking to my dad for help.

“Honey,” dad says. “Ciara’s been dead for years, you know this.” I look down at the spot beside me where Ciara was standing, but of course she’s not there.

“I know,” I say. “Mirages aren’t really there, but sometimes they can help you get where you’re going anyway.”

They look at each other again, their brows furrowed.

“Come inside, honey,” mom says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “We have some water for you.” THE END


Yes, I wish I’d held on to my morals. If I did, I would have still been on one of the modern cruise ships on my way to Cancun. A hollow coconut shell would have easily found its resting position in my hand, flaunting its tiny Hawaiian inspired umbrella and an “adult” cherry floating on a bright blue cheap alcohol. My Vitamin D demanding skin would have been tanned and not burnt, my new aviators would have been put to use, and my effort would be well on trying to gracefully flirt with the muscular server who would offer me pea-sized hors d'oeuvres every five minutes or so. Well, while I’m busy fantasizing on what would have happened, it’s far from reality, so far, that you couldn’t even see it from a telescope.                    ꧁꧂ I unwillingly felt the dense, frosty water quickly rush through my reluctant lungs without a second thought. Automatically, I unfastened my weak jaw about 180 degrees to gasp for some required oxygen, only to affectionately invite more unwanted water into my shattered body. I perceived the clearest of panic attacks creeping through the surreal corridors of my mind. I sensed it lurking. Knowing that I would be swallowed by the dark cloud of trepidation did not make too much of a difference as I voluntarily let it happen. The darkness overcame my body; I could’ve been frantically drowning in the icy waters but I was supposedly floating amongst the other surfacing debris. No one will ever have the privilege of knowing my state of being, not even myself, any memory of this incident was completely and utterly forgotten. I don’t recall I was conscious at the time.

The vivid blue, cloudless sky housed a radiant sun which dazzled its glistening rays upon my senseless body. I was greeted with about six Great Egrets circling me in a flawless unison as I aggressively spat out the grainy sand out of my parched mouth. I was supposedly washed up on the uninhabited regions on Cozumel, an small island right off the Mexican coastline; about a fourty-five minute ride from Cancun. Little did I know that on the other side of the island from where I was washed up, was a small business of hotels and restaurants bustling with clients coming for a well-deserved vacation. Being way too weak for exploring, I would have never known. I was too dehydrated to think clearly and standing up so abruptly was an imprudent mistake. Dazed and disoriented, I stumbled and vigorously fell to my knees right where I was washed up in the first place. All my middle school knowledge about never to drink sea water left a blank mark in my memory as swallowed gulps after gulps of it. It did leave a rather bitter taste but I couldn’t care less. I looked back almost unintentionally and noticed a relatively large waterproof duffel bag; then it hit me. My memory steadily began returning. Remembering brief parts of what had happened, helped piece the complex puzzle together, into what seemed to be an unlikely story which wouldn’t receive an excessive amount of empathy.

It was all planned out; every single possibility of what could or could not go wrong was written on those precious A4 papers back at home. Odette and I were entirely sure the heist would lay out perfectly infront of our eager eyes. Blueprints upon blueprints of the cruise ship’s hidden vents and vaults unavoidably piled themselves up on my chaotic desk. The exceptionally large cork-board which overflowed with elaborate notes, pins and strings, all lead to this one heist; a heist that Odette and I have been persistently planning for about two aching years now. We agreed to the fair deal that she would forage for all the required sources and classified information whilst I perform this rather intricate money heist. But all went burning into high blue flames. I got caught in the act, red handed, in flagrante delicto whatever you’d like to call it, but I was frozen clenching the duffle bag filled with money in my trembling hands. When flustered, one’s rational reasoning transforms into a ludicrous one beyond description. I bolted through the back door and hurled myself into the Caribbean, facing the deserved consequences of a 72 meter fall ahead of me.

That was what I now call my quick sniff of death, yet I didn’t die. I have no objective as to why I voluntarily agreed to being a crucial part of this scheme, I had no reason to. Odette did find me in a rather vulnerable state of mind and promptly took advantage of my situation. After my mother died a sincerely tragic death, Odette invited herself back into my life after a few years of distance. She cautiously used her well-trained manipulatory skills to draw me into the center of her trap. I was fairly financially stable at the time and committing such a felony was an unconditionally foolish and an unnecessary act; but she promised, she promised that all this would get my mind off the tension, strain, and malevolence of the outside world. I cluelessly believed her. I eagerly poured out my heart and soul to her; I found comfort in an old friend, and to know that what she’s done for me was all for her personal benefit, crushes my core to pieces. I just shouldn’t have been so naive. As nightfall drew and my senses began slightly returning, my attention turned to the glaring lights shooting across the horizon. Many boats sped through the water and the deafening helicopters which spoilt the sweet stillness of the Mexican air, shone their overwhelming lights directly down at me and that’s when I truly realized that this was at long last, the end. Inevitably, I was subconsciously sure that I could never get away with such an offense; I didn’t have the finesse and mastery of a thief and I could never obtain it. It wasn’t in my nature. I heartily acknowledged and valued one last state of absolute calmness as I focused on the shimmering stars which reminded me of my beloved mother who always told me that everything will always find its course.


