The Master of Seduction chapter 10 A good woman will surrender to her man If only because Her man surrendered to her As we awaken in the morning, the hurricane lashes the skies with hundred-mile winds, horizontal rain, dawn never leaves the day, muted darkness everywhere. I make coffee for us on the gas barbecue I'd brought inside, insure the farm hands and their families are okay, provide hot water as requested. The horses are hysterical, still galloping crazily back and forth, rearing at, kicking each other, in their random, frenzied encounters. None seems injured, there is no property damage that can't wait till later. We nibble on cookies and donuts, drink coffee, watch the spectacle that will not end, hour after hour. The radio drones on with anecdotes of disaster all around, it's a slow moving hurricane, maximum damage everywhere it tarries. But as noon approaches, still a dawn sky, the eery calm appears within minutes, the winds slacken, the overcast admits more light. The eye passes over, we have at most an hour to catch and feed the horses. Each needs his own stall or paddock for this, or they'll fight over the food. Thoroughbreds are naturally high-strung, that's why they're so fast, that fight or flight thing, to excess, makes them want to run. Makes them difficult and dangerous. All the stalls and paddocks have elements of their steel roofs loose, flapping around in the still considerable wind, jagged metal edges slashing up and down. I need to fix at least two or three venues for the feeding, so we can give each horse enough time to eat. With a hatchet, I cut away what I can, remove the offending scraps, as the girls fill the wheel barrows with hay, retrieve the horses. The animals calm down, cluster by the gate at the prospect of food. The girls impress me, they were ready and willing to go, felt a responsibility to the animals, as soon as I mentioned feeding, they were gone and back in a minute, foul weather gear and boots, no problem at all, no complaints, no fear, no hesitation. It's still windy, chaotic out, have to yell, Claire gets my attention. I look to her, she indicates the pitbull running loose. No problem, I say, Yes, problem, she suggests, beckons me to follow her. I notice then the blood visible on the dog's teeth, the red froth dripping from his lips. Inside one of the sheds, a barn cat, one of my favorites, lays limp on the floor, mangled body covered with holes and blood, breathing shallow. He looks at me with dull eyes, they follow my movements, but the cat is paralyzed, dying. I scratch his ear as always, speak to him softly, Claire leaves. I look around for a suitable weapon, nothing, want to end this, see a post hole digger just outside. I gently pick him up, lay him on the wet dirt, sit next to him briefly, look into his eyes, pet him, say my last, get up. Walk to his blind side with the tool, swing it over my head onto his, but the balance is all off. My blow misses its mark, instead of crushing his skull, an eyeball pops out, the cat still lives, breathing labored, eye seeming to look at me. One of the handles breaks on impact, the implement is even more difficult to control, I just pound him as fast and as hard as I can, kill him with my flurry of swings. He's a mess, I quickly bury him. Help with the horses. We're done, back inside the house, drying off, drinking coffee, the hurricane starts up again. So far, this had been an exciting little adventure, actually enjoyed it, even if I didn't make love with Claire. All I can think of now is that eye, badly askew, watching me kill it's owner, from its spot on the ground, an inch or two away. Every time I think of Claire. I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking. Thanks again, Kate. Thanks, very much, for that specific fucking memory. By the time Kate shows up almost a week after the latest assault, I'm nailing plastic sheeting over the roof of her rental house. There would be no new roof for months, supplies were short everywhere, her roofing buddy had paying jobs. And the only reason I have plastic to nail down was because I remembered that paint stores sold roles of sheeting to protect floors and furniture from drips and spills. There was no plastic tarp or sheeting left in any building supply store within a hundred miles. My resourcefulness, as usual, saves her day, and she drives up as I near completion. After the hurricane moved on, temperatures climbed to the nineties, humidity precentages to match. The rooftop is so hot I can't work for more than half-an-hour without a fifteen minute break and a quart of Coke in the air-conditioned McDonald's around the corner. My right hand is genuinely crippled after two weeks of hammering, I can barely grip a hammer now, I fear slipping off the roof, slick with my own sweat. In my two weeks at her farm, I avert death or injury half-a-dozen times. I fall through one roof, I almost slip off this one several times. One of the race horses attacks me, but I have a chainsaw. I am almost beheaded by a sheet of corrugated steel flying by during the hurricane. Kate gets out of her truck, wants to know what I'm doing, where's her new roof. I explain the situation to her, shouldn't have to, she knows how it is, especially now, worst series of local disasters in history. And Kate's yelling at me because she's not getting a new roof, my fault, my incompetence, surely the reason, she's angry I'm leaving without providing the new roof I promised. Typical, of her, but I still don't fucking believe it. I allow myself to lose my temper as I haven't in years, I'm bellowing at the top of my lungs, No, I'm yelling, I'm leaving tomorrow, you're not getting a new fucking roof, there was a fucking hurricane, did you not fucking notice? I let her have it, a full five minutes, fuck used as noun, verb, adjective, adverb, every other word, I am ripping her apart, I am making it perfectly clear what a stupid, fucking asshole she is, I'm yelling, All I want to hear from you is unending fucking gratitude, do you fucking understand? Your eternal, infinite fucking gratitude! I'm happy I'm on the roof, not on her level, she would have attacked me half way through the rant, she's a tough, strong woman, violent, yes, I'm happy she can't attack me. I would, right now, fucking kill her if she gave me the excuse. I'm done yelling at her, she is, literally, speechless, no one talks to her like this, no one ever, neighbors are watching, listening from across the street, down the block, she glares at me, I give her the look of contempt, she knows I'd like to kill her, she blinks, apologizes, drives away. She has nothing but nice things to say to me when I see her later in the day, everything is fine. She is grateful. On my last night in town, I take the girls to a swampside roadhouse, alligators lurking under the deck and dock out back. We imbibe tropical drinks, eat deep-fried alligator, catfish and hush puppies, they've never imagined such places as this, let alone visited one. I work the bartender a little bit, I think she can help hustle us a ride on an airboat. No way, she says, Hey, I respond, it's not really for me, it's for those cute French girls over there. Thought I'd try to hook them up with some nice locals. Before I leave. Smile. Oh, well. I return to the girls, five minutes later the bartender appears, says she worked something out. The owner, a former Navy special ops type, shows up with some buddies. Along with the hottest airboat on the lake. And we're speeding across the lake in the dark, mai-tais in hand, a full moon casting a silvery sheen on the surface we skim. We end up at a party with a live band at