There are very few people who can find friends in their own families, and I am one of those. My father was my best friend, not like Lorelai in Gilmore Girls, and I don't think there is any movie that has shown it until now. He has been my best friend when my friends deceived me or when I needed an ear or a partner in crime. He has been there invariably.

Losing that person can kill us. And it did. I am just alive physically, and I continue to do my part in this world as it is my responsibility; otherwise, I was gone when he left, too. I craved little things like a good morning message or just one phone call and mostly to receive all those forwarded messages in my WhatsApp he used to forward to all the groups. He never bothered if anyone read them and just sent it to everyone if he found it helpful. People don't miss the big things mainly, but the little stuff, the mundane happenings that pass by in life a million times and barely pay attention to them. The one wish of wanting to hear his voice kept growing. Of course, I replay all the voice notes and videos innumerable times. But those are past events. I want him in my present. Since it's not possible, I replay everything until I fall asleep.

On my tough days, rebellious days, the day I broke my hand and cleared my exams with 97%, he was with me through every big and small piece of the journey. If he was physically not around, he called me. He constantly reminded me,' I am not just your parent; I am also your friend. So remember that on the days you feel uncomfortable discussing with me.' I didn't confer all the gory details, but he meant that he was there even when there were instances I couldn't open up to him. On his tough days, I got to know him well after the fact. He shares the details with me, but only when it's way too much. That's why I was always observant. I know he is a giver, so I don't wait until he asks and ensure I am there for him. We always knew this was a special relationship and it's rare existence. Sadly enough, there is no forever in this world. It has to end at some point. We cherished every moment we possibly had, and it is still not enough. Never enough.

In fact, we always joked that when one of us died, we would be there in each other's lives like a ghost and haunt each other to be present. Maybe that was our way of not accepting that life will come to an end someday, and we never know when. When that day actually came, the whole world shattered. It came to a screeching halt. My life was like a sports car going at 150 kmph and came to a sudden stop when I heard the news. It didn't matter what ended in my life since the news. He lived a happy life and passed peacefully, too. The fact that he won't be around is not something that I could digest, though. So, my life was over, too. My decision-making skills vanished, my passion and curiosity disappeared; everything went away and passed into thin air. It took me days or months, or I don't know how long until that day.

************************************************************ It was a sunny day, and I had back-to-back meetings for hours. I needed to be in the office and couldn't get out of bed early. So, after the first round of calls, I started to office. I didn't expect much traffic since it was not the peak hour. I had slotted 45 minutes before my next meeting. I wanted to grab some lunch on the way as well. With that, I was out of the door. People living in high-rise buildings may enjoy the impeccable scenery from their windows, but all that happiness evaporates when they need to wait for the elevator. The worst are the mornings and evenings. It takes forever to go down 25 floors as everyone would need the lift. Trust me when I say this: It takes a whole song, i.e., around 4 to 5 minutes, to reach the ground floor.

Hence, I love the mid-days and late nights as I can just power to the parking directly. I got in the lift, and with my clumsiness at peak as usual, I dropped my keys, and as I was trying to pick them up, I dropped my mug. Thank God for those spill-proof mugs, and when I drop them, I at least save myself from the embarrassment of losing my dignity and my coffee in one go. I swore immediately in frustration and said, 'Why me, paa?' Then I heard, ' It's ok, Moni, stuff happens, don't get all worked up like that' in Dad's voice. I froze. I couldn't pick up my mug and lost all strength to grab the keys. I kept questioning if this was a dream in that bent-down posture. God knows it is all my imagination from the vertigo that hit my head as I am still bent down with my head up, looking around like a clown. How can I prove it's not a dream? The classic pinch-me technique? But there is no one here. How am I going to get an answer? And all of a sudden, I hear the lift announcing - 'Ground floor, doors opening'. I was still standing there, frozen and unmoved. As the doors opened, his voice only said, 'Have a good day now, my dear daughter and Moni, don't waste your valuable talent. Remember to keep yourself relevant. Always create your value wherever you are.' He was gone before I could whip up a word. I realised someone staring at me, waiting to get into the lift. I am still bent over with my stuff on the floor. As someone was getting in, I just grabbed everything and got out. It took me 5 minutes to find my car instead of a minute I usually take since I seem to have forgotten all my reality. His voice is still reverberating in my head, but nothing is going into my head. I am in the car with no memory of how to drive.

**************************************

I swear I kept questioning myself if it was time to consider an asylum and if it's not too late. I mean, it's been three months; how could I be hearing his voice now? Don't they say that our favourite people come back to haunt us in the initial month before we do their final rites? We did everything as per the books so that we could send him to his eternal resting place in a proper manner. It took all my strength and my sister's, but we did our best. Who should I talk to? My therapist would undoubtedly say that things like this happen because of grief. Should I go to a priest instead? But Dad isn't haunting me. I merely heard his voice, and I have no idea what is real.

That day, I completed all the work my team members filled in for me as I grieved. They were not unhappy when I took the reins back. I returned home carrying the takeaway I could get even though I was sure no food would reach my stomach. Even if it does, there is no way it is staying in. But people gotta eat. I waited for the same lift even though there were others. Again, people gave me a weird look when I didn't get in, even when there was a place. I was stubborn to see if I made it up or if it happened to me. I got into the lift and realised I wasn't alone. Their floor was above mine, so we shared the ride, and I got down at 25. I was so reluctant to get out, but she would be suspicious that I pressed 25 and didn't get out.

When something happens, our responses are usually based on our past experiences. And that past literally keeps coming up in our head in waves like how they show in Indian Serials: everything replays in sepia mode, and the emotional music with multiple zooms. I took the time to calm myself down first, even though every element in my body was not calm, even in a single cell of my body. What can I do though? He is no more, and I need to somehow bring myself to reality. I am an indolent person, that's why I like being organised. Like James Clear says, lazy people are the cleanest ones because they don't like redoing things. Once I reach home, there is no way I like stepping out of the house again. I am not attached to the house, but I don't prefer leaving it either. But the thoughts of going in that lift again and again and trying to see what happened don't stop. I tried to call him out in the house, but it was the same silent lull there.

I would give anything to have him in my life because it keeps me sane. I just want Dad. All my relationships failed. All my life, I had bad friends other than 1 or 2 people. So, there is no one to fill that void. He was my whole life: the thought I woke up to, the call I ended my day with, the message I looked forward to, the suggestion, honest advice or even my therapist, my everything. Shortly, my "soulmate". So hearing his voice gave me that boost, like how drug addicts felt. Then, everything came to a standstill.

********************************* Once I managed to calm myself down, I got some sleep, and I slept for hours like a baby. I haven't slept like that in months. I woke up early in the morning, as was my tradition before the work hours; I decided to give it another shot with a calm head. I went to the lift lobby, and to my dismay, that lift took a long time. When it did come, there was someone in there. I got in and decided to go for a walk. I stood in the lift, closing my eyes, and I had a startle when I heard his voice again, 'Good morning Moni'. That's when I realised that there was no one. Looks like that other person got down, and I didn't even realise. So, my guess was correct: I needed to be alone in the elevator. Is it just this one? Or does it work with others, too? Is this lift like a portal to the past. Way toooooo many questions. Uff. This time, I managed to say, 'Good morning, paa. I miss you. He said,' Me too', and I reached the floor before debating whether I should get out or not. Someone was waiting on the other end, which meant I should get out.

And so our journey continued. I had a short chat with him every day. I started getting out of the house at odd times so that I get to talk to him. It kept me going. So I never bothered to tell anyone. Because what if I told them and lost the one good thing I had going as well. I started becoming fitter because I don't stay in the house anymore, and I go for short walks around the building while the lift gets free for my next ride. I didn't know what was happening. I just know his voice is heard in that elevator when I am alone.

*****************************************

Life kept going after that. I didn't feel so lonely anymore. I looked forward to the morning and evening chats with Dad. I haven't spoken about it to anyone. I tried to record his voice on my phone, but it didn't seem to work, so I took solace in the fact that I still have him in some form. It still used to scare me at times if I became one of those people who imagine their loved one's presence in their life long after they are gone. Proving this to anyone is impossible, so I decided to take the benefit and stay sane or insane, whichever it is.

I managed to thrive in my work and stay healthy as well. I felt like there was something to look forward to even if I still came back to my home alone. Life is never fair to anyone, but there is always a little light if we choose to see it. I had reduced my travelling, but I read a lot and sleep way better now. I don't feel like gagging at the thought of having to eat delicious food, which I can never share with him. I continued to share the stories of the books I read with him, and he continued to impart his knowledge about various topics.