The spring winds rush down the streets of New York City, blowing up dirt and sand everywhere. I hold my head down to keep the dust out of my eyes while trying not to walk into other people doing the same. I reach my favorite breakfast spot and pull hard against the door. I struggle inside as the owner laughs, “Windy enough for ya, Mr. McGee?”  I dust my shoulders and the front of my jacket as I sit at the counter. The rotating stool screeches in protest. The owner Benny removes a dirty plate and wipes the counter clean. “What will it be, Mr. McGee?” I smile at him. “I’ll have a cup of coffee, and a grilled English muffin, thanks.”                           “Sure thing,” he says. He grabs a napkin and spoon and places a small bowl of creamers.  He sets down a diner-style coffee cup, the real heavy kind, and pours the coffee. I watch him walk down to the grill, cut a muffin in half, slather it with butter and place it face down on the grill. It sizzles with eggs and bacon, filling the diner with the smell of breakfast cooking. In no time at all, he returns. “ Say, is there something on your mind, Mr. McGee? Cause that’s like the sixth spoonful of sugar you put in there.” “Huh? What? I hadn’t noticed,” I mumble. Well, Benny, I guess there is.  See, I’m leaving a job I’ve worked for fifteen years, and I’m going to apply for a new one.” “Ya, don’t say, but why are you so nervous?” “Well, it’s the way they do things these days. First, I look for a job on the computer until I find one that sounds good.  Send in my resume.  Wait for what feels like forever and figure they’re not going to answer.  Finally, I receive an e-mail asking for a phone interview. I’ve had two phone interviews so far, and they’ve asked me to come for a face-to-face. Tell me, Benny, whatever happened to walking in and talking to the personal manager and getting the job? At fifty-three, I’m getting too old for this crap.” “I wouldn’t know anything about it, Mr. McGee. I’ve worked here since I was a kid. Took it over when my old man died.”

Someone yells, “Hey, Benny! Where are my eggs?” “Ya wanted them hard-boiled, right? Well, they still got three more minutes.” He turns back to me, “Sheesh!” I take a sip of my coffee and make a face; too sweet!   I hear the little bell on the door tinkling like mad and turn to look. I see this young girl dressed in a business suit hanging onto the door with one hand while trying to hold down her shirt with the other. I hop off of my stool and race to hold the door open for her. She slips past me. “Wow! What’s with the wind? Thanks for your help.” She tries to fix her hair as she looks for a place to sit, but every booth is taken. I smile, “If you don’t mind the counter, there’s a stool next to me.” “No, that will be fine,” she says while slipping a brown leather portfolio off her arm and placing it in front of the stool. Quickly, Benny appears, places a napkin with a spoon, and asks what she would like. “Oh, what he’s having looks good.” “You got it!” Benny then produces a coffee cup and fills it. He pushes the sugar container to her, “I hope there’s enough left after Mr. Sweettooth here has had at it.” She lifts her eyebrows as I glance away, “Guilty as charged.”

She looks to be in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. Her hair is cut in a stylish bob and still a little messed up from the wind. It looks cute anyways, and so does she. I nod to the portfolio, “On your way to work, no doubt?” “No, I’m on my way to a job interview.”

I smile and chuckle, “ What a coincidence, so am I! I was just telling Benny that I’m a little nervous because this is the first interview I’ve been to in fifteen years.” As we begin to talk, all the little noises of the diner, the ringing of the cash register, the sizzling grill, and the murmur of conversations all fade away. “My goodness, that is quite the leap.” She then offers her hand, “I’m Megan, by the way.” Shaking her hand, I introduce myself, “John.” Benny stops by briefly, “Get you anything else, Mr. McGee?”