the ruins of a resort, air thick with cannabis smoke. A couple of hours later, driving home, I tell the girls the deal. Nice guys, can have some fun if you want. Brief them on typical cad behavior, what to watch out for. They're pretty working-class girls from France, there is nothing I can tell them they don't know. They appreciate the gesture, however. And I talk to Kate a couple of weeks after I return home, she is annoyed. The girls stayed only one month, not three. They missed me, left within a week or two of my departure. It wasn't any fun anymore. Without me. Even if I wouldn't make love. Kate and I are yelling at each other across her den, I'm standing on the spot where I should have made love to Claire a year-and-a-half earlier. I am back on the roof, somewhere, in my mind, as I bark at her, I'm fifty-three-years old, I don't need you to tell me what I shouldn't do! Several generations of our family observe this, much amused, entertained. Kate's adult kids love it, just to see someone take on their domineering mother. My half-siblings appreciate it, suspect Kate might be cheating them in our land deals, know I'm the only one capable of protecting everyone's interest. Kate does not want me to canter on her thoroughbreds, afraid I'll get hurt, so she says. I don't know how to post, that's her evidence I can't ride. One does not post when one canters, this is not the issue. It is important, however, for her to exercise control over me at every opportunity. I must be punished. I enjoy myself too much. I must be punished. I'd been there several days by then, I adhered to her every rule concerning the horses, had already been running them. This was just about control, controlling me, looking for something to criticize. And thwarting my desire, just because she could. I liked running the horses, showed myself to be a competent rider, must stop the fun, find something to criticize, stop my fun. She had recently fucked me in a land deal, stuck me with tens of thousands of dollars in potential liabilities. No benefit to her, or anyone else, merely an opportunity to fuck me. Just because she could. I did not really want to exact revenge, I'd like to like my sister, but she makes it very difficult. Kate does not quite understand that she should not fuck with me, she will learn if she isn't careful, I do not want to feel obligated to try to destroy her. I cannot quite believe that she precipitates this argument, cannot believe she doesn't realize her vulnerabilities. I can't believe that she can be so stupid. Everyone in the room knows well the nature of our relationship, we are man, woman, counterparts, they know Kate is a clever bully, ever ready to throw her weight around for its own sake. They know also that I have refined the characteristics we share, more subtle than Kate, that I am capable of taking things to levels of which they cannot conceive, fearsome to contemplate, awesome in their impact, but entertaining to observe, at least, from a distance. Kate and I aren't really arguing about horses, and everyone knows it. This argument angers me for many reasons, most of all because Kate casts it in terms of looking out for me. She knows, after all, that I have run her horses already, she knows my instincts are good, that I'm willing to listen to advice. And every time someone around the farm hears she has me riding this particular horse, their eyebrows rise a bit. The people she's training to be trainers, for instance. This horse, Firecracker Red, does not seem to be known as an easy horse to ride. And only after I'm riding it, successfully, does she seem to have a problem with me taking him for a run. You can ride Moose, she says, if you want to run a horse. We carry on for five minutes or so, the family members amused, the in-laws shocked, they've heard about this, never seen it. The toddlers stare, open mouthed. Do whatever you want! she yells in conclusion. But it's your funeral, Kate says in so many words. And I go for a ride in the ring, but I am not comfortable, I don't want to run the horse, my instincts are out of sync after the argument, my judgment is clouded by anger. This makes me more angry. I put the horse up earlier than I intended. My nephew has Moose saddled up in an adjacent field, he's leading the children around on short rides. The same nephew who put me on a difficult horse years ago when I helped him move cattle. Didn't bother to tell me until after the horse tried to throw me. But didn't. He was impressed. Just wanted to see how good a rider I was. Fuck you very much. When Moose is done with the kids, I hop on. They're all walking off, I'm riding toward the far edge of the field, take Moose into a canter. He runs easily for a few strides, then starts bucking. I ride it out, smack him a few times, make him comply, more or less. He bucks again a couple of times, it is evident he wants to test me. This is not fun, I am angry now, my instincts are all off, I could get hurt. I take Moose in. I am angry. I have been tested enough lately. And the entire time I'm there, I'm thinking about these communications I've just had with Michelle, I'm thinking about these God damn horses, I can't look at a horse now without getting angry. And it makes me more angry. I am my own self-sustaining hurricane, now, a typhoon of unintegrated emotion, anger and yearning and memory all competing for attention I cannot focus, provide. This roving internal rage seeks outlets that do not exist, I cannot punch Kate for fun, I'd like to, cannot hurt a woman, though. Not like that. And I'm thinking about Michelle, the warm feelings are back, I can't believe we may have a chance, know we do, somewhere inside. I know it, I am not fooling myself, Michelle reached out to me, did not pull back this time. I'm melting again. I refuse to get my hopes up, however, know it will not be easy. If only because of my own capacity, now, to handle things badly. Because of my suspicions. That Michelle will always be unpredictable, no matter how hopeful it seems, she may start gaming me again. Call me when you get back, she said, and I'm on my way home, thinking of calling her, now I have to wait for her to get back, I'm thinking of calling her, yes, we're starting over, starting over, starting what over? Yes, call Michelle, I'm thinking, thinking of her looking at the phone, I see that face, hear that voice. Oh, shit. Terry. This will not be easy, I'm thinking, no matter what her intentions. This will not be easy. And I'm stuck in Minneapolis for several hours, waiting for a connecting flight, I take the train to the city, have lunch downtown. I check my email for the first time in days, there's one from Michelle, sent a day or two ago. Just to say hi. And I'm melting all the way home. It's raining again by the time I return, every time I go anywhere, every time I see a horse, a barn, I'm back in the mud, at the old stables. With Peter and Michelle. Intellectually, I am not bothered by what happened, I understand. But I am reminded of the feelings I experienced two months earlier, the sense of dread, the knowledge of what would happen, Michelle never showing up for the job. The falseness, the eagerness with which she said thoughtless, hurtful things. With a glint in her eye, knowing smile. I can't go to my office without a twinge of anger reminding me that I can't find the book I want because Michelle didn't show up. I can't think of the resort deal without thinking of the box of research I still do not have. Because Michelle wouldn't make an effort. That's over, I'm thinking, that's over. Yes, I know, but those feelings are still there. And it's not over