Then came a day where everything felt bleak, as always. We all know those days; we all lived through those days. We question our own existence and the point of our lives. On top of it, I failed to do a simple presentation for which I had prepared for a whole week. Additionally, I stand to lose my job because of that one mistake. Even though it has been a toxic workplace with all the internal politics and gossip, I still gave my best. I felt like running away from there, but where to? Can I be a hippie? What's the point? I became one of those people who barely has a life, who talks to her dad in an elevator. Sounds pathetic, and that's me. I entered the women's bathroom and broke down to realise there was no privacy. I tried to enter a fire exit, but the doors were blocked. If you have never been to the fire exits in a corporate office, let me tell you that it's the most peaceful place you can find. But since it's unavailable, I headed to the terrace with the lift. I cried so much that the tissue in my hand was soggy, and that's all I had. Then came Dad's voice: 'What's real and what's not? Can anyone prove that you are real and I am not? ' The only thing in my head is: Umm, How the hell did I not know that he would be there here too? How stupid and dumb am I. His voice was clear as a 5g wifi call. I asked him, 'If so, then why did you go. I just need you and your hug. I want to take trips to the Himalayas with you that we planned all our lives but never managed to. Celebrate the festivals together and show you off to the whole world because you are the best one out there.' It was so quiet, like my life on an early morning, as I stared through my windows when my ex left. Perhaps Dad left, too. Probably, this is just some psychological problem, and he was my imagination. Then Dad said, 'Close your eyes'. I felt some warmth like actually being hugged, and before I reacted, it was over. I asked, 'Was it you? Are you really there?' and he just responded with a sad voice, 'Always'. I was frozen and could only feel as my skin reacted with goose pimples because of his presence for the first time in a very long time. I realised I was reaching the terrace and asked him how he materialised only in an elevator. He said, I have no idea how, but know that I am always here. To which I asked, 'In any of them?' and he responded, 'Yes! ' A bad day is just a bad day, not a bad life. I found a new job and a new home and moved to a new place. The new changes brought in good friends and a healthy work atmosphere. I continued my chats with Dad: Through my chemo treatments, through my old age and the days when it all came together. He was there until my last breath. I don't know if this is true for everyone. I was blessed to have him in his afterlife, too.

There were a lot of unanswered questions. Would I have been able to talk to my grandparents? Is that why Mum suddenly woke up complaining of dreams where the grandma who passed away informed her of the future. It's so weird. But because I had dad, I never bothered if anyone else also had people to talk to. I was just too scared to lose him in this conventional world. Speaking to a psychiatrist is easy, but what if they said it's just my imagination. Is there a point in living? I made my life worthwhile but also kept him with me. It was my little secret.

Today, I left the earth and hovered over my niece and nephew, waiting for them to summon me, for I cannot call upon them. If they need me, I am there. Seeing how independent their lives are as they grow up makes me so happy. After being busy all our lives, The happiest part is Dad and I are in the same space now, and we both sit and stare at the Manasarovar Lake on a bench. It was our dream for years, and now, we sit there in peace. This is all I need.


“I really thought our date was going to be a bit more fancy”, I say with a smirk on my face, looking at the ground. There’s a red and white blanket covering the grass, two plates and a big pizza on top of it. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love it because I know for a fact that you do,” he says back to me and I roll my eyes. I’m a pretty simple girl, so I actually like this way better than going out to dinner in a fancy restaurant. But obviously, I’m not going to tell him that. I’m kind of curious though. Was it just a lucky guess, or did he really think about it? “Well, sit down, my lady,” he says as he makes a bow. “You’re such an idiot, Lucas,” I tell him, rolling my eyes once again as I take a seat on the blanket. He does the same, sitting down opposite me before he hands me a slice of pizza. I thank him with a small smile and take a ginormous bite. As I’m chewing, I briefly flick my eyes over at him and see him giggling like a little girl. “What?” I ask him, dough and tomato sauce still filling my mouth. “Nothing… I’ve just never seen a girl dig in like that. Your whole slice of pizza is gone and you only took one bite.” “Oh shut up, Lucas. How would you even know how girls eat? You never take one out to lunch or dinner. The only thing you do is sleep with them and throw them out the next morning,” I say and I can see he’s a bit taken aback. “Oh I am sorry, Miss Perfect,” he snaps back at me before grabbing a slice of pizza and putting it into his mouth. “You know this is stupid, right?” I ask after a few minutes of silence, throwing the last little piece of my pizza slice into my mouth. “Yeah well, it’s sort of your own fault. You shouldn’t have lost our bet,” he says and I let out a sigh. “But what kind of punishment is this? Couldn’t you have come up with something embarrassing like walking around campus covered in dog poop, or making me dance in the cafeteria? Why make me go on a date with you?” “Because that’s the only thing I can annoy you with. I know how much you hate me so, there’s nothing better than to see you sweat trying to put up with me for an evening,” he says as a smirk appears on his face. “I can’t believe you.” “Why are you so winey? You lost, deal with it. You shouldn’t have called me a brainless playboy. That way, I wouldn’t have had to prove you otherwise, and there wouldn’t have been a bet.” “Getting an A on one test doesn’t prove anything. I saw two girls leave your dorm room yesterday morning. So I might have lost your stupid bet, but I still stand by my opinion. You’re still a brainless playboy,” I say, slightly proud of my comeback before grabbing another slice of pizza. I can just feel his eyes staring at me. “Okay seriously, what is your problem?” I scream out as I frustratedly throw the slice of pizza I’m holding down onto the plate in front of me. I look up at him and his chocolate-brown eyes meet my ocean-blue ones. His expression is sweet and tender, something I’m not used to seeing from him. “You’re so intriguing and mysterious, it’s killing me. I’ve never met anyone like you.” “Okay, if this is some weird kind of declaration of love, you can stop it right here.” “I’m serious though. You’re different. It just lures me in,” he tells me as he scoots over closer to me. Confusion creeps onto my face and I’m pretty sure he can tell. “What? Don’t tell me I don’t turn you on just a little bit?” “Nope, not a bit,” I speak out quickly, but I can feel my cheeks heating up. “Then why do you always feel the need to be around me?” “I do not!” “You do too. You’re always there. It doesn’t matter where I am. It can be in class, at lunch or at a party. You always find your way to me. And why? Only to call me a brainless playboy? That doesn’t really sound right, now does it?” he asks me and I’m lost for words. I never thought about it like that, but he makes a good point. I always end up being near him. I take in a deep breath as I feel a weird sensation going through my right hand. I look down and see that Lucas’s hand is on top of mine. I want to move it away, but I can’t. My heart starts beating erratically, my cheeks turning as red as the tomato sauce on our pizza. All of a sudden, the sky turns grey and it starts to rain. Correction, it doesn’t just start raining, it starts pouring. I quickly stand up from the ground and Lucas follows my lead. He wraps everything into the picnic blanket and throws it over his shoulder. I get startled by his sudden movement of grabbing my hand again before he gently tugs on it. I get the message and we both start to run back over to campus, hand in hand, our fingers intertwined. When we arrive, we immediately run inside one of the dormitories to take shelter from the pouring rain. As we look at each other, we both burst out in laughter. “You look so hot right now,” I can hear Lucas say as he looks my soaking wet body up and down. I just roll my eyes and turn myself around. I start walking but instantly get stopped by a firm hand grabbing my arm. “And where do you think you’re going?” Lucas asks me as he spins me around. “My dorm room,” I answer him in a ‘duh’-tone. “No, you’re not. You’re soaking wet and your dorm room is all the way over at the other side of campus. You’ll get sick.” “So?” “So, I don’t want that. And besides, date-night is not over until I say it is,” he says, a smug grin on his face. Before I can even let out a sigh, his arm is present around my shoulder as I’m being chaperoned to his dorm room. He takes out his key and opens up the door. He holds it for me to walk through, which I do, but only after I make sure that he can see the annoyance on my face. I take off my shoes before looking around the room. I have to say, it’s nice. It is much bigger than my dorm room. It looks more like an apartment than a dorm room. A twin bed, a kitchen, a dining table, a desk, a bathroom, a couch, a tv. I don’t know why I’m surprised though. I already knew he had money so this was to be expected. “Just grab a shirt out of the top drawer,” Lucas says as he points towards a fancy wooden closet at the far right of the room. It isn’t high like a normal closet would be, but it’s stretched out horizontally. “I’m going to take a quick shower. It’ll only take a sec.” And with that being said, he disappears into his bathroom. I hesitate before cautiously walking over to the closet Lucas pointed towards a minute ago. I open one of the top drawers and see piles of shirts. Mostly black and white with a hint of colour in between the basic ones. I grab a black one, making sure I don’t mess up his drawer, before putting it on top and close the drawer back up. I look around myself and once the coast is clear and I’m certain Lucas is not back yet, I unzip my jeans and slide them down my legs. I step out of them, collect them off of the floor and throw them onto the nearest chair. I pull my t-shirt over my head but as soon as my arms are in the air, I feel two muscular arms wrapping themselves around my bare waist. Goosebumps emerge all over my body as I let my shirt fall to the ground, leaving me in only my bra and panties. The arms around my waist move softly as I feel a body pressing against my back. His lips make contact with the skin of my neck and he lets out a soft breath, sending shivers down my spine. “I know you want me. Why can’t you just admit that?” he whispers into my ear. I close my eyes as I feel a gentle kiss being placed in the crook of my neck. “I… I… I don’t,” I breathe out, clearly struggling to keep my feelings under control. I feel his hands move to my thighs. He tenderly grabs a hold of them and spins me around, making me look right into his eyes. “I’m not going to be another trophy on your shelve, Lucas.” “I never asked you to be. And you know I mean that. You know what we have is different. You know I’ve been crazy about you from the moment we met. And it doesn’t matter how many times you try to deny it, I know you feel it too,” he says as his hand makes his way up to my face, cupping my cheek. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up. “Our bet wasn’t just a stupid silly thing, not to me anyway. It was my chance to prove myself. I haven’t slept with any girls since we made that bet. The girls you saw yesterday were my sisters. I’m serious about you. I’ve never felt this before. You are all I think about all day, all night. I just want to be near you whenever I can. I want you, just you. Nobody else.” It takes me a second to make sense of his words. But once I do, I take his face in my hands and let his lips collide with mine. He puts one arm around my body, holding me close as he deepens our kiss. I jump up, wrapping my legs around his torso, not breaking our kiss. He walks over to his bed and gently lays me down, he on top of me. I feel his tongue asking permission to enter my mouth and I happily grant it. I feel him smile against my lips. I can’t help myself as I let out a small moan, telling Lucas I’m enjoying whatever he’s doing. Out of nowhere, confidence takes over me. I push him off of me and down on the bed next to me. I climb on top of his tall and muscular body as he gives me a longing look. He attaches his lips back to mine, even more passionate than before. I honestly don’t know why I suppressed my feelings for him for so long. This feels right. Our lips move together in perfect rhythm like they are two puzzle pieces waiting to be placed together. I feel his hands moving up and down my back until they stop at the hem of my bra. He tugs on it and I immediately sit up straight, backing away from his lips. “I can’t…,” I whisper as I feel his hands retreating from my back, resting themselves onto my hips. “I know, I’m sorry. I got carried away for a second”, he tells me looking right into my eyes. “What do you mean you know?” I ask him confused and kind of shocked. “I know what happened last year at the New Years Eve party. When Travis put something in your drink and had his way with you. So, I understand that you’re not ready yet.” “I’m sorry…” “Don’t be. You take all the time you need. I can wait. If it means being able to hold your hand, envelope you in my arms every day and call you my girl, I can wait all eternity,” he says and I give him an honest and thankful smile. He returns it before patting the bed next to him. I lay down, my head on his rapid moving chest, his arms wrapping around my fragile body. I take in his sent and enjoy the warmth of his embrace. “What are you thinking about?” I suddenly hear him ask me. I briefly look up before instantly laying my head back down, snuggling up to him. “Why me?” “What do you mean?” “Well, why are you willing to wait for me? You are Lucas McCarthy. You have girls lining up to sleep with you, so why me?” I ask him and I can feel a little kiss being placed on my temple. “Because you’re special. You’re different. You are the only girl that talks back to me. You are the only girl that just tells me I’m a brainless jerk, right to my face. You are the only girl that doesn’t just want to sleep with me. You hated me, and that intrigued me so freaking much. The more you teased me, the more I wanted you.” “Sounds like I’m just a challenge to you?” “That’s because you didn’t let me finish,” he says, stroking my arm, making goosebumps appear all over my body. “You are what I need. Someone to put me in my place. Someone to see more than just the asshole I portray to be. Someone who teases me, but loves me for who really I am. You are what I’ve been waiting for my whole life,” he tells me. That is honestly the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I look up and smash my lips onto his. It’s a quick but rough kiss. It’s his way of letting me know that he means every word he just said. I back away and sit up straight, not because I want to, but because I’m running out of air. As I try to catch my breath, I feel Lucas’ hands landing on my cheeks. “I need you. I want you. I love you.”