“Yes, thank you. How about more coffee and another muffin.” “I’ll have another muffin, too, please.” Megan pipes in.  “So, are you leaving a job, or is this something new?” I query. “OH, yeah, I’m leaving where I work. I need a change. Where I work now is so old fashion that it drives me crazy.” She thanks Benny when he returns with a fresh pot of coffee. “What line of work are you in, if I may ask.” “Advertising,” she says while sipping her coffee. Again my eyes light up, “I can’t believe this! So am I!” Megan studies the smiling face beside her, “Sure, he’s fifteen years older than I am, and gray hair is frosting his hairline, but he has a warm and friendly face. I like him.” she thinks. The bell rings as some construction men file in, allowing the wind to blow in with them. Unfortunately, it is strong enough to blow over the portfolio, and some of her work topples out. Scurrying to help her pick up the papers, I can’t help but notice her work. Handing them back to her, I comment, “This is good, very good. Have you always wanted to be in advertising?”                     Megan turns back to her coffee and muffin. “No. I originally wanted to do fashion design, but that field is just too competitive. So I landed a job in advertising and found out I like it. So tell me, John, why are you leaving a job you’ve had for fifteen years?” “I’m afraid it is the opposite of you. A dot com outfit has taken over the place where I work. They’re young and do things so differently than I do that it’s hard for me to adjust.” Megan’s eyes start to dance in wonder, “What did you say the outfit’s name was?” “Ads World Wide,” I reply when it dawns on me. “Don’t tell me that’s who your interview is with?” Megan covers her mouth with one hand while taking my wrist. Then, she giggles, “Yes! And I think you are probably taking my job at Johnson and Barly on 55 th street, correct?” I signal Benny for the check. “This is so unbelievable. We’re like two ships…Megan finishes the phrase, “passing in the night.”  When Benny arrives, he asks,   “Everything okay?’ I give him my credit card and tell him I’d like to pay for the young lady’s as well. As we both stand, Megan says, “Oh, John, you don’t have to do that.” “No, I want to, and I also wish you the best of luck with your new job. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” “Thanks. I pretty sure you’ll like Johnson and Barly too.” I hold open the door, and she turns left while I go right. She turns back to me and calls my name. Megan walks up to me, stands on tiptoes, gives me a pick on the cheek, and hurries away. Time stops for a second as I feel the warm spot on my cheek. I smile and cover it with my hand so it won’t blow away.


Family. It wasn't a choice we had, but a gift. A place we call home. To some of us, it is what we live for, and to others, what we escape for. When we went face to face with all our fears and learned our lessons through the tears, it was the same people who we tried to run away from because they didn't understand us, or we felt like an outcast who stood by us and became the ladder we needed to climb our way up to find the light again. When we fell into the most bottomless pits of misery, heart wrecks, sadness, depression, and felt the utmost of betrayal from the dark world we thought we knew better, who did we choose to run back to?

Good memories keep one warm in the storms of living; they are the moment's real flashes of dreams made it into the real world, and so even though we often need to process or ignore the bad memories that they are intermingled with, they are worth keeping safe in your heart. For these are the moments we humans won some joy, despite the struggle, we smiled and laughed anyway. The happy times happened. They were real. We pack our mental suitcases with only the best of memories so we can fly anyplace we want.

Did you ever wonder if our "good" choices are our "god" choices? That they are the ones, we do from a sense of love and duty for others and the self?

My father always told me, I'll always guide you home no matter where you are, and think of me if ever you're afraid. Because one day you're going to leave this world, so make every second of it worth it, live a life you're going to remember and be proud of. I used to think, what is he on about every single day? He probably took off the words from another random motivational speech he was listening to; he doesn't get me. He never will.

Good choices are made not on the journey, but in a moment, at a fork in the road. This is how the brain is; it is how we are. The forward motion comes best when the primitive drive and the higher social brain agree on a path. I just wanted acceptance from the outside world. I craved that temporary love, those like a face that wasn't even originally mine but covered with delusionary beauty standards, to fit in a crowd, forcing me to paint over the real me, be more them and less me. I had to be a certain way, act a certain way, and feel a sure way to earn the kind of love that wasn't promised for tomorrow. A love that changed who I was, the me in my own body felt distant. I behaved the opposite of what was going on in my mind when deep down, I knew this felt wrong, but I wasn't ready to let go because I knew the world wouldn't be in my grasp anymore. I would be lonely and become a refugee, desperate to escape the war inside my head to fit in.

I just wanted a home. I didn't even need plastic surgery to change myself; all I had to do was feed myself negativity, hatred, and envy of myself that I am not beautiful in my skin. I had to become one of them to feel special. And that was the start of a damaged, emotionally unstable, empty me that I regret to this very day. If only I knew the consequences then, I would have never fallen into that trap of fake love and alluring lies.

Yet my family never left my side. Their love was real, the genuine kind that stuck around when everyone turned their back against me as I drowned in my despair. Their love never faded nor lessened; even when I tested every inch of their willpower to raise me into the person they wanted to see aspire into a powerful individual, they still believed in me. They never gave up on me or chose to let me go. But the world did. I was the show's puppet and once got played with, used for satisfactory personal benefits, got thrown away like I meant nothing to them. They shut me off when I tried to run back to them. They never loved me; they just loved what I offered on the table for them. They loved watching me ache in desperation and sat back and relished what they gained from what I was losing. I had nothing left. It was all snatched away. I had nowhere to go except back to the place I hesitated to call home. And when I did, it was like I never left. Nothing changed. The questionable love I put a label on my parents, concluding they don't get me, finally unravelled. No one understood me like them. No one cares for me like them. I sought love to feel appreciated by others and came back home to the love that never died in the first place. Love is a quiet emotion that, in time, becomes part of the oxygen you need to breathe, and so though you may feel not sure that it's there, any form of removal and the emotions begin to choke. I never correctly understood that the love of my parents is eternal. They are the only ones who accept us for who we are. And when I was lost, it was their light who guided me to who I am today. If you argue with your parents or haven't called them in a while, make sure you do. You never know when it can be your last. No one knows you better than them. You can go searching anywhere and will still come back to the place you hesitated to home.