if she does it again. Plays catch and release, again, with me. I can't believe she did that to me, I'm thinking, I can't believe she's made me doubt her so. No matter what, I can't make the doubts go away. And just a day or two after getting home, I discover I have a phone message, from Michelle. She just wants to say hi again, welcome me home, tell me when she'll be back. So I can call her. And I'm melting, melting, melting. But somewhere, deep inside, rage continues to rove. Michelle is back. I should call her. I don't call her the first day, don't want to seem too eager. I decide to call her the next day, wonder what I will say. Hey, let's get together? When? Will she be too busy? Will I believe that? Will I care if she's too busy? Will she ignore me away, again? No, Terry, she said. I don't want you to feel like I'm ignoring you, avoiding you. No, Terry! No, I'm thinking, she didn't want me to feel ignored, avoided. No, Michelle's specialty is in accomplishing the fact of ignoring and avoiding. She just doesn't want you to notice, feel bad about it. So Michelle can ignore, avoid, the guilt. About catch and release. Big difference, perhaps, to Michelle. Not to me. And these thoughts, and hope and doubt, compete in my brain for confirmation, I'm trying to get a fix on what's real, with Michelle, her feelings. My hostility toward her is gone, the past is over. Except as a guide for the future. And I don't know what to expect from her. Is she trying to recover the friendship? Will she still look for reasons to reject me as a lover? Will I hear, again, I don't feel that way about you, Terry? No, the past is over. It's the future that scares me, one too much, perhaps, like the past. I fear. Michelle just can't help herself. And there's something more than my own feelings involved, my own hurt. And I'm trying to figure it out, it comes slowly, but it comes, it is about feelings, mine, and Michelle's behavior. And I'm thinking, thinking, no, I can't go through that doubt again. But I'm not just afraid of being hurt. I feel good about Michelle, I think of her as that fine woman I know, again. And I cannot bear the thought of thinking badly of her. Again. Feeling hostility, for Michelle. And somewhere, deep inside, I wonder if I'm driving her to behave badly. And I consider this new concept, Michelle behaving badly, realize it is an artificial construction. It's not about Michelle treating me badly, not about me, I can't be a victim, I can't be treated badly. It's about Michelle's behavior, what it does to her, how she victimizes herself. No, I begin to think, it's about how she treated me. Me, specifically, and I see it all in a new light. I generalize about how she treated me, presume she's treated others the same way. I can't believe that, not that woman I got to know for so long. It is not in her nature to treat people as badly as she treated me. And I'm thinking of that day she talked about being afraid to fall in love, wanted to believe she meant me, believed that a possibility. All the while, thinking, comforting delusion, too. I discounted that belief, but now, I reconsider. The possibility that I elicted all that objectionable behavior by pursuing Michelle, working her the way I did. The possibility that I drove her to deny her nature, do things she did not want to do. But had to. Because she was afraid of falling in love with me. I have driven Michelle to act like a tramp. And whatever little games she played with other men, insidious as they may have been, she was able to limit, handle the damage. Until I came along, during the worst year of her life. Added to her confusion. And drove her to act like a tramp. To escape me. And I'm pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse as I try to dissect my feelings, thoughts, and all of this occurs to me in a flood of realization, I stop at the corner of the building, lean into it, hand and cigarette drop to my side, I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking, I don't fucking believe it. And I'm inhaling, exhaling, deep, successive breaths, rapidly, no hormonal surge of the sort I'm accustomed to, but somewhere, deep inside, I think this is true, I understand what happened. I think. I feel something hard, with rough edges, below my heart, this is how I register this emotion I can't fully interpret, cannot allow myself to more fully consider. I am incapable of rethinking these months, these events, again, in any detail, I cannot risk the hurt, the anger, reignited. And it's the next day, I'm going to call now, now, yes, I'm going to call, I'm sitting in my car next to the coffeehouse, I enter Michelle's number, my finger reaches toward the send key, and I can't touch it. I see that image, that face, as she looks at her phone. Oh, shit. Terry. I cannot make my finger press the send key. And I sit in the driver's seat, phone in my left hand, I look at the phone, my right index finger hovers two inches above that button, and I can't do it. What I feel inside is not the welter of emotions so familiar, but their shades, I do not feel the pain, the hope, no, none of that, I perceive instead a visceral aversion to acknowledging the potential of those emotions. I cannot go there. I cannot go there again. And I cannot call Michelle. She might take me there again. Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. It's the next morning, I'm sitting in my car, by the coffeehouse, I try again to call Michelle. I can't do it. There is nothing contrived about this feeling, this impotence I feel, nothing artificial about this incapacity to hit the send key. A psychosomatic block has paralyzed my ability to call Michelle. I have heard of such things happening, could not conceive of such a thing happening to me. And I realize this is what has happened, with this second attempt to call Michelle, I am not confused, I am not surprised. And I know without trying that I can't think myself out of this, I know that nothing can make this go away. I can't bear the thought of calling Michelle, imagining that face, that voice, that image. Oh, shit. Terry. And I'm pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse, I'm thinking how just a week ago I didn't care, anymore, I executed the Valentine's Day ploy, did not care, my surprise at how it all turned around. I'm thinking how happy I was, in a subdued sense, we were, after all, talking about Michelle, but I was happy, hopeful. And I can't make that call to Michelle because I can't allow her to behave badly again, for her sake. Or mine. I can't take the hurt, I can't take the anger, I can't take the guilt I feel for the things I find myself thinking. About Michelle. I can't be a party to a situation in which Michelle can hurt me again. Because I make her behave badly. Because she's afraid of falling in love with me. Because she has to hurt me. To kill that love. I can't make the call, I can't make myself make the call. But I must do something. I do not realize this at the time, but I am a different man now, at least in reference to Michelle. Warmth and yearning no longer dominate my emotions concerning her, they remain, somewhere, deep inside. Protected. Their guardian is that ruthless creature who does what he must do, can do it very well, but often does so without thinking in a conventional sense. Thinking stripped bare of many human considerations, feelings. And over the course of that afternoon, I compose the email below. I will try to treat Michelle badly, just right. I do want to be honest with her, but I can't relinquish to her a sense of control, can't let her think she can play games with me as before. But I do want