Beth Collins had always hated sharing her anniversary with Valentine’s Day. Everything would be decked in ostentatious shades of pink and red. It was a day when all the restaurants were filled with starry-eyed lovers. It was a day that was not solely for her and her love, but a day which had been stolen from them. Zane loved it. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world, watching her scowl at the decorations in the store as their anniversary approached. Beth thought he would never stop teasing her for the fact that she was the one who woke up that morning, shook his shoulder, and told him she wanted to get married that day. And realized only once the vows had been exchanged that it was the day of love.

She set out a baby blue tablecloth. She refused to adhere to the colors of the holiday, and it almost matched the blue of Zane’s eyes. He might have enjoyed the double celebration, but she refused to.

“We’re not going to a restaurant full of other couples for our anniversary,” she said almost four decades ago. But three years after that, he coaxed her out for lunch. “Fine,” she relented. “Lunch. Just lunch. A Valentine’s lunch. And dinner will have nothing to do with it, understood?” He smiled, his striking blue eyes crinkling around the corners, and kissed the top of her head. That night for dinner, she bought the blue tablecloth. He bought her yellow flowers. Yellow was her favorite color, blue was his. Zane lived in varying shades of blue, while Beth thrived within the vibrance of yellow. Her friend once called them “the sky and sunflowers.” Beth liked that very much. She retrieved a bottle of champagne from the fridge, and placed it next to a vase of yellow flowers. She moved slower than she had in the past, weathered by time and hardship. The small house showed the same signs of wear. Newly built almost the same year they bought it, it felt as though the small property was a part of their relationship. The wooden slabs had lightened over the years, paths worn across the floor where they had stepped a million times. Beth was thrilled to have finally moved into a house of their own. At the time, she was living with a friend out-of-state. She was working two jobs, but she needed the money to pay for college and couldn’t cover the cost of living. The friend was incredibly kind to host her, but quickly turned out to be a less-than-ideal roommate. When Zane proposed, he did so with a key and not a ring. Beth’s eyes darted to the setting sun, her small steps quickening. She would have to hurry if she wanted to finish setting the table in time. She made her way to the closet to retrieve another keepsake to add to the table: A small brass trophy, gold paint worn away over the years. When she first met Zane, she was a junior in college. He was only a freshman, but his charismatic personality and charming smile had made him many friends beyond his age. Beth was studying in the library with a few friends when one of them called a tall, awkward looking boy, over to the table. He shuffled towards them, smiling sheepishly. “Zane!” Beth’s friend greeted. “This is my roomie, Beth. She’s the one I was telling you about.” The friend turned to a suddenly uncomfortable Beth. “This is my buddy Zane. He’s got a public speaking contest coming up, but he’s having a little trouble--” “I can’t write anything to save my life,” he interjected, grinning. “I was told you were the person to ask.” Beth frowned. It wasn’t the first time her friend threw her under the bus to do someone else’s homework. But seeing as the person in question was also paying her utility bills, she didn’t have much of a choice. She offered Zane a small smile. “If it’s a public speaking contest, I’m definitely not the person to ask.” “The speaking isn’t the issue,” Zane clarified. “I enjoy talking quite a bit. The issue is the writing.” “Ah,” Beth nodded. “Well, let’s take a look.” She reached for the crumpled papers in his hand, but he pulled them back, again grinning sheepishly. “I don’t think I know you well enough to show you my greatest humiliations, yet.” “Oh, bother,” Beth’s roommate snatched the papers from his hand, thrusting them at Beth. “Help him, will you? His helplessness is almost pitiful.” Beth frowned at her friend, who was extremely generous with anything belonging to anyone else. Her time. Her father’s apartment. With this in mind, it’s safe to say that she wasn’t in the best mood upon meeting Zane for the first time. “Do you mind if I go grab my stuff?” Zane asked, gesturing to the contents of his book bag sprawled across a different table. Beth looked doubtfully at her crowded table, then gathered her books up in her arms. “Don’t bother,” she sighed. “I can just go with you.” They made their way to the table. Beth took a seat as she spread the draft of his speech in front of her. “Sorry you were just thrown into this,” he said quietly as he took the seat next to her. “That wasn’t fair of her to ask you in front of me.” Beth’s eyes snapped up, her mood lightening instantly. “God, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks that.” Zane laughed. “Trust me, not the only one. So if you don’t want to do this, I’ll tell them I was embarrassed. It’s cool.” “No, no,” Beth said quickly, awed by how easily he had shifted her mood. “It’s okay, I’m happy to help.” But as she began to review his paper, she started having second thoughts. “I wasn’t kidding,” Zane said, watching her confused face. “I can’t write.” “No, it’s really not that ba--” “Oh, don’t sugarcoat it,” he said good-naturedly. “It’s terrible, I know. Words don’t make any sense. I wouldn’t have made it into college if my other scores weren’t so good. Math. Math is what I’m good at.” Beth read a little further, frowning as she did. For a few moments after, she sat stewing over the best way to break the news. Then gave up. “You’re right,” she relented. “You’re a terrible writer. You must be incredible at math, because your application must have been a mess.” Zane grinned. “It was. And I am.” She couldn’t help but return the smile. “Look, I think… just think you’ve got a really good idea here. But it’s buried in a load of crap,” she said. “You don’t write the way you speak, which is essential for a speech. You need to read through it out loud, so you get a sense for where it’s awkward.” “The whole thing’s awkward,” he sighed, looking at it. “I probably just ought to rewrite it.” “That would be good,” Beth agreed. “The issue is I’m not going to write it any better the second time,” Zane admitted. “I don’t understand how it works. Sentences. They work when I say them, for some reason. But not on paper.” After a moment of hesitation, Beth said, “Maybe I can help you.” They were equally surprised to hear the words out of her mouth. But they spent the rest of the evening, and the next morning rewriting the speech. And then the remaining hours in the following day editing and practicing the delivery. Beth had been correct; Zane had some brilliant ideas. And he had been right, too; he simply didn’t know how to put it down into words. So he dictated, as she translated his ideas into coherent sentences. Then, they spent the majority of the time editing and picking apart her words, helping Zane understand what she had written and why she had written it. “I ought to sign your name on here,” he said, after they finished. “This is… this is incredible.” Beth laughed self-consciously. “You changed half of it after I had written it first. So maybe you ought to put my first name and your last.” They both paused, realizing the implications of her words. Blushing furiously, Beth gathered her supplies and stood from the table. “Your delivery is perfect, really. I don’t see how you don’t get a good grade.” Zane screwed up his face. “Hopefully not too good.” “Why not?” “Because the three speeches he likes best are going to a contest,” Zane groaned. “God, I didn’t think about that. I had better flub the delivery, just in case.” Beth whipped around, her eyes wide. “After all the work we put into this?” “O-Oh, well--” “You had better not mess it up on purpose,” she said fiercely.