It lives with me till this very day. I can't imagine a world without my family.


Start your story with someone being presented with a dilemma. On that first Tuesday in March, all Lisa could do is lay in bed and sob. She had two terrible blows in 24 hours; the first was her partner was pulling away, yet again, and the other was her visa, that she had sacrificed everything to be with him, was rejected. The former, she could have the patience to deal with, but this time they had never been happier, and to pull away now just gutted her. The latter, she only had days to respond and react to the rejection letter on her visa. What should she do? The dilemma was many fold; was she being forced to return to the States, to have only one choice legally to return to her abusive marriage? Right now, during the pandemic, the only way a person could return was with a marriage certificate in hand, and since she had used her savings to support herself in a foreign country, she had no funds to start over. Should she stay and fight? The only option was an appeal; they had completely messed up the timeline and not followed the new, easier way to swap a visa. For Lisa, it was more frustrating, because so many come to this country illegally, get picked up on a boat, and have benefits and the Covid jab before the rest of the population. She followed the rules, and after spending much of the last 24 years with England as her home, spending thousands on visas, jumping through hoops both on fire and underwater at the same time...her only choice was to stay, with the person she was here for mot wanting her suddenly, or leave, and have all this joy and happiness dashed back to the life she had left behind. It was a dilemma with no right answer...but for today, all she could do was sob in bed. Lately, the love she had for her partner had become its own entity; she saw it as a warm pink chakra light, encasing her in happiness. When her partner pulled away,, suddenly and with no reason, that pink glow was still there; it would be a month or more of Lisa waking up and seeing the pink light, then realizing the hell she was living. How does one feel safe and loved, and have the love pulled away from you? On that day, she cried like no other day. At one point, she got up and wrote her last wishes. Her partner was always the one that was going to deal with her ashes, since much of where she wanted the scattered was here in the UK. They had plans to grow old together. She wrote, as tears rolled down her cheeks, how much she loved him, that she didn’t know if they would be married or not at the time of her demise, but if the choice was to return to someone who daily tried to kill her, it was better to write this sooner than later. She had been planning a wedding, and used the pandemic as a time to make and order things; frugal as she was, she preferred to create beautiful items from nothing. The last gown and his daughters’ bridesmaid dresses were already in a bag, the other gowns had been hanging in his closet for ages now...it’s just that he kept waffling on the commitment. She would draft her last wishes, and put it in this bag. If nothing else, the dilemma made it so maybe she would never see him again, and this may be the last thing she ever leaves for him on his porch, as she has left treasures and home-cooking there for years now.