to be honest. I know, however, that her sister, and others, may see it. My honesty, therefore, must be properly packaged, to immunize myself, my pride, from the scorn it will evoke. This is what I write, send. Hi Michelle, What a surprise it was to discover you'd actually called and left a message. After getting that email from you on my return, I'd resolved to suggest that you not bother to contact me further. I reached the point that I never expected you to follow through, and anymore I'm not up to waiting for calls that never come or making plans that never happen. I pulled that Valentine's Day stunt to provoke you--good for the story, you know--and I turned things around so that I could reject you. I needed some kind of closure for myself, and a conclusion to our tale. It's certainly not what I wanted or expected, but at least it worked somehow for what had become a romantic horror story. I was just getting ready to send that last email when I checked my phone. So now, instead, I'm writing another last email--maybe--which leaves a little room for a happy ending. When I first started hanging out at the ranch, I never could have predicted what would transpire. We ended up with a series of rare opportunities to observe each other in uniquely difficult situations that revealed something of our characters. I got to see what you were like when you were angry at me, you got to see how I responded. I saw how honest you tried to be in your business dealings, you saw me sincerely try to play by your rules concerning the ranch and beyond. We worked well together on the web site and around the ranch. I saw those sweet, nurturing qualities of yours, along with a toughness and independence I admired. You saw that I was considerate and reliable. And that was before things got intense; Ty coming back without Alex, your loss of the ranch, my illness, Gillie's accident, getting tossed by Charlie Brown, you making me act like a man and get back on when it wasn't my first inclination. Then those last, painful weeks as the year ended. And the intimate conversations we had, that were almost always initiated by you, as were most of our dialogs. Strictly speaking, Michelle, you really aren't my type, and I suppose you would say the same of me. But we shared things together over the last year, learned things about each other, that many married couples never experience in a lifetime. And in the course of that year, though you deny it, you reached out to me as much as I reached out to you. Ultimately, however, I just want to see you live happily ever after, with me or without me. That's why it annoyed me so much when you kept putting it all into sexual terms; as a chunk of female flesh, I do not find you irresistable. That said, I'd love to make love with you, and I don't think you'd regret it. I'm a great lover, I look pretty good with my shirt off, and nothing turns me on like satisfying a woman. I think we could have moments of heaven on earth together, and it would be a shame if we never became lovers somewhere along the way. But it was never about me trying to score a piece of ass. I fell in like with you as a person. Your fear of intimacy just couldn't accept that, couldn't allow things to evolve in any natural way. Eventually, we could have become best friends, fuck buddies, or committed lovers; we could have drifted apart gracefully over time. Instead, you were compelled to destroy not only the future potentialities, but the friendship we already had. You're troubled by many things, I know, especially now. I don't want to add to them, and I don't want to hurt you. I'm not interested in being the object of insincerity and evasions, though, whatever the excuse; a replay of the last months holds little appeal. Toward the end of the year, you said you'd surprise me one day and invite me to dinner. If you want to re-establish our relationship, make that invitation soon, and arrange for your daughter to stay elsewhere for the night. A bottle of wine and pizza will do for dinner, and if anything's supposed to happen afterward, it will. But I don't want you to make that call unless you can do it with an open heart and mind, and without any sense of guilt or obligation. And, of course, you have to be there when I show up. Otherwise, do me a favor. Send an email by next Monday, and in the subject line, enter "go away" and you'll never hear from me again. Please spare me any explanations, or new reasons why you find me unacceptable. I'll have that closure I need, and an end to the story. Then you can have a good laugh about The Stalker Guy with Bruce and Karen over a beer at Steiner's. Meanwhile, I'll presume that whatever we had is over. I wish you the best for the future, and I hope good karma comes your way again. Perhaps the next time around you won't so aggressively slam shut the door on it. Yes, I know such talk makes you squirm. It should. The memories I have of our times together at the ranch will always warm my heart, and I'll be forever grateful for what you taught me about horses and riding. Having known you has been one of the most tender experiences of my life. I'll miss you, Sweetheart. Good-bye. With love and sadness, Terry ps--Please forget about the money, and feel free to throw away that box of papers. Thanks. I send that email, and wait, devoid of the hormonal emotional storms I might have experienced a couple of months ago, generally abated following Christmas. The rage of two weeks ago, right before Valentine's Day, seems grossly irrelevant now. I am, on some level, now more interested in winning the game than winning Michelle, the fear of losing her too great to comprehend. I couldn't allow her to throw me away, again. Better for me to throw her away. No matter how much I wanted her, better than rejection. Again. Again. Again. Yes, I'm taking that chance, I realize, but treating Michelle harshly brought me to the brink of victory, now I need victory on my very specific terms, too. I have to insure against the fear of defeat. All this I rationalize after sending that email, I can't fully think before I act anymore, I'm following some instinct developed over decades, waging war of byzantine strategy, directed by intuition. I am rationalizing the deed after the fact. Reconsidering my actions is not an option, I do not even need to dismiss the idea. As a work of art, as a deed attempted, if not accomplished, my endeavor to seduce Michelle represents a lifetime's achievement. I got as close as I am, now, through ruthless planning, calculation, all conceived and executed with her welfare in mind. I prevailed despite her desire to send me away, despite her need to protect herself. Her life. And it brought out the best in both of us. Something wonderful happened. No matter what. That much was clear, now. Something wonderful happened, that was already a fact. And it happened only because of my manipulations. Further plotting and intrigue I can no longer indulge, however. Now I must be myself. Whoever that is. I do not consider that right now I am an insecure bully. That does not occur to me at all, when, a couple of days after sending the email, I receive a phone message from Michelle. I do not screen Michelle's calls, not consciously. But I realize that something happened during the time I awaited Michelle at the office those weeks, received the messages explaining why she wouldn't come in this time. Routinely, I leave my phone in the car, in part to keep it charged, but also because I don't want to be at the world's beck and call. After missing a message or two of Michelle's, I reminded myself to start carrying it with me. I rejected the