“I won’t,” he said quickly. “But I’m counting on the fact that it’ll happen regardless.” She narrowed her eyes. “I mean, my delivery will be perfect,” he amended quickly. Her glower fell into a smile, and he returned it rather sheepishly. “I was only kidding. I won’t mess it up.” “I know,” she said. Three weeks later, Zane presented her with the bronze trophy at lunch. It was a small gold silhouette of a monarch standing at a podium.

“I won,” he said, offering the trophy with a small smile. He used the fifty dollars prize money to take her out to dinner for the first time. The sun was edging closer to the horizon, the trophy reflecting the slanted light. Beth wasn’t finished yet. The oven dinged , and she rushed to remove the small chicken-pot-pie. Differing in almost everything else, they shared the same favorite meal. “It’s comfort food,” Beth explained. “It makes me feel at home.” “I like chicken, and I like pie,” Zane laughed. “That’s all it is for me.” But after years of marriage, and years of chicken-pot-pies, Beth refused to believe that it wasn’t yet comfort food for him, as well. For the last several years, it was tradition to take the first sip of champagne at sundown. “My father wouldn’t drink until sundown,” Zane told her once. “So whenever he had something to celebrate, he would take the first sip just as the sun disappeared.” They both loved traditions. Beth poured the champagne into each glass with a shaking hand. Wiping her hand across her brow, she finally sank into the seat opposite the window. Meeting Zane’s bright blue eyes across the table brought a small smile to her face. She tapped her glass against his in a silent toast, lifting the beverage to her lips just in time. The sun was gone. Now that the urgency was past, the deadline had been met, Beth set her drink down as she was overwhelmed with emotion. Trembling slightly, she reached across the table to take the framed wedding photo and cradle it against her chest. A single tear slipped down her face as she smiled at Zane’s happy, handsome face. She was much younger in the photo, her skin unwrinkled and eyes unshadowed. Silent sobs wracked her body. “Happy anniversary, honey,” she whispered. “I miss you.”


It was on glum and gloomy, thunderous nights like this that I sat by the grand marble fireplace and reflected on my life to the rhythm of the rain. The chandeliers, the glare of the grand piano and ivory centrepieces of the penthouse dimly glistened in the room as I had requested, being the first lady of the Sapphire Hotel sure had its perks. I lit a few more chandeliers so I could look at the people on the sidewalk of the busy yet opulent left wing of the city. Some were businessmen, stockbrokers and private bankers in suits; others were valets tending to their rich (or posing) masters. Despite their varying positions, they all looked up at me with similar reactions, some envious, a little resentful and always a wistful longing. At times, I felt akin to the posers on the street because unbeknownst to anybody; my life was teetering on the edge of a knife…. The smell of firewood and hot cocoa wafted into my nostrils, these days sharp smells like garlic and aged cheese just would not do. I could not bring myself to stomach them, much to my relief; the penthouse was always filled with clean, natural smells. The wood burning in the fireplace, the mahogany from the ever polished hardwood floors and fresh flowers from our florist. I walked to the large, antique, gilt-framed mirror, sashaying this way and that way, I could be vain, like a peacock preening its feathers for all to see, not that I cared what any onlooker would think. With my dark thick hair, my green-brown eyes, naturally full, pouty lips, high cheekbones and Spanish heritage, my late mother had often joked that I was a mash up of Salma Hayek and the Kardashians. Even the slightly thicker curves of my Spanish flair seemed to make any male jaw drop. There was never really much to be said about modesty when women wanted to be you like a pampered pooch and men wanted to be with you at you every beck and call to appease their fancies, even if only to stare. Despite having a “husband” of my own, I can’t begin to tally the number of women who didn’t want me around theirs, merely as a precaution. I had married two years into my law degree, forsaking a life of deadlines and stress for one of wealthy and refinement. I had married a hotel tycoon, who tended to my every financial need and desire. No one seemed to care about my smarts (just my exotic beauty), as long as my skin was supple, polished and perfumed and my bosom curved in all the right places, no one gave a hoot what the Supreme Court ruling should be on anything from a cushioned trophy wife.  I barely saw my ‘husband’, except in the festive season where he hosted wholesome family-style office parties for his executives, or charity balls for whatever orphanage was in need. I had to make appearances with him, so that together we graced the covers of the Business Daily   and he remained a firm front runner in the hotel industry. Whenever we stood together, Charles and I, some would say we looked more like father and daughter rather than husband and wife. There was never any real affection in my marriage, everything was rather cold and transactional, he bought me anything I wanted and I gave him “one over on the boys” in his midlife crisis. My life was glamorous and flashy, but also loveless and lonely. That was until I met Henry… Henry added depth to my life; he listened to me, played chess with me and cured my aching loneliness by staying up with me to talk about everything and absolutely nothing as I doodled circles on his coffee coloured skin with my bare hands. I oftentimes felt guilty for keeping him up late with my whining when he had to wake up early and tend to his duties as my driver.

During the summer, he’d drive me to Tiffany’s, so we could pretend the 20-carat rings were from him and not the American Express card from my husband. We’d have picnics in secluded parks, go on long walks and sometimes skip town in places where nobody knew us for a few weeks at a time, so we could just be lovers and I would sit in passenger seat so he wouldn’t feel like” the help”.

He often stressed about how little he had to offer financially, I was not having it, he was the best thing I had going on in my life, and I actually preferred that he was the pauper yet my own Prince Charming, as though he stepped right out of a soppy novel. Henry represented what my life would have been had I not been too keen to chase the money and having spent time around the elite, I knew money made them shallow, superficial and even a little underhanded. For months now there had been talk of my husband’s shady business dealings and further whispers of the police being hot on his trail. Words like fraud and racketeering were up in the air and even with his overpriced legal team, I wasn’t waiting for the entire White Collar crimes unit to bust down my door before I made a plan. I was selling all of my jewelry, in cold, hard cash. I wasn’t leaving this god-forsaken marriage with nothing but I was also not taking the fall. Henry and I would buy a quaint, secluded farm somewhere and raise our child in peace. I just needed the puzzle pieces to fall into place… I had to think hard and fast, as much as I resented my pretentious husband, deceiving him would be no easy feat; he had not gotten rich by being foolish, so I had to plan carefully. My timing had to be right on the money. In between the business dinners, galas and soirees of the festive season, I needed an escape plan that would guarantee my husband never caught wind of my pregnancy or my affair with Henry or we would surely be goners.

In this town, it was not going to be easy, the money he had afforded him many privileges that were denied to ordinary civilians, business deals among his rivals and stock tips often came faster than he could grab them. Simply put, he owned this town and all those he didn’t own, he could do so with the flash of his cheque book. Mine and Henry’s plan was about to come to fruition, we had enough to live off for a very long time. As Charles was in town we had been talking only in the car when we needed to speak as a matter of urgency. Lately, we had been sloppy, meeting even in the sauna when he missed talking to his ‘little one’ through the veil of my stomach. I was tired of walking on eggshells in this place, big as it was, filled to the brim with all the best money could buy and yet, a cold, empty house, even with the fireplace in the corner. I would not miss this place, it had too many bad memories, I wanted this new life with Henry so bad, I could taste it. Tonight was the night, come hell or high water, my love and I were making a break for it. It would be do or die given the circumstances, but the promise of our emancipation was well worth the risk…