The imminent issue was reacting to the threat of visa denial. The nest day, she had to go back to fight mode. The email, ironically, took seven days to reach her, which meant of the two weeks she had to respond, that was really only one week. She sent the rejection letter to her best friend, who was better at deciphering details like this...Lisa was not, especially in the fragile state of mind she was in. Her bff found the loopholes, and Lisa also contacted Home Office, their Assurance team, and CIH Covid team, as well as immigration solicitors...they all agreed that errors had been created. So, an appeal had to be received by the Home Office in a matter of days...this was complicated further by the pandemic and things like, where to find a computer with a printer near a post office to send the documents registered to prove they had been done in time...not an easy task. Lisa knew that taking a few buses was required, and that there was a city with the only library open in her area, that had printers, and a post office nearby. Lisa typed her heart out, pre-drafted much, and emailed to herself so she could print and post...the documents ended up being 64 pages to satisfy the requirements! She had already gotten an assurance so she could stay longer in the country without getting in trouble. They had messed up her visa and the timeline so badly, she wished she had entered on a boat somewhere; it would have been less stressful! Now, the imminent thing Lisa needed to do was some self-care, once that hoop-jumping was done. She was still in love with her partner, she ached for him, longed for him, and cried more than she ever had before in her life. To heal, she started watching every video, reading every bit of research, on trying to figure out this particular part of the dilemma. She did reach out to her partner, they were in contact, and since he was her best friend, there was a line of communication...just no answers. If she pushed, he pulled further away, and it broke her heart. So, she focused on herself; she meditated, did yoga, but there were also weeks that she couldn’t bother to get off the couch, as her relationship seemed doomed. She studied every mystical and psychological thing she could get her hands on, to manifest her man back. They say, put cheerful, sexy pics on social media, they say, do self-love, so once lockdown eased, she saw her beauty place for much needed TLC; still nothing. She still saw him at work, and would pop by his, but he was guarded, but would always kiss her. A good 45 days in, as was the expert predictions o when to see your man, and after so many times asking to see him, she sensed a shift. One day, she decided to go to church in his village. She wore her best dress; it looked like something you would run across a meadow in. As luck would have it, her man was outside his gardening. She chatted, she flirted….she ended up pulling weeds and dancing with freshly pulled onions and carrots to get his attention, all in her white frilly dress! Not easy to be sexy with a trowel in hand, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Eventually, she realized she had clothes at his house, and went in and grabbed some grubbies and trainors, and helped weed some more; his mother passed by and looked on with approval. Unlike the other times she popped by, he didn’t dismiss her, and asked her to cook tea. The ate, watched movies and hung out like always. When it got late, he asked if she wanted to go home or not...she did not. So, months pass, and they gradually see each other like usual. There isn’t the pink glow of love, but there is love nonetheless. But, still no commitment, so she mentions nothing about her visa, just happy to have what time she still has with the man she moves. Meantime, she has made plans to return to the States, hopefully just temporary, but she does miss her family, and has much unfinished business there. Flights are booked and cancelled, along with a holiday she had booked with her partner, because of the pandemic. Ultimately, the dilemma has come more clear; she could return to her ex, hoping for the best either short or long term, but ultimately she plans on telling her partner the night before, since there is no point of telling him when lights get cancelled. She had brought up visa issues before and he always pulled away, but the fact he would not support her was why she was in this boat in the first place. She knew he loved her, but all the research she read was that turning herself into a pretzel was why she was not getting anywhere. She would calmly sit him down and say, ‘Look, I love you, and i want to grow old with you, but my return is based on when YOU want me to come back. It’s not like we have to get married right away, but I need to live with you; I can’t afford to support myself and not be legally allowed to work. If you want me, you will ask me to come back. My life is here...with you. It’s up to you’. This was the thought that entered Lisa’s mind that early Tuesday in March; the whole idea that her life was out of her own control, but now she was at least at peace with the decision in this dilemma, as she had to out her faith in something bigger than herself...


The steam hit my face as I took a sip from my cup. My grandmother smiled at me sweetly. I looked down into my oolong tea and saw it again. The same thing I saw every time I drank oolong tea. If you didn't know, oolong tea has mental alertness benefits, or that's what my grandma always told me as a child. She wasn't wrong. Only, I don't think she thought I'd see a premonition when I drank the tea. I never told anyone what had happened. I was scared someone was going to throw me into a mental hospital or experiment on me in an illegal government lab. The vision I saw was like a daydream. I can't move, I never felt like I was breathing, and everything felt like it was moving at a snail's pace. The only thing I heard was a flatline. The only thing I saw was my grandmother lying in a hospital bed with 9:13 on the clock next to her. It terrified me. Seeing my grandma and hearing a flatline? No one wants to see or hear it--let alone knowing she's in perfect health and still seeing it? I had it a few times before I stopped drinking the tea altogether. This is until today. September 12th. My grandma invited me over after my classes. She wanted to bake brownies and drink tea. Catch up because I hadn't been there in a bit. I walked inside to see her sitting in her rocking chair. Her brown, leather chair with a red flannel hanging off the back. She smiled at me as she saw me. I sat my backpack down. "Ella, lovely to see you, dear," Mama Rose said. "Hi, Mama Rose," I greeted. "Come sit with me. I was looking at old pictures of your Papa, Joe." I walked over and sat by her. I hadn't noticed the photo book on her lap before now. She was on a page with six pictures on it. The top left was a picture of her and papa on their wedding day. Below it was Mama, Papa, and baby version my mother. They were sitting on the porch and my mom was distracted by something off-camera. The bottom picture on the left was Mama, Papa, and I--sitting on the same porch, and I was distracted by something to my left. On the same page on the right were Mom and me. I was much older and we sat on the porch. We were both looking at the camera. Below it was the same day, just a remade version of Mama, Papa, and I. The last picture was a picture of me next to Mom and Papa's grave. "I miss him so much," Mama said. Her wrinkled finger traced the gravestone in the picture. "How about some tea, Mama?" I asked. I got up and made a pot. "You know, your Papa loved watching baseball?" Mama called out. "He just adored you when you started playing." "I played just for him, Mama," I called out as I waited for the pot to finish. "Oh, I know, dear. I'm surprised he didn't know that." "I was horrible! He still cheered for me." "Your own personal cheerleader." I let out a laugh. The pot hissed once it was finished. I grabbed two cups from the cupboard and poured the fresh oolong tea into them. I placed Mama's sugar in one and mine in the other. I took the cups over to where we were sitting. I gave her, her glass. She took a drink and I hesitated. Mama set her cup down. "You know, Ella," Mama said. "When I drank my special oolong tea for the first time, I saw a man lying in a bed. For many years it scared me because the man was dying. I didn't know him, but I felt him die when he took in this deep breath." I gave her a confused look as she continued, "--and for many years, I didn't know who that man was." "Who was it, Mama?" I asked. "It was your Papa Joe." I was stunned. She saw Papa's death like I was seeing hers? "I'm guessing you're seeing someone else die, too?" She asked. I gave a nod. She smiled. "I'm glad I'm not the only one," she said. "Your mother never wanted to drink the tea." She let out a sigh that turned into a hum. "I should get some sleep," she said. She closed the photo book and stood up. She put the book back on the shelf. There were rows and rows of photo books. "Good night, Ella," Mama said. She walked off. "Good night, Mama," I said. I took a sip of my tea and saw it again. Mama dying in the hospital bed. I thought nothing of it and went back to my dorm. I took my nightly shower and went to bed quickly. I woke up to a disturbing call late in the night. Well, it was 1 in the morning. Mama was taken to the hospital. I quickly put clothes on and rushed there. She was already on oxygen. I looked at the time and it read 1:34. Nowhere close to 9:13. Time progressed and Mama wasn't getting any better. The day had gone by. It was 11:50 pm. I was more confused than ever and even so, she didn't die at 9:13 am or pm. Time was ticking. Mama reached her hand out to me. I took it. "I'm ready to see Joe again," she said. Tears started falling down my face. "I miss him so much, Ella," Mama told me. "Mama, stay with me," I begged her. "I'm not ready to lose you yet." "Yes, you are. I love you, Ella. I love you so much, dear." "I love you, Mama." Mama took a deep breath and the monitor let out a flatline. I started sobbing and I saw the time. 11:59. A doctor ran in and did something. I was too focused on Mama's face. A tear had slipped down her face. "Time of death," the doctor announced. "23:59, 9/13."