idea as soon as I thought of it, realizing that forcing her to leave messages saved me from having to think too much when we talked, to respond appropriately, tactically, to the shocking things I came to expect from her. The messages gave me time to think. Additionally, even though I still could not imagine trying to write our story anymore, I thought they might be useful for that. Even as I doubted that I could ever write a thing about this again. But I would have the message, Michelle's voice. So that's why I listen to a message, rather than talk to Michelle. Essentially, she scares me. Her voice is playful, melodic, happy sing-song rhythm. Hi, Terry, she says, drawing out the words, hesitating before saying, sweetly, You goofball. So I got your email, she says, and I'm thinking about it, and I'll be in touch. Seeya, bye. She sounds just as if she's planning that dinner I proposed. How very interesting. Over the next couple of days, I quash hopeful feelings, desperate fears, and focus on my other affairs. Whatever I feel is actively consigned to my subconscious, and I vigorously refuse to think about the situation. I do what I can to maintain a neutral, detached state. In such a mental condition I drive to Sonoma, ostensibly to the book shop. It is possible that I also hope to run into Michelle, but I do not acknowledge this. If it's supposed to happen, it will, says a voice, somewhere, deep inside, which I do not hear. The familiar drive cannot help but evoke memories and feelings, despite my desire to ignore them, and I approach Michelle's cottage in the vineyard with a racing heart. As I get close, a hundred yards from the gravel drive, I see Michelle's jeep. I'm a little shocked at this inconsistency, and it takes me by surprise. During the entire time I know Michelle, driving by her cottage dozens of times, I never see her jeep. The leafy vines camouflage the property, but now they're bare. Besides that, Michelle usually parks behind her house, rendering the vehicle invisible from the road almost always. It's a shock to see it, and I am thinking nothing at all as I make the right turn into her drive just a second or so after the first glimpse. Before I know it, I'm standing on her back porch, half-sitting on the railing, facing the door, rolling a cigarette. I have just knocked on the door, I see Michelle approaching from inside, and I don't know what I'm doing here, or what I expect to say. She opens the door, her face shows distress or worry. Hi Michelle, I say. Wanna talk? Not when you show up like this, without calling, she says. I don't know what I detect in her face. Hurt? Anger? I don't know what I see, and I really don't know what I'm doing there. Okay, I say, as we look into each other's eyes. Confusion? Michelle retreats inside, and shuts the door in a deliberate manner. She shoots me one last look. Suspicion? The last thing I see of Michelle's is her back disappearing into the darkness of her house. I feel a bitter relief, I note. I actually sigh in relief, as I finish rolling that cigarette. Well, I didn't plan that at all, I think. But at least I have the closure I need. An angry look, harsh words and a door shut in my face. My romantic adventure with Michelle is over. That is the last she time speaks to me, looks into my eyes. I accept this with equanimity, since I've lost her so many times before, at least in my mind. All the pain of loss I've already felt, and now I have the ending I need, finally, some sort of end. The story concerns me not at all, I do not need an end to something I can't write. I have, however, ended the cycle of shattered hopes. That I desperately need. And even though I like to think I can take anything, as long as it doesn't mame or cripple me somehow, I realize I can't take this. Not anymore. Somehow it is maiming and crippling me. That I could think the things I did, about Michelle, appalls me. I am warped, embittered, somewhere, deep inside, but I can't confront this now, nor the direct source. The sense of relief is palpable, any lament over losing Michelle mitigated by the knowledge that I won the game, as I chose to define it. I got her to come after me, I issued the ultimatum, I got to inflict my rules of engagement on her. I beat Michelle at the discreditable game I presumed her to play. So I'm resigned to the decision of the fates, I accept this conclusion. Then I receive her email. This is what she writes. Terry I may never want to see you again. I had not completed your last email, did just recently. Hence why I have not called you back. It was always about sex for you. Always always always. What you said to me was sooo out of line. I tried so hard to apologize and kept my promise to call you, keep in touch and make amends. I didnt get a chance. You hooked me again, set me up and now I know why for sure. It was what I thought along time ago. Friendship to you meant nothing. Enough said. Write your dumb book, I dont care. Its now a horror novel in my eyes. Gross is all I can say. Michelle Many things catch my attention right off. She did not say go away, she said she may not want to see me again. The door closed, perhaps, but she did not lock it. Her apologies mean nothing, nor the promises kept. She is forever unreliable, that can change in an instant. I still have reason to fear a contrived snubbing at any time in a future relationship. The most compelling evidence for this is her ready assertion that it was all about sex. That's what Michelle wants it to be about, that was my point. That angers me. So does her revelation that I'd almost hooked her again. That implied I may have been able to consummate that relationship I wanted, if I only I'd behaved in a normal way, called her to get together. But she made it impossible to act normally with her. If normal was possible, she wouldn't have used my unannounced visit as an excuse to speak harshly to me. Just because she had an excuse. I'm further angered by the idea that I hooked her before. All she had to do was let me know. The way normal adults manage to do. I'm very angry thinking that so much of this was unnecessary. All she had to do was let me know. She didn't, and she snubbed me mercilessly, instead. The falseness I detect makes me most angry of all. She says she hadn't read the email, that's why she hadn't called yet. But she'd left that message already, indicating that she had read the email. Michelle was lying to me, she was gaming me again. I could do anything I wanted to her. And whatever we had is over in my mind now, this is just conflict, war, and I want bloody victory. I spend a day composing the following email, I use everything I know of Michelle to refine my attack. This is what I write, send. Yikes, Michelle, I feel like I'm in junior highschool again trying to communicate with you. You're shocked that I might find you sexually appealing? Who Knew?!?!? You're obsessed with sex, Michelle, and the control it gives you over men. That's why you engage in your pathetic little catch and release games, and that's why you end up with strange men stealing your wallet, your phone, tracking down your home phone number, guys following you, why you have to get restraining orders issued against guys...then you go jerk them around again working them for favors when it's convenient. You take pleasure in telling about the horrible relationships, how badly you hurt guys...He can't talk to me anymore...And the glint in your eye, your visible excitement when you told me those stories. It's all about the fat chick who became attractive in her mid-twenties, and now you're pushing 40 and still acting like a teenager in a bar