It was the holiday season and I had been helping care for my elderly mother. I arrived at her home to set up the Christmas decorations and she out of the blue ask’s: Young lady would you like to accompany me to a seder feast at the Episcopalian church tonight.?” I turned and looked at her to make sure she was not overly medicated. She actually looked quit smart in a Sunday church outfit she had on, which I hadn’t even notices when I first enters. “Seder,” I replied. “You mean like when we were both younger and use to hear grandpa and grandma talking about going to a Seder meal at a friends?” “Exactly but it will be at the church in the same room they serve the loaves and fishes meals.” Looking at my outfit from work for the day I figured it would pass and nodded to her yes.     Two hours later we are parked in the church parking lot and walking in the side back door to the kitchen, “We’re we suppose to bring anything I asked?” Of course, not the father and his wife have arranged everything”. In through the kitchen, we walk and into the main church hall. Arranged in the center of the room, in a rectangular shape is a cluster of long folding tables. They have been done up rather pleasantly with table clothes center pieces and place settings.  I see about 4 people that I vaguely know and I notice there are a little over 20 place settings. My mother who stood about 4 ft 9 inches at this time takes her fathers walking stick, my grandpa don Hammett, and marches right over to the table facing north and the main sanctuary building. I zip over to the father and his wife to ask if it is okay and they graciously indicate it is not a problem.  Finally, everyone is seated except for one place. There were whispers around the table it was for a guest of honor. Now I’m sitting next to this very strange elder woman and calmly thinking about the seders of my grandparents. My father’s mom and dad. Seder is the started of the remembrance of Passover, a high holy time for those who follow the faith of the Hebrews led to freedom by Moses’. This person, as an infant was found by one of the deity’s Pharoah’s daughter. He was raised and taught in that fashion. When he became older and had observed that he seemed to be a little different his. He was also at that time adopted as an heir and of the family of Pharoah. When he became a man, he found out that he was one of the very few survivors of an order that had gone out through the whole entire empire that decreed that all male Hebrew infants had to be taken an executed.  At the exact moment he fully and completely understood the meaning of the slaves of Pharoah. A war of magic and power sprung up in the empire. For about 300 years the Hebrews had been deeply involved of every aspect of Pharoah’s rule. The priests, priestesses and temples of the Egyptian gods and goddess began to fear because those of that nation and way of life appeared to be out numbering true Egyptians. Thus, the order to kill the infants was given. At the age of about eighty he returned to demand the release of his people the Hebrews.  These were my thoughts as I sat down with a room full of a few recognizable faces and the rest strangers The meal eaten as the remembrance of Passover begins. It took 10 plaques falling down upon Egypt for the deity Pharaoh to allow the Hebrews to leave. The last one being the death of every first-born male child living in a house that sis not bear the blood of the lamb’s mark on its door. Then even after they were allowed to leave, the same priest, priestess, and temple worshiper, whisper to Pharaoh to go and get them back. He died trying.    All of these thoughts passed through my mind as I looked at this little old lady who had never once in her life celebrated any Hebrew High Holy day with her in-laws and wonder what she was thinking. The ritual readings began. Tiny portion of matzot, (cracker like bread) zeroa. (Lamb’s meat) Beitzah, (hardboiled egg) Maror and Chazeret (Bitter Herbs) Charoset , (Paste) and last but not least Karpas  (Vegetable) These was the traditional Passover plate The guest place setting remained empty.  There were a few children there and they were sent to hunt for a certain object by the father. Once the object was found we began to eat. One or to people shared stories of other Seders they had been to. Since there was wine my mother after her second cup asked to share. “According to Hebrew law, none of my children are Jews. Their father converted to Christianity long before I meet him. The years that I have lived in Ithaca have taught me the amazing reality of what it means for a leader to rise up and free his people. Freedom is a most sacred gift that we as a people often take for granted. I I listened to the readings of the spiritual battle between the court of Pharaoh and the man raised as his brother. I am truly thankful to have know people and be related to people that understand what it means to be free.”   We stayed for about another hour. By the time we left I and took my mother back to her home I realized what she had wanted me to see and learn. There is a cost to freedom, strangers don’t have to remain strangers and a feast that is well prepared and has s spiritual meaning can open one’s eyes to things we don’t normally pay attention to. This was my meal amongst strangers that to this day lives on in my mind.


She looked around her third floor apartment and imagined all the changes she would have to make if he accepted her request. She wondered if she’d have to move to a bigger house with a backyard and a bigger kitchen, or if her coach was comfortable enough. She liked the building on Falcon Street the first time she set her eyes on it; it was particularly refreshing that the window in the sitting room overlooked the street. It was a normal street but watching people live life on the street for five years was her favorite thing to do; the old lady who every morning walked across the street to the bakery gripping her walker with her dog strutting ahead of her then stopping mid crossing to sniff at the zebra crossing lines; the young boy who despite his mother’s pleas always ran circling all the posts and jumping over the bins as they went towards the corner library; and Mister Jo who sat on the bus stop bench reading the morning paper and waving the buses away as they slowed down.  She had asked him in an email but he had not responded yet. She had been trying not to overthink but she was afraid he might say no. The boxes didn’t check but she wasn’t trying to check them, she had never been restricted by ticking the boxes where her heart was involved. Time was running out and the doctor told her she has six months left. She’s been on a marathon, getting the timing right, the bucket list done and passing all the tests. In the last five years she travelled to twenty one countries, visited the yogis in India, the Taj Mahal, the Amazon and the pyramids. She was planning her next promotion at the 100 billion dollar advertising company where she was the head of strategic management when the doctor put a different plan on her plate. She always thought she had time and options. After all she’s always been in perfect control.

Why couldn’t she be normal and do things like other people did? Why did she always want things that were out of reach, for others, but always seemed attainable to her. Her mother had begged her to consider putting her busy schedule aside, her father had reassuringly said, ‘ your time will come’. She was a daddy’s girl so her incline was to take her father’s advice. Now her mother’s words were haunting her as she looked at the results the doctor had handed over to her. So she hatched a plan, but like her business plans she needed a willing team, time and sacrifice. But it wasn’t a business strategy she needed now, it wasn’t a corner office or a conference call to pitch to potential clients. That has always been the easy part in her life.

She was a born leader, a natural influencer and had an acumen for business that was unparalleled in her field. But why was the one thing she needed most now so unnerving? She suddenly felt like a rookie, a new recruit. She remembered feeling more confident as a junior associate in the company 10 years ago. Her parents were progressive in many ways but conservative in particular areas just as she felt now considering her options. She considered sending a follow up email then recanted that idea. She picked up the phone to ask if he’d received the email but thought that move had desperation painted in red. She decided to give it a month then make a move.

A month and a week passed and she thought maybe she’d start considering other options but that would be her life secret. She’d lie and tell the conservative story that her parents and their people would accept without being the subject of scorn for the rest of her life. Her extended family already gossiped about her so if they found out about the truth they’d roast an already burned chicken. Monday morning routines have been in place all her working life and this Monday was not exceptional. Trouser suit, bag, coffee and traffic was a norm she never broke. Once settled in the back seat, good mornings said and on her way to the office she opened her emails and almost dropped her coffee. He’d replied!

She couldn’t open it, not now, she decided to wait until she was home alone. That way she could cry, jump for joy and nobody would know. The clock’s tick tock on her corner office wall sounded bizarre, her office assistant seemed slow today and her work went on a hiatus _unlike Monday. She stared at the email notification guessing what he’d written, how he’d let her down easy and how he might have written, ‘I couldn’t risk destroying our family’s existing relationship’. Because he’d be cordial like that, tactful and measured, that’s why she had chosen him in the first place. Monday was conspiring with her mind to read the email and despite her best restraint, she clicked open.

Dear Henrietta,

How are you going? It’s been a while and I’ve been meaning to get in touch but busy gets in the way_you know how it is! I received your email and was a bit surprised by your request though pleasantly so. I remembered how I pursued you but you were so focused on your career you said you didn’t have time for a relationship. Have you changed your mind? You said you wanted me to father your child with no strings attached, I wondered what that meant. After thinking about it for a while now, I’ve decided If I can’t have you by my side then I’d be happy to have a child with you. So, Yes! Please call me and let’s plan to meet soon.

Always,

Mark.

Henrietta was tearing when she read the email, smiling when she thought about having a child with him. She could now refer to ‘the baby’s father’ in conversations with her nosy relatives and not worry about them spreading rumors about her having a test tube baby! Her parents would understand her need to have a child without a marriage but how could she explain a lab baby?


I hit snooze. Not once, but several times before the light come from my window is too bright to ignore. What I rather do is tuck myself tighter in my bedsheets and feel the chill of the air conditioning. I can fake a cozy Fall breeze and have excuses to wear my favorite sweatshirt. I’m tired of the heat. The background of the TV plays in the background as I groggily make my way to make a cup of coffee. I toast the only two toaster waffles left in my freezer and clean the cluttered table from the night before. Crumpled pieces of paper, sprawled across the tablecloth with a half-empty wine bottle that aided in thoughts I tried to write down.

I wanted to remember every detail of the reoccurring dream I kept having. Isn’t there a psychological message behind this? I’ve done countless google searches, with all similar results.

“What does it mean to dream of someone I’ve never met?” Apparently, it is impossible to forge an image of someone you have not seen before. But I have no recollection of seeing this man. I would’ve known if I have.

As the coffee touches my lips and makes its way through my system, I can bring some clarity into my Saturday. I don’t decide to scroll through my phone this morning. Instead, the movie that is on catches my attention. I can count how many times I’ve watched You’ve Got Mail. The opening scene immediately brings a warm smile. It’s autumn in NYC, “Dreams” by the Cranberries amplifies the romantic bliss shared between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. He makes a remark of how he would rather send her a bouquet of pencils rather than flowers. They know everything about each other without knowing who they are. I notice there is a torn notebook page I forgot to clear off the table.

He had soft brown hair, curly. Long enough to touch his ears. Hazel eyes, an inviting gaze. He smiles like he has seen me before. He hugs me as if I felt it before. There is one more sentence. He stands in an unfamiliar cafe setting and sits there waiting for me as he does in every dream. I don’t know whether to laugh at the coincidence or continue to get frustrated at the fact that this keeps happening. Is it a premonition? Or a scenario that my hopeless romanticism would love to cling onto? I know that sitting here won’t help. This would be another day off wasted on indulging in scenarios and overthinking.

I receive a text from Evie, my best friend from high school who has endured my rants on ex’s, new lovers, over countless take-out meals. She asks if I’d like to “get my ass outside and head over to Barnes & Noble” How can I say no to that?

* * * * * Today calls for something new to wear. I take the sundress out of my closet. It’s a-line, hugging me perfectly at my waist and flows over my lower body gracefully. A cross between a scarlet and terra-cotta, with a delicate white floral pattern. Perhaps a little too much to be browsing books, but appropriate to set the tone for the rest of my day.

I take a look at the products I have lined up on my vanity. I can hear my mother telling me to ease back on the use of makeup. To some degree, I do agree with her. I have a tendency to disguise my features, rather than enhance what is already there. Today I take her advice and start with a tinted moisturizer. I apply one eyeshadow color, a coat of mascara, blush to highlight my full cheeks and peach-colored lipstick. My reflection looks fresh and captures the beginning of August that I’ve finally entered. It’s the last month of summer, the sticky heat, and the invites of numerous weddings. What follows will be the peace and comfort that Autumn will bring. I leave my apartment with time to spare and take the bus to meet with Evie in Park Slope. There are more people than usual around this time.  More couples than usual as well.