“So, the culprit entered through the kitchen window connecting to the fire escape,” the detective said into his recorder. Bending down, he examined the broken glass scattered around the worn wooden floor. The crime scene photographer placed a numbered card near the evidence and flashed a picture. The detective waved for the young man to follow behind him as he walked throughout the small apartment, taking note of any disturbances. A petite woman sat on a floral sofa in the living room nearby, watching them move around her home. It happened in the early hours of the morning when she heard the glass breaking from her bedroom. Sitting up in bed, she went out to investigate to discover someone had broken in. The last thing she did was call the cops, who took their sweet time getting out to her Brooklyn apartment. “Do you think it was someone she knew?” she heard the photographer say from the bedroom. She liked him. He seemed sweet, innocent almost. The detective simply called him Rookie, so she hadn’t caught his actual name. “Nah,” the detective drawled. “That’s not what she said when she called. If it was an ex-lover or friend, that would’ve been the first thing out of her mouth.” She stood from her seat and walked over to the doorframe. Leaning against it, she followed their movements around the bed as she heard the camera's shutter go off from different angles. A tear rolled down her cheek as she wiped it away, sniffing. They paid her no mind as they continued. Rookie shook his head with a sigh. “She couldn’t be much older than my little sister.” “You have to learn to compartmentalize it all. It doesn’t surprise me she was a target. A single woman living alone in the rough part of town. Easy kill.” The latex snapped as he pulled it over his thick wrist. Lifting the edge of the soiled blanket, he clicked on a UV light, searching for hairs. She sobbed softly in the corner of the room, unable to speak. “Did she have family?” Rookie asked, taking his final photo. The detective picked up a framed picture on her nightstand of her smiling with her ex-girlfriend, Lizzie. They would find out that Lizzie had broken up with her almost a year ago, and she didn’t have the heart to rid herself of her presence. She hadn’t slept well since she left—and now, it didn’t matter. The detective sat it back down. “We’ll go through her personal items: laptop, phone, wallet. I’m sure there was someone she talked to, like a coworker or neighbor. Between you and me, it doesn’t look like anyone’s looking for her. Rookie frowned. “That doesn’t mean she’s not important.” “I know.” The words escaped the detective’s lips as a raspy breath. The atmosphere was somber as she finally gained the courage to walk over to the bed where her mangled body lay as the pair talked about her as if she wasn’t there. Her body was cold, bruised, and broken. The detective had done the decent thing and closed her eyes after the initial body shot. He mentioned that the Catholic side of him couldn’t let the little things like that go. She knew it was his pity even though she was appreciative of the gesture. Rookie and the detective left the room, having gathered all that they required to keep her case open for the next week until they closed it. She wasn’t hopeful that they’d find the person who did this to her. It was obvious from their discussion that the best they could do was notify anyone close to her about her passing. It was the best she could hope for. She walked over to the bed and knelt by the edge, reaching out towards her stiff body before snatching her hand away. Falling beside her bed, she pulled her knees to her chest and rocked herself as sobs racked her body. While there was no pain, her sadness was palpable in the air of the tiny apartment—a coldness that pierced any soul that dared to wander into her domain. Through puffy eyes, she peered at the picture on her nightstand. As she tried to pick it up, her hand passed through the object and floated down beside her. She knew she should’ve locked herself in her bathroom. Maybe then she could’ve gotten away or fought long enough until the cops arrived. Pushing herself up from the floor, she wrapped her sweater around herself and headed back into the kitchen. Gasping, panic filled her being as she flung herself towards the window that was once simply broken glass. In its place were bricks, keeping her from the outside world. Spinning around, she dashed from room to room, realizing that she was trapped in the last place she would ever physically know. The door to the apartment opened as her mother, and Lizzie carried in boxes. Glancing around her living room, she noticed the layer of thick dust that had settled across the coffee table. Rushing towards Lizzie, she opened her mouth, but the words she so desperately wanted to say wouldn’t come. Lizzie blinked as strands of her ebony hair fluttered past her face. “Is the air conditioner still on?” “We shut it off months ago after…well,” her mother answered, tears welling in her eyes. “Let’s get started with packing this up. The new family moving in here needs it out by next week.” “Mom,” she managed to finally say. Her mother turned in her direction but seemed to look past her. Lizzie walked over to the nightstand and picked up the photo. She walked over to her, wondering why she was there after their fight so long ago. A single tear rolled down Lizzie’s cheek as she sucked in a shaky breath, rubbing her thumb along her picture. “I miss you. Please, be at peace.” Lizzie clutched the photo to her chest as she watched her mother place a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. The two women hugged each other as she felt a warm ray of sunlight hit her back. The bricks over the windows had given way, beckoning to her to come forward to make her final escape. She glanced over her shoulder one last time as the light drew her in, allowing her to finally be free.