with her first false ID. Oooh, all that attention. Honestly, Michelle, you're the most deadly female predator I've ever seen with that split personality of yours: generally sweet and nurturing on the one hand, utterly conscienceless when it comes to men, on the other. I gave up on you as any kind of serious romantic target long ago; you're emotionally stunted and I figured that out the day I saw you at Steiner's. Had that been the first time I'd ever seen you, I'd have dismissed you without a thought. I hate women who act like that, and I spent my life avoiding them. That's why I've had lots of happy, successful relationships with A-list hotties that turned out nicely even when they ended. But I'd come to know Good Michelle by then, and I knew there was more to you than the slut act you're so comfortable with. I got the impression that you'd never had a break in your life, and you needed a friend like me. I saw the people you surrounded yourself with...that pig Annie, who bad mouthed you behind your back, that barracuda sister of yours who sets you up for embarrassment...revealing to strangers that you weren't having sex with Dan...and whose idea was it to video that Christmas party in which you ended up the joke? Did she do anything to discourage the idea? They use you as bait and resent you for it, celebrating your every failure. Al trying to pimp you off to his buddies...he's a PILOT!...And that time at the new stables; how kind of him to point out the lines around your mouth, really rub it in that you're getting older. No big deal, just another friend trying to embarrass you in front of people. And a boyfriend who won't let you into his house, has you feed his dog when he's away and punishes you by withholding sex. Sorry I intruded with my concern. I knew things would go nowhere with tom, and I knew that vet clinic idea would crash and burn; that's why I tried to set you up with that ranch. You could have owned the place by now, and split a couple of million with the investors in a few years. All you had to do was not fuck it up; but you found a way. There were other opportunities I set you up for...you could have been set for life in five years, and you methodically sabotaged yourself at every turn. You really showed me who was boss. Yeah, that's my standard procedure for getting laid, Michelle, dropping a couple of thousand bucks on every candidate, spending a year pretending to be a friend, and then waiting to see if I'd ever get a call back. I'm a real sneaky guy; saying stuff like, Hey, Michelle, I just want to see things work out for you, whether it's with Dan or the tatooed cowboy in the beatup truck...offering assistance, no strings attached. And all the times we were alone together, I never tried to grope you, never made a move on you. Yes, it was just about me looking for sex. So forgive me if I needed a little clarity. The bottom line is, I don't want a relationship with you unless you put energy into it and pursue it; I've done my time, and I showed up whenever I said I'd show, I called when I said I'd call. Fate threw us together, such that I was there for you at one of your most difficult times; I didn't plan it that way, but I made it possible for you to spend christmas with your dad for the first time in your life...after you left me that message telling me again how not interested you were, making sure I knew there was someone else. And how many times have guys made you cry by doing something nice for you? I wanted to hug you when you started weeping after I gave you the riding crop, but I didn't for fear that I'd get another lecture...that's inappropriate. When I knew you were in trouble, I figured out a way for you to make some money and help me out; funny how only the first part of the deal came through. How many times did you say you would call and didn't? How many times did you say you'd show up and didn't? And that lame story about the horse running you down...But I'll come tomorrow... And I'm a liar? You broke my heart Michelle, but not because I wanted you; it just hurt to watch that fine woman I knew from the ranch waste her life because of a self-esteem based on acting like a bitch in heat around a pack of dogs. But hey, you make your choices and live with them, right? So, now that we understand each other... If you want to pursue a relationship with someone who appreciates and understands you as perhaps no other...if you want a real pal who might become a lover...if you want to stop the bullshit...call me with a plan and date to get together. And I don't want to talk about any of this stuff, by the way. I want us to try normal for once: a couple of people who like each other and give it a chance. If you ever get into another jam and think I can help...call me. I'll never reject you if you act with sincerity, and I'll never burn you. And writing what I just wrote is about as mean a thing as I'll ever do to you. I won't be doing anything like it again now that I've made my point. And you can always send that email that just says, Go away. Love, Terry, I sign it, as ugly a signature as anyone ever afixed to such a document. I do that in full appreciation of the irony. But I will not foster this woman's illusions anymore, Michelle has to know just how disgusting I find her world and everyone in it. She has to know exactly how stupid I think her life. And how stupid I think she is. For not crawling back to me, of course. I can't imagine how Michelle will respond, but I feel confident she will not be able to just write go away in a subject line to an email. I told her to do it, she'll have to resist. Again, I think about what I do after I've done it, incapable of any really sophisticated, or even thought out, strategy, tactic. I am just unleashing randomly, to see what happens. I am doing this in a recreational sense, for morbid entertainment, without any expectation that anything positive will come of it. Except that Michelle will realize what a dumbass she is and self-destruct. Or something like that. That, whatever that means, remains undefined. I don't care. For a final touch, a final manipulation of memory and feeling, I attach a copy of a story I wrote about the night we met, at the winery party. I wrote it days after meeting her, before I had any idea that we would see each other again. In two weeks, it will be a year since that night we met, and another edition of that annual party. I will spend the time until then wondering if she'll show up. Won't that be interesting? A few days later, Michelle responds with her own email. This is what she writes. Terry Hmmm. Oh My God. Where to start. I am at work this week in Woodside, busy minded and still I am nagged by this issue with you. I cant even begin to tell you how insulted I am by your email. You are provoking me. I know this. You have no idea what you're talking about is all I can say. As far as obsessions go, I think it's you, my dear, who has them. I can't even begin to address the idiotic claims, from my encounters with strange men who violated me in one way or another (and somehow thats my fault?), to your lame claims about Dan, the clinic plans, tattooed cowboys, Al, etc. Shut the fuck up. You have NO clue, your overactive perverse mind and sense of superiority has officially pissed me off. You dont know me, and now will never get the chance again to try. I'd rather fuck a rabid rhino, than ever reveal my true self to you. Be careful how you judge others, you're no saint. This is fucking sad. You are pathetic, and I hope this email reads loud and clear that there will be no pizza in our future. Good luck in your ventures. Please don't bother