Teens and adults both have that look in their eyes. Interlocked fingers, childlike grins, quiet giggles, and cheek kisses to match. It’s summer love mixed in with the illusion of the honeymoon phase.

Imagine if he happened to be on this bus? Before I can lose myself in yet another scenario, I almost miss my stop. I awkwardly move past these couples and thank the bus driver. Evie is at the end of 1st street, waving to me as I meet up with her down the block.

“Wow. I had to bribe you with book shopping to look this stunning?” That is only slightly true. “I mean… yeah pretty much.” She shakes her head and starts heading in the direction of Barnes and Noble. Now before I say this isn’t what we usually do on the weekends, that would be also slightly true. We go out to eat, we enjoy a couple of mimosas at bottomless brunch. But we also go book shopping two out of the four weekends a month.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have to work today.” Evie usually has a weekend shift, but I’m convinced she told her manager it was an “emergency.” “I did but when I knew you would be able to hang out today, I called out. You’re usually cooped up in your apartment reading manuscripts.”

My recent employment at the publishing house has been nothing short of exhausting. I read over 1,000 pages, making edits and notes to newcomer writers. It isn’t glamorous, but it is a step in the direction I want to be in. An editor for future magazines and/or publications.

“Is that why you didn’t pick up the one last night?”, she adds. I knew the look on my face gave it away.

“Not exactly…”, I answer. Before I go on to explain, she already knows the answer. “No, not this AGAIN.”

It wouldn’t be the first time I ignored Evie’s phone call over this. It started as a harmless conversation about a “silly dream” I had a few times. I would make a few jokes, poking at my desire to understand what this all meant. Or how crazy it would be if I saw him one day, walking around this very neighborhood. I kept bringing it up, and each time I would hope Evie have an insight or a new perspective. When I noticed I have talked about this too often, I sought to find my own conclusion.

I wrote down the dream every time it happened. Whatever details I could remember. What changed, what didn’t. If I recognized an object, a scenery, or a feature so distinct. But it all seems the same. Last night, I went down a spiral of trying to pin down the features of every man I could remember. Whether it was a former ex, someone at the grocery store, or any man I could’ve bumped into at work. I wanted to put an end to this fantasy. That it was just my mind looking for a chapter I wish began, where I meet a stranger and fall in love instantly. I wanted it to be someone I knew. Then I would know it’s all in my head and not far from a possibility.

“I’m just trying to find a way to convince myself this is a result of consuming too much romantic genre material. Not anything else.” She tries to stifle a chuckle, rolling her eyes. “You and I both know this is to convince yourself that this CAN be real.”

I deny it immediately.

“Realistically, this is probably just my self conscious manifesting-“ She stops me mid-sentence.

“Cut the psychology crap. You’re in love with an imaginary man.”

“I am not in love with a-“ She waves her hand over my face and the other to open the door for me. “That’s all for the subject manner today. Now put this outfit to good use.” At least here there will be a distraction. There will be no people watching, or an attempt to see a face that is recognizable. We make our way to Evie’s favorite section, which is non-fiction. The stories of which are real and tangible. Right up her alley.

“By the way, my co-worker Aiden might be here today. Apparently, I missed an urgent sales meeting and my boss demanded he comes to find me today and fill me in.” How Evie manages to keep her job as publicist assistant for Penguin Random House amazes me. But as many excuses, as she may have used, she’s brought in numerous newcomer authors that have made exceptional sales. We browse through the aisles with her before I see her settled in the corner, reading the first few pages of the book in her hand. I decide to make my way over to the Fiction section and take a peek at both familiar and unfamiliar titles. One Day. How To Stop Time. Oh, this one I still have yet to read.

The spine sticks out of the shelf, waiting to be picked up. This title sounds familiar, it’s also a movie I never got around to see. I love the idea between crossing romance and sci-fi-related themes together. It brings you to an unworldly place, where the concept of how these people meet is impossible. But you still believe because, well… you want to. Before I can get read further into the plot, Evie comes up behind me. “C’mon, Aiden’s here. Let me introduce you!”

I hold the book in my hand and follow Evie down to the cafe. I have met a few of her coworkers before. Some, nonchalant and humble as they express how much they love their work. Others, brooding and bragging how much their salary should be exponentially higher.

She walks over to the table where he sits. Before my focus shifts on where she lands, he rises from his seat to give her a hug. His body shifts in my direction and suddenly… I freeze.

It’s him. The figure that stands a few feet away from me makes the same puzzled look. We don’t know whether to exchange a hello or hold our gaze longer.

“Do I know you?”


“Thomas, come here and add this log to the fire.” His speech was cut off with a big resounding cough. “But father, I’m cold and tired.” I squeaked out. I was always cold, but I knew that if I stood up, the tiny spot of warmth that came from curling up next to my sleeping mother would be gone. My legs shook at just the thought of crawling off the mattress and making my way across our tiny house my father build a few weeks earlier.

He looked at me from his position of the other side of my mother and gave me a strange smile that looked like he was hurting, “Thomas, we cannot let the fire go down, otherwise, you and your mother and I will be much colder than we already are.” “Okay.” I shifted out of the blanket, and struggled to stand; trying to force my numb legs and arms to move out of their position. I had barely managed to get my feet under me when the wooden walls spun around and around until I fell over, crying out as my knees crashed onto the hard, frozen dirt.

“Thomas baby, please do not hurt yourself.” My mother gasped. “He’s just fine Jane,” my father whispered to my mother. My vision cleared enough that I could see my mother, her eyes were squinted open and she weakly reached her hand out to me.

“I can do it mother, go back to sleep.” I took a deep breath and looked back down at my hands; I had fallen right next to the last dry log we had. I forced my fingers to curl around it and drag it over to the dying coals of the fire. I dumped it on the orange embers with a small grunt. Nothing happened at first, but I sat and watched as the outer portions of the log began to catch on fire. I waved my hands near the small flame, feeling the warmth wrap around my hands and seep into my bones.

“Thomas, come back now, we have to warm up together.” I wordlessly crawled back, not trusting myself to try to stand, and slid back under the thin blanket. I pressed my cold face against my mother’s shoulder and she responded by slowly winding her arm around me and pulled me close. Her skin was hot to the touch-even as I felt her shiver with a deeper cold that I did not feel.

I looked over at my father, curled up on her other side, mirroring me with his head resting on her shoulder and staring at me with sad eyes. “Is mother going to get better?” I whispered. He was quiet, and for a moment I thought I had asked about one of those grown-up things that grown-ups only tell you when you are grown-up yourself, until he whispered back, “I pray everyday that she will.” “That is why we sailed to the Americas right?” I asked, remembering the quiet and hurried conversation as my mother and father woke me up in the middle of the night when we left England. They told me then that it was so we could pray to God whenever we wanted, and so we wouldn’t have to hide or be afraid of soldiers coming to get us. “Exactly.” “Then why did we leave Holland?” He sighed, “go to sleep Thomas, get some rest so we can all get better.” I closed my eyes, and as I fell asleep, my thoughts unknowingly slipped out in a breathy whisper, “But if we stayed in Holland, we wouldn’t be so cold.” The comforting emptiness of sleep flew away as someone knocked on the door to our small shack. Bitter cold wind rushed through the fabric wrapped around me, but I was too tired to do anything but squeeze myself tighter against my mother and wait for it to be over.

My eyes were still squeezed shut as I listened to the soft voices of my father and the man that had entered our home.

“Mr. Tinker? It’s me, Myles Standish.” “Myles, how good to see you!” My father’s voice sounded so quiet and weak compared to the strong tone of this soldier. “I brought you something,” something landed on top of the thin blanket wrapped around me, I squinted my eyes slightly to see that it was another blanket. “Myles! Where did you get this? I thought there was only one per family?” “Well…” There must have been something in the sergeant's expression that I couldn’t see, but my father muttered a soft “oh” in understanding. I could smell the stench of old sick on the blanket, and wondered what happened to whoever had been sick on it. But I could feel everything getting a bit warmer, so I was glad he brought it.

“How are they holding up?” the man whispered, changing the subject. My father sighed, and a great sadness permeated his voice. It was so thick and overwhelming that it caught in his throat multiple times.