Lucy sat alone staring out at Stanley’s bird feeders. She had been married to Stanley for what felt like many years, but in reality it had only been three. They dated for six months before Stanley proposed after a chicken dinner that Lucy had made. Lucy had always pictured a movie type proposal, the ring in her champagne glass at a fancy restaurant, or on top of the Empire State Building with a crowd of onlookers cheering when she said yes. Being home alone was also nice Lucy thought. She didn’t have to worry about getting dressed up or crying in public. Surprisingly, she didn’t cry after Stanley’s proposal. The two of them kissed and Stanley asked if she would mind if he watched the evening news. Lucy cleared and washed the dinner plates. Lucy and Stanley were married in a small church service surrounded by close family and friends. They kept the reception simple at Stanley’s suggestion. He didn’t want anything elaborate so they opted for a small luncheon at home that Lucy’s mother helped prepare. They served a light menu of salads, sandwiches, wedding cake and champagne. As a little girl Lucy would daydream about a big wedding, with lots of dancing and music. She pictured a fancy wedding cake with many tiers and fresh flowers adorning it, possibly blue hydrangeas for a summer wedding. Her actual wedding reception was on the quiet side. No one danced. The jazz music Stanley put on the record player was so low no one could hear it. Their wedding cake was pretty; one tier, vanilla cake with vanilla icing and pale yellow silk flowers. It was not the day Lucy had daydreamed about, but at least it was stress free. Lucy and Stanley settled into married life and their day to day routine quickly. The alarm went off at 6:30am followed by showers and breakfast. Breakfast was always the same; orange juice, tea and oatmeal for Lucy, coffee, white toast and half a grapefruit for Stanley. After breakfast Lucy would drop Stanley off at the train station so he could catch the 7:50 train into the city. Stanley worked in advertising at a large firm in NYC. He did accounting for the agency, not the actual advertising campaigns or clever jingles. Lucy was the clever one in the couple, always coming up with catchy tag-lines and slogans in her head. After dropping Stanley off, Lucy continued to her job five minutes up the road. She worked at the local library Monday thru Friday, and the occasional Saturday if her colleague Susan needed the day off. Susan was an aspiring actress and would go to open auditions in the city in hopes of being discovered. Lucy was happy to help Susan run lines for her auditions. Susan’s life seemed very exciting to Lucy. Lucy had a passion for reading and was always up to date on the latest murder mystery novels. She would display her book reviews in the library on a colorful bulletin board she made. Library patrons would come in just to read them. She had a way with words and her reviews were exciting, without giving too much away. There would quickly be a wait-list for a novel Lucy gave a five star review to. The head librarian suggested Lucy start a monthly mystery book club. The get togethers quickly became the most popular event at the library. Lucy would have everyone deeply enthralled during their “whodunit” discussions. She made lots of friends through the library and suggested to Stanley they host a dinner party so he could meet everyone, but Stanley was not much into entertaining. Lucy pressed the issue offering an early weekend dinner, but Stanley said he liked to keep to his weekend routine. On Saturdays Stanley would wake up at 7:30. Lucy would have his coffee, white toast and half a grapefruit ready when he came downstairs. She surprised him one Saturday morning with blueberry pancakes, but Stanley told her, “I do not care to have dessert for breakfast”. Lucy sectioned a grapefruit for him and ate the pancakes herself.