me again. One final thing. Because I am a good person, I can honestly say that this is very sad for me, you disappoint me as I do you. I hope the rest of your life treats you well, you just better be careful whom you piss off. You shouldn't always live your life so close to the edge. Someone might push you off. You have a great kid to be a role model for. As do I. Michelle My initial reaction to this missive takes me by surprise. Michelle impresses me all over again. I was not merely insulting, I was nasty, cruel. I clearly expressed what a loser I thought Michelle to be, I drenched her with contempt. I couldn't help myself. And I really didn't know what I was doing. Michelle responded in a way I envy. She sets just the right, dismissive tone, the issue, I have, my petty, disdain-worthy, obsession. Over her. That's good, very good. She got me there. She recognizes also that I'm trying to manipulate her, somehow. That's true enough, though even I fail to see the point of the exercise. The line about preferring to fuck a rabid rhino than letting me get to know the real Michelle, I especially enjoyed. She made my case better than I could. Michelle would rather do anything than let me get genuinely intimate with her. Even fuck a rabid rhino. Her life story, metaphorically speaking. The lack of parallellism I found significant. She did not say she'd rather fuck a rabid rhino than make love to me, she'd rather fuck the rhino than let me know the real her. She knew it wasn't about sex. Characteristically, Michelle made it about sex, but here she admitted that she knew what I really wanted. To know her. The woman knew just what I wanted, specifically told me she would withhold it from me, forever. As for her denial that I had any understanding of her reality, that just convinced me further of her own faint grasp. The rest I found both unsettling and gratifying. She identifies my superiority complex, knows my penchant for pushing the limits. Michelle understands me better than I thought. Indeed, it's clear that she perceives me as I want to be perceived. No wonder she's afraid of falling in love with me. Despite all of that, despite her clear understanding that I'm going out of my way to be cruel to her, Michelle wishes me well! I can't believe it. And she mentions our children in the same sentence. I don't know what this latter means, I still can't think rationally, but I know it's significant. It nags the edge of my awareness. But I do have an ending for the story I can never write. I have closure. Almost. I also need the last word. I send a final email, restricting the message to the subject line. Thanks for the honesty, finally. Good luck with that rhino. Good-bye. My self-righteous nature, once inflamed, is difficult to dowse. Michelle's emails trouble me, though I consciously deny it, refusing to pursue the inklings that call for attention. I try to exaggerate the sense of relief I feel, try to magnify it, to silence the questioning. There's nothing I can do about this now, it is over, enjoy the cessation of doubt, the torments of yearning. So, I do feel good about this, as long as I can manipulate my thoughts and feelings. I note in the days following the last exchange that I feel a familiar feeling, and I try to identify it. It is, in fact, the relief I felt when I got over a cocaine binge. For months, I'd felt those coke-like adrenaline surges, those visceral expressions of emotion so powerful I could think of them only in terms of drug effects. I never had a cocaine problem, as such, I never used it for extended periods of time. Instead, I went on runs of a day or two, abandoning other activities to shoot coke as often, as much, as I dared. The residual high I did not much like. I loved needles, tying off, seeing the veins pop out. Inserting the needle, probing for the retreating vein, hitting it ultimately, spot of red entering the syringe. The first rush, after squeezing the liquid into my bloodstream, first to the heart, then to my brain, my system at large, the ecstacy, immediate. And if I got the dose just right, it replicated, to a large degree, the feeling of sexual orgasm, at its best, without the involvement of my penis, the ejaculation. That would last five or ten minutes before it tapered off, and the buzz beyond mirrored the sensation, to a lesser degree, for another ten or fifteen minutes. Then the decline into mere jitteriness. When that began, I shot some more. But getting the right maximum dose was difficult. I always erred on the side of caution, and slight disappointment. But every once in a while, I'd get it just right, knowing that if I'd shot just a few grains more, I'd be dead, or on the way to the hospital. When that occurred, I would collapse onto a chair, feel my heart beat, and wonder if I had overdosed, wait to see if I felt symptoms of a heart attack. And the minutes would tick by, and after a few, I'd know I'd gotten it just right. But it wouldn't last, I'd be back where I started in half-an-hour, when I'd play another round of cocaine roulette. All the while knowing that one of these hours, I would have to stop, suffer the nervousness before a troubled sleep, suffer the guilt over the money spent, time wasted, chances taken. That is how I felt in the days after these emails, as if I'd finally come down off the roller-coaster high, but after almost a year. As if I'd finally broken a cocaine addiction. I had broken, instead, my addiction to Michelle, and the hormonal surges that I could barely contain. And that was a relief, after all. But it got me thinking about cocaine again, so I scored a couple of grams, and spent a long night at home. It had been over a decade since I'd done this, and it was everything I remembered it to be. I also saw how close the feelings were to what I so often grappled with in my ordeal with Michelle. And when I recovered from the initial surges, caught my breath, I started pacing and smoking and talking to myself, lengthy dialogs interrupted only by the demand to do more cocaine. I started talking about Michelle, what had happened, these last emails, sorting out what I said, what she said, what it all meant, and I can consider everything, relive every painful moment of the last year, without feeling any of the feelings I couldn't take. The drug provided the detachment and numbness I needed to look at everything, unclouded by emotion. And I see all the most painful moments, hear the hurtful things Michelle said, meaning to or not, I hear those voices of hers. We're talking in the white chairs, day after day, week after week, month after month. I remember that I considered having a baby with her, I remember her telling me she was afraid of falling in love, I remember her clutching that riding crop, crying. I hear Michelle's voice in that message on Valentine's Day, I hear her say, I'm sorry, I was depressed, and suicidal, I remember that I didn't care. She didn't behave correctly. Depressed and suicidal sticks in my mind, and I begin to think of the times I was depressed and suicidal. The months I spent between four and six in the morning, in the dark, hugging myself, hands clutching my arms, rocking back and forth, trying to dissipate the anxiety, the self-loathing I felt. And my life had not fallen apart in the way Michelle's had. I think of how self-righteous and angry I became after Christmas, when Michelle never showed up. There was no excuse. There were ways to behave, proper means by which to disengage. All she had to do was figure it out. And I think about my lengthy campaign to seduce her, calculating, intriguing, from a position of detached comfort, in terms of my