“Jane is close. She’s always been strong but, this sickness is keeping her out of consciousness most of the time now. And the boy is so tired and weak-I don’t think he has caught whatever this illness is yet-but once he does, I wonder if he will last to his 9th birthday. It is only 2 months away, in February.” His voice broke as he said these words. I was not sure what he meant, would I not have a birthday this year? “And what about you Thomas?” It was always strange hearing people call my father by his first name. I was named after him, so we are both called Thomas, but to me, he is just my father. “It has gotten a hold of me too. I can feel it in every breath I take. At this point, I know I am going to watch them go, and then join them myself in the heavens.” My father took a deep breath before asking, “How bad is it with the rest of the colony?” “It is not looking good. Right now there are about 2 or 3 passing every day. Even William Bradford has fallen ill.” “No…” “I am afraid it is true. But remember: Always hold onto hope my friend. I brought you this as well. Just some dried meat, and a pail of boiling water. It is still hot, so wait for it to cool, then it will warm you up nicely from the inside.” I heard a soft clink as the sergeant set something on the packed dirt floor. “Thank you so much.” There was a note of desperation in his voice now, as if this was the last thing he would ever say to his friend. “Not just for this, but for everything you have done for me and my family since we fell ill.” “Of course! You are my friend, and one of the best carpenters we have. You built half of the houses that we have now yourself! Anything I have done is repayment in kind for all the good you have brought to this colony. You deserve so much more than this.” My father responded with a round of wet and shaky coughs. All I could hear was the pain in each hack that turned into quiet sobs, and the soft murmurs of comfort from Mr. Standish. When all was silent again, Mr. Standish whispered a farewell, and slipped out the door. It was quiet for so long, I wondered if my father had fallen asleep. But then he gently shook my mother awake. I opened my eyes as well to see him smiling at us. “What is it father?” “Look,” he said, holding out a few strips of dried meat to us, “we are going to have a family dinner, just like we always do.” My mother looked at the pieces that he gave to each of us, before taking some of hers and pushing it into his hands. “If this is a family dinner,” she rasped, “then everyone in the family must eat.” My father smiled at her, before bowing his head and murmuring a quiet prayer of thanks.

When he raised his eyes again, he continued. “So, I realized there was something we are not doing,” he glanced at my mother and me in the eyes, “we need to feed our souls as well as our bodies." “How do we do that?” I asked, cuddling closer to my mother. “We need to remind ourselves of all the things we have to be grateful for.”

My mother interrupted by forcefully heaving a round of coughs. She spat whatever came up into the dirt behind my head. Her voice was a croak, but I could still make out her words, “We do have so much to be thankful for. Why don’t you go first Thomas?” She gently stroked my father’s cheek before falling into another round of coughs. I wanted to tell her to stop speaking, since it only seemed to make it worse, but stopped when I saw the radiant smile she gave my father. “I am eternally grateful for men like Myles Standish," my father began, "who have taken care of us these past couple of weeks.” He bit off a small piece of his food and drank from the pail of water Mr. Standish had brought. “It is your turn Thomas, say what you are thankful for, and then have some of your meat.” “But I am not hungry, father.” “Thomas, you must eat. You cannot get better if you do not eat.”

I wanted to obey my father, I knew I had not eaten in a while, and that I should be hungry; but the thought of eating something made my stomach clench painfully. “I am thankful for my mother and father.” I shoved a tiny bite into my mouth and my father handed me the heavy pail of still steaming water. I blew on it and sipped some of it down, feeling the warmth slide down my throat. I smiled back at my father and handed the water back to him. Then I looked up at my mother. Her face was shiny in the firelight. “Mother, why are you crying?” “Because,” her voice was still weak, but was choked with emotion instead of bile. “I just love you and your father so much. And I am so thankful that we made it.” “Made what?” She pulled me closer and whispered in quiet awe, “We made it to freedom.” I looked back to the selfish thought I had about staying in Holland. I had said that without thinking about how life had really been there. We were no longer under English rule, but we were not truly free in Holland. I remembered the tired look on my father’s face after coming home from a long day at the carpenter's shop with barely anything to show for it. I remembered the dread in my parent’s eyes when they spoke about a coming war between Holland and Spain. I remembered the frustration when dealing with other religious groups that disagreed with us. I remembered the fear we all felt when some of those sects threatened violence. And I also remembered the joy on their faces when the sailors first caught sight of land after our long voyage on the Mayflower .

My father helped my mother bring the food to her mouth, and pour some hot water down her throat. “I am thankful for Jesus Christ, and the sacrifice he made so that we could live in Heaven together forever. I know that one day, we will live together in true freedom, and be warm and happy and together as a family. No matter what happens, we are a family, and will always be together.” He wiped away the tears that rolled down his face; smiling through it all as we huddled together on a thin, dirty mattress. We finished the rest of the food in satisfied silence. And I fell asleep that cold winter night with a full heart, a full belly, and a mind full of thankful thoughts. “Thomas Tinker and his wife and sone all dyed in the first sicknes.” -William Bradford


Meyer. Just Meyer is what I go by. I’ve spent the entire year trying to live up to the promise I made at the shrine in 2152. Like everyone in Shokertown, I headed over to the shrine at the New Year to pray and give thanks for the year before and hope for good things to come. The line last year wrapped around the corner from the temple entrance. The weather at the New Year was always sweltering. People were fanning themselves, but no one left the line. When I finally reached the shrine, I clapped my hands and prayed. I wished for what I know my mother would have wanted before she died: That I would not flat on my back in some alley, my last sight on earth the smog-filled sky above me, while a gun held at my head moved me into the next life. I don’t know what moved me to pray for her wish. But I knew she was watching me. And I owed her.

The gods had been good to me. The following year I found a room and a steady job with a shopkeeper who needed someone with enough muscle to dissuade some of her more light-fingered customers from trying anything in her shop. I started to put some money away and was able to keep a roof over my head without busting any heads. My old pals joked that I’d found religion and placed a bet that I’d be back with them within the year. But so far, so good.

I’d made it to New Year’s Eve. I had coin in my pocket and for once, was happy to head over to Yuji’s bar near the harbor to have a couple of drinks before heading back to my room over the shop. After I settled in at the bar and took a couple of sips, I felt myself start to relax. Only 30 minutes before the New Year. I felt so good, I started telling Yuji about my good fortune.

“And to think it was all due to the prayer at the shrine last year and my three resolutions,” I told Yuji.

His pencil-thin mustache started to twitch.

“Meyer, it had nothing to do with the gods,” he said.

I looked at him, then swirled the synthetic alcohol in my glass and ignored him. The lights in the bar flickered.

“The electricity has been wonky this week, what with the construction up near the tower, ignore it,” he said.

“Trust me, Meyer, It wasn’t your mother watching over you and it wasn’t the gods. It was all you, man. What were your resolutions?” he asked.

I checked behind me and over at the table against the wall. The bar was a hole in the wall that only 7 people could stand in soaking wet. The only other person here was old fisherman just in from the harbor. He sat hunched over the table, his head hanging low with a half-empty bottle in front of him. He was barely conscious. No one was going to overhear me.

“Come on. What did you commit to doing last year?” he said, wiping a glass dry and setting it in a row of glasses on the counter behind him. The round black clock hanging on the wall behind him still had 15 minutes left on its face. A red seconds hand began another trip around. I hesitated. I hate to admit it, but I am superstitious. “Committed to doing *this* year. 2153 isn’t over yet,” I said. “Yeah, yeah. Come on…”

“First I committed to stay away from alcohol,” I said.

Yuji’s eyes locked onto my glass.

“Real alcohol. This synth stuff is not likely to get me into situations that I would regret tomorrow,”

“Ok, there’s one. Number two?” Yuji picked up another shotglass and began wiping it dry, the cloth squeaking on the glass.

“I committed to stay well away from the Cat’s Eye casino.” Yuji nodded, he knew the riverboat casino permanently anchored further down the road at Shokertown’s Harbor. Most of his business came from the fisherman and the rest from the folks too down on their luck to afford another place to drink.

“Most of my problems came from hanging out there. Or hanging out with people who hung out there. They used to be most of my gigs.”

I finished my drink and set the glass down on the bar. The half-melted ice cubes shifted in the glass.

Yuji finished another glass and set it behind him.

“And the last?”

“Don’t bad mouth the gods,” I said. Yuji stopped drying the glass for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “Come on, Meyer. You don’t believe that Ghost shrine shit, do you?” He put the final glass behind him on the counter. Twelve glasses lined up in rows of 3.

At that moment there was a click and the electricity went out. The bar had no windows so I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

“Damnit,” Yuji said. “Give me a minute. It’s the fuse box. I’ll be right back.”

“No, I’ve got it. Is it back near the door to the alley?” I asked. He didn’t respond.

“Yuji, I can’t see your face man. Is it near the door to the alley?”

Yuji chuckled, “Sorry. Yes it is. Here’s a flashlight,” He turned on the flashlight and held it out, handle first. I grabbed it and aimed the faint circle of light to where I thought the hallway was.

The bar’s narrow walls were fake wood paneling. A few fifteen steps down the hallway, I found the fuse box and yanked it open. Sure enough, all of the fuses were turned to off. I began to turn them back on, starting with the lights in the hallway, when I heard shattering glass. A drunken voice cried out and after a moment I heard the bar door slam shut.

“Yuji?” I shouted. There was no response.

I flipped the remaining fuses back on and rushed back to the bar.  The old fisherman was gone. Did he try something?

I looked over to the bar. The glasses that had been neatly set in rows on the counter were lying in broken pieces. The mirror above them was wreathed in frost. Yuji stood with his back to me, looking at the broken glasses on the bar shelf. When I walked back to my stool, he looked up into the frost-edged mirror at my reflection. He exhaled slowly. A couple of barstools were knocked over on the floor. I picked them up and put them next to the bar. “What happened?” I asked.

“Shit if I know,” he said shakily. He picked up a hand broom, moved the trash can over to the back of the bar and sweeped the broken glass into the trash can.

“Did the guy at the table try something?”

“No. The glasses…broke behind me. He screamed and left so fast, he knocked down a couple of stools” he said.

Yuji took down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured three fingers worth into a glass. He held the bottle out to me.

The clock above the bar still had two minutes left to the year.

I backed up, holding up my hands.

“Two minutes left to the year,” I said. Yuji nodded and tossed the drink back.

“Take it easy, Yuji. I’m heading home,” I said.