Stanley would check on his bird feeders after breakfast. He had one for blue jays, finches, cardinals and sparrows. The smaller, red bird feeder was for hummingbirds. He filled it with a simple syrup mixture he would make himself. The feeder’s label said it was “guaranteed to attract hummingbirds”. Stanley never once saw a hummingbird. He would spend the better part of his weekend mornings either watching his bird feeders, refilling them, or reading about birds in his monthly issue of BirdWatching Magazine .

Lucy would make lunch ahead of time and leave it in the refrigerator for Stanley if she was filling in for Susan at the library. Stanley always had a ham and cheese sandwich on Pepperidge Farm white bread with a tiny amount of Gulden’s mustard. After lunch, Stanley would read a book, or work on the NYTimes crossword puzzle. Lucy would come home full of stories from her day, but Stanley would put his index finger to his mouth indicating “quiet” while he working on his crossword puzzle.

On Saturday evenings Lucy would make herself a cocktail to make the night feel a little special. She would make herself a Tom Collins or a Pink Lady. Stanley had a Schwepps ginger ale, no ice. Saturday night dinner was either pork chops or lamb chops depending on what the butcher had available. Sundays were pretty much the same as Saturdays except Lucy made a roast chicken dinner. Lucy had bought all the ingredients to make lasagna one Sunday when they first started dating, but Stanley told her his mother had made the same Sunday night chicken dinner for as long as he could remember and he couldn’t imagine having anything else. Lucy hated roast chicken. Currently, there was an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art that Lucy had read about in the New York Times . It was called Treasures of Tutankhamun and Lucy very much wanted to see it. She had read a lot about King Tut over the years and studied him in school. Susan said the Met was the last stop of the two year tour of the exhibit. She had two tickets to the exhibit through her museum membership and asked Lucy if she wanted to go. Lucy said yes without hesitation. She could not pass up such an exciting opportunity. Stanley would be fine home alone for one evening. She would leave a chicken prepped and ready for him to pop in the oven for his Sunday night dinner. It was the perfect plan Lucy thought to herself. The city was magnificent! The Met was magnificent! Lucy had a wonderful day in the city. After seeing the exhibit they decided to have lunch in the museum cafe. Afterwards, they walked around the museum and enjoyed two more exhibits that were on permanent display. Lucy suggested they walk down 5th Avenue to do some window shopping. It was a warm summer day. “Let’s have a glass of wine outside at a restaurant on Madison Avenue” Lucy said with excitement in her voice. She was in no rush to get home. Susan looked at the train schedule and they could catch the 6:10 train. The women ended up ordering delicious pasta dinners and Lucy enjoyed a second glass of wine. “I am so happy you are out and having some fun" Susan remarked. “You do not have enough fun in your life”. Lucy agreed, and with that she suggested they order the tiramisu to share. As Lucy sat watching the taxis and people pass by she thought to herself, “Today is the perfect day, a perfect Sunday”. Everything felt exciting and different from her normal, dull routine. Lucy felt exhilarated for the first time in three years. Lucy and Susan missed their train and the one after that. By the time Susan dropped Lucy off at her house it was past 9:00. She had called Stanley once from a pay phone at the museum to let him know she would be a little late, which he was not happy about. Lucy changed out of her dress and into a pair of pajamas she had left in the laundry room. She slept downstairs in the guest room. She fell asleep going over the day again and again in her head with a smile on her face.

The next morning Lucy woke up early feeling eager to clean up the remnants of Stanley’s dinner. What a mess he had left in the kitchen. He had only eaten half of the breast and a drumstick, but that was plenty Lucy thought. She discarded the remnants of uneaten carcass and put it out for the morning trash pick-up. When Stanley did not come downstairs at the usual time Lucy went upstairs. Their bed was untouched and still perfectly made from the day before. Light was coming from under their bathroom door. Lucy cautiously opened the door and was immediately hit with a very strong, putrid smell. There was poor Stanley, slumped over and motionless on the pinwheel dot black and white mosaic tile Lucy had picked out.

Lucy went back downstairs and saw Stanley’s cold coffee, toast and grapefruit. She had made his breakfast out of habit she guessed. Lucy made herself waffles using the waffle iron that had still been in the box from their wedding. She topped the waffles with strawberries and maple syrup. As she ate, she anxiously flipped through the morning newspaper looking for the exhibit that would be replacing King Tut at the Met. Lucy got up to make herself a cup of coffee for a change and she looked outside the kitchen window. There was a beautiful ruby-throated hummingbird at the red bird feeder. Lucy grinned, “what a day”.