Yuji put the glass down and followed me to the door.

“Happy New Year!” I said.

Yuji gave me a weird look.

“Happy New Year, Meyer. Stay committed, eh?” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

He shut the door and slammed the bolt shut behind me.  I looked up into the night sky. Fireworks began popping off in brilliant colors over Shokertown.

“Happy New Year, Mom!” I whispered. I felt a cold breeze on my neck, unseasonably cold for this time of year.


 Manuscripts are from the devil, I’d been told, but I felt it too, evil emanating out like heat from a fire. I wrapped it in cloth to be safe, tucked it in my satchel, and now I wait. I had a few hours, enough time I’m sure before my Master discovered my absence, and my theft. I drank my beer down to forget the past, to focus on my future, my hope brightening the walls of the dark Public House. My eyes followed Evelyn as she moved around me, cleaning up from the night before. Her dark hair pulled back tight showed her pale beauty, and even the dull woolen uniform couldn’t diminish her lithe figure. I lifted my head in an attempt to catch her eye, but no, that candle had guttered out, only the smoke of my longing left. When she first came to town she spoke to me, asked about my work and my Master, but her attention had drifted when I said no. Now I was no more than another chair in her way, an obstacle to sweep around.

I did this for you Evelyn, and you won't even look at me? On my own, I see. So be it.  Pulling out the cloth wrapped bundle from my satchel I carefully placed it on the table. If what Evelyn said was true, this strange item could allow me to finally escape my service, with enough gold to make a new life,  free from my bonds. I stared at it, hesitant to touch the elaborate box. Just parchment squeezed tight between wooden boards, how could it hurt me?

I had seen it before on my Master’s shelf, next to an old statue, but gave it no more thought than the worn boots below it.   I have no need of such things as paper or written symbols, my only use is for work. Evelyn said a man, Daemon, had come from Rome searching for these old manuscripts, such as one rumored to be held by my own Master.  No larger than my two hands together, this small item could be my salvation.

The cover creaked open, dust puffed into the air, as if breathing again after ages of suffocation. First one page, then the next blank. My heart leapt into my throat, could some magic be needed to make the words appear? But then on the third sheet, an image appeared, a man so bright and real, I touched the page to see if he lived. I understood why Daemon wanted this, needed it enough to pay gold for it.

The man, his hands raised with blood on his palms, a cut in his ribs, stared at me, a gold circle around his head, a gold cloak over his body. Was this the man whose soul had been caught? Half the page and and the next were filled with black marks in dense flowing lines. They seemed to move as I looked over them, as if these lines were fighting to be released from the page. A black dread flowed down my back. Have I released some demon by opening his cage?  My blunt and scarred fingers moved along each, following these strange markings. A hand on my shoulder. “You did it.” I turned to see Evelyn behind me. "I hoped you wouldn't-" “What?” My confusion intensified when she looked down into my eyes, deep pools of sadness. “If this goes well, I ‘ll have gold-” My lips quivered, matching the tremor of my heart. “We can leave together-” “Poor boy.”  Her hand touched my face, the blaze in her eyes lit a fire in me, illuminating a future better than I could dream. “I wish it could be so-” Her eyes closed. “Yes, if-” “After, meet me outside-” I grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers. “We’ll leave this town, together, and - live free!”

 Evelyn bent down, her lips met mine, just an instant, her warm touch an eternity of bliss, sparking lighting through to my toes, then she looked up at a sound, and stepped away.  The door stuttered open and a man spilled in with the morning light.

I felt Daemon before I could see his face, a cold frost flowing into the room. A narrow stick of a man, his over- large head bobbed on a narrow neck, hair fine, matted to his temples, with a few strips reaching down his jaw. He clutched his cloak to his chest with thin arms, like crooked branches. Glasses perched at the end of his long pointed nose, a sparrow hanging on for dear life.

He moved without effort, as if he floated instead of walked. Daemon nodded to Evelyn, waved toward her with two fingers. Dark, cold spots of light peered out under heavy brows. Eyes like a wild beast with no soul, and I feared him like no other man I had ever met. He smelled of mold and dust, an odor of death that sent the hair on my neck lurching from my body to escape.	Long, thin fingers danced on the table, blackened nails clicking against the wood. I had heard of these Scribes, men who trapped words on a page, with strange magic and a feather. What mysticism did they practice, what knowledge did they deal in beyond my ken? I eyed him warily, that knowledge stuffed too tight, a too full sack, could explode, destroying him and anyone around him. “Do’ya have the gold?” I whispered, keeping my head low A cough, dry and hoarse escaped his lips, like a death rattle. I feared for his health, but at his crooked grin, I recognized it as his laugh. Evelyn brought two ceramic cups of black beer, along with a metal platter laden with apples, dried meat and cheeses. Daemon’s hand brushed her leg, up to her hip, lingering. I didn’t understand how she could stand the touch, but her body stayed still, though her eyes looked away. “Si. I have the monete .”	Daemon’s face fell into a sneer. His words had a strange, foreign lilt that grated on my ears. A cloth bag landed with a heavy clink on the table, the sound of my future. Evelyn had spoken the truth! I suddenly saw our life together, our horses in the green pasture, prancing in front of golden fields of wheat. Evelyn stood at my side, holding a draught of beer for me, and my pipe. Our young children laughing around us, I tried to count their little heads, were there eight or ten?   “You have il manoscritto ?” Daemon interrupted. I looked around the empty room, before I placed the bundle on the table. I felt lighter having passed it on. His hands paused in midair when the cloth fell away. The old man breathed in, his eyes bright, his back straightening up. His mouth dropped open in pure desire. Daemon moved to open the cover. I grabbed his wrist, felt his bones in my hand, his skin cold as ice. Alive though, his pulse beat thin and fast.

“Be careful, the man he's awake-” “ Questo è il mio lavoro. ” Daemon’s spoke, low and dry as a desert wind. “This is my life’s work” I knew enough to know that these lines signified words, somehow. The Man in Gold’s voice trapped on this parchment. I sunk down further in my chair, weighed down by the pain of slavery. I knew what it meant to be under lock and key, allowed to be free only on the whim of my master.

Daemon meant to keep these words locked away, to add to his collection of souls. Better them than me. “Mio Dio, Il Horae.” He said. “The Book of Hours. The rumors spoke true, we thought lost-” “Is it what you’re looking for?” I focused on reading Daemon's blank face. He didn’t answer but continued to lift page after page, each turn showing the same, more and more black snakes, squirming under my eyes. I had no idea what thoughts these little lines captured, but I didn’t want to understand. I felt the beer roil in my stomach, threatening to come back up. The Man of Gold had been trapped onto these papers, imprisoned forever, with this foreigner to be the jailer. "Pay me or I' ll burn the vile thing-"  Daemon’s knife flashed, a blur of steel, and then a sharp line of heat at my neck, Daemon held me, with death at my throat.

"I'll take this as a gift. Or will you trade with your blood?" A swipe of his wrist and I would leave this life, damned to hell for eternity. I should have read the signs, they were as clear as day, the offer too good to be true. I’d been betrayed.  Slam!  The door flew open and my Master stood in the door, his stance unmistakable, his rage shaking him and the sword dancing in his hand. “Boy!” My Master shouted. “How could you betray me, steal from me!” The blade lowered, pointing in accusation at me. " Cos'è questo! " Daemon shouted to my Master. "I didn't know he stole. He will be punished.”

I thought of Evelyn, our life together. I couldn’t go out like this. “Please, no! Help me-" Suddenly the manuscript moved, falling to the floor, catching Daemon’s attention, loosening his grip. I’ll never know if it was a quirk of fate, or if the Man in Gold chose to help me, but I took the chance and grabbed the knife by the blade to pull it from my neck. I escaped his grasp, though my palms were sliced to shreds.  I turned to see Eve wielding the platter like a hammer, swinging again and again at Daemon. With Evelyn at my side I could make an escape! Scooping up the manuscript, I grabbed an iron poker from the fire and ran at my Master, standing in front of the only portal to my future. I had lived more of life in these few short hours than in all of my 20 years. I kissed a girl, escaped death, and now carry a priceless treasure in my hand. The stars were aligned with me today, I could not lose! Anger at all the scars, all the pain this man caused powered my arm, I swung my war axe for a killing blow to his head.

My master took a simple step, dodged my weapon and I felt his blade in my side.

I’m invincible!” I screamed as I fell out the front door, the manuscript tumbling from my hand. If only I could find my love, Evelyn, then we can meet our future together. I looked at my hands, covered in blood, my life pouring out of my side. As I fell, a flash of recognition, the Man in Gold-  I opened my eyes to see Evelyn above me, her face more beautiful than anything I deserve.  “Is this heaven?” “No, not yet.” she said. “Soon enough.” She picked up the manuscript from the ground.

“That,” I gestured to it, “the Man in Gold, he needs to be set free-” I said, out of breath. “That devil will take him-“ “Men are the devil, I learned that where I was raised in the monastery, as a servant, and then-” Her jaw clenched.  “A Brother taught me my letters, now I work for Daemon. My world is small, and hard. But when I open this, read these words, I release the Spirit, and I escape this life, even if only for a few moments. Do you believe?” “He saved me-“  I closed my eyes. I saw the horses in the green pasture, golden fields of wheat. The Man in Gold stood with me, as Evelyn read to us, her words flowing on a breeze. I am finally free.

“When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears, and rescues them from all their troubles.”