life and situation. And Michelle, struggling single mom, hoping to get married, on the brink of a future dreamed, all falling apart. She didn't ask for my attentions, she discouraged them. All the behavior I thought of as disingenuous, I excused, knowing her past. I knew what I was dealing with, in general, and she had no clue. She didn't ask for any of it, and I inflicted it on her. That I thought I was considering her welfare, too, does not really matter. She asked for none of it, and I managed to get under her skin. Despite her will. And the behavior I found objectionable, I realize, I precipitated. She needed to get away from me, for whatever reason, and she had many. She really couldn't help herself. Knowing that, I determined that the one thing I could control was my own behavior. I would never do anything to hurt Michelle, to show her my anger. To make her feel bad about herself. And I think of those emails I wrote, as vicious, as venomous, as anything I ever composed. To hurt Michelle. Because she didn't behave correctly. Because she was devastated. And I didn't care. I knew she would be hurt by the affair with Peter, no matter how it played out, and she hurt after Peter left. Just days before Valetine's Day. And I see her coming forward out of her house, and I don't see now what I thought I saw then. I see Michelle hurting. And I try to hurt her more. Had I not been under the influence of cocaine, I could not have borne these insights, I would have gone insane, on the spot, with grief. But I can think about these things, now, in my state of numb self-awareness. And I think of our communications after the Valentine's Day ploy, how she responded to my honesty, my hurt, how she let me be angry at her, how she tried to reach out to me, to make amends. And none of it was enough. I had to be cruel to her. That was my happy ending, right there. Michelle did everything she could to make things right for me, and I spit in her face. I told her it was all a setup, all a manipulation, took credit for turning things around, to reject her. I repudiated every sincere thing I really did try to do for her, I turned it all into a cynical lie. A Valentine's Day ploy. And I go to my laptop, pull up the emails we exchanged. I can't believe what I wrote, I know my style, I know this is me, but I can't believe what I said to Michelle. I was as cruel as I could let myself get away with. And I look at what she wrote, her final email, genuine concern for me, even as she tells me never to bother her again. And she apologizes for disappointing me, as I did her. I had no right to be disappointed by Michelle. She asked for none of it. This was all my doing. What I did to Michelle was unforgiveable. And I'm pacing and smoking and talking to myself, about what I did, and the woman I did it to, Michelle, and I see her fresh, I see her whole, I understand in a gasp the mystery of her appeal to me. She embodies every significant woman of my life. Michelle is the mother I always wanted, the sister I didn't, she's the daughter I abandoned, she's the loving mate who threw me away. And I should be sobbing now, grief-wracked, but instead I merely pace faster, smoke faster, muttering, I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it, finally yelling it out, I don't fucking believe it! And I'm pacing and smoking, new thoughts provoking me, I see Michelle as the lense I turned on myself, my marriage, my past, because of her I looked anew at my every relationship with women, because of Michelle I explored new territories of the heart, because of Michelle I realize that love outweighs its accompanying miseries, I realize how lucky I was to have the marriage and family I had. And a sense of indebtedness compounds my feelings of guilt and shame, I can't believe what I've done. I don't fucking believe it. And I read her final email again, I see all that strength and grace, her restraint, she does not try to hurt me in any gratuitous way, as I did her. And if there's anyone who has the strength, the grace, to forgive me, it is this woman. Despite the cocaine, despite the artificial detachment, I note a measure of remorse I have never experienced before. And I look at the last email again, noting the date. The Ides of March. She has brought Caesar down. Now, if only she'll forgive him. I have my happy ending. I am much more comfortable being the villain in this story than casting Michelle in the role. Compared to me, what I did, given my advantages, far outweighs Michelle's shortcomings in responding to my provocations. I must write that book now, Michelle is my hero, I think she's magnificent. Even if she is deranged, and I now believe I may contributed to that dementia. Her world fell apart on her, and I tried to manipulate her to my will and desire. Little wonder she should try to escape. I turned out to be a cad. That I could not help myself is no consolation. I can always help myself. I chose to feed my anger at her expense. Thankfully, I am so used to the idea of losing Michelle, I do not feel horrible when I come around after the cocaine run. And I have a plan. A manipulative plan, actually, but I can't help myself. And this time, I will be honest about how I feel. I will write our story. And she will have to read it, if only so I can make changes she suggests. I really can't try to publish this without giving her a chance to respond to anything she considers particularly unfair or inaccurate. And she will see my hurt, my pain, she will understand what I went through, she will see that I tried to be good. She will see she brought out the best in me, the most selfless behavior I ever engaged in. Even if I did betray myself, my values, my commitment. Betray her. In the end. I did try. And she made me want to. And what is the point of this, I ask myself? I still want that date. Not really, but that chance to see if we belong together. At least for a while. I want to court Michelle, if she wants to be courted. If she'll give me another chance. I want to start from scratch, as much as that's possible given the circumstances. Given the circumstances. And the circumstances are these. We can't start from scratch, I can't start from scratch, I'm in her thrall more than ever. But I am not ready to give up this adventure after all. Within a few more days, I clear up my other affairs, I decide one morning, pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse, that today is the day. I need to change my environment, though, get away from distracting associations, the roads, the horses, the people I see, that remind me of what we went through, evocations of pain, hurt, and now, crushing loss. My ability for self-forgiveness, I realize, is remarkable. I do not feel as bad as I should, but I never do. After all these years, I'm quite adept at accepting what I did, I usually did my best given the prevailing conditions. The corpses left in my wake were just victims of circumstances none of us could control. I can live with myself comfortably, most of the time. This is something I might be able to make right. If only to confess to Michelle, in detail, how admirable I find her. Despite propensities I question. She is some kind of great woman. I owe this to her. And if I get that relationship with her I desire, so much the better. I speculate about all of this as I drive to St. Helena, where there are several cafes suitable for writing. After parking, I wander around town a bit, trying to pick my spot, prepare myself for this task now motivating me. I stop by a sculptor's studio on Main Street, a man I know as an acquaintance, friend of my friend who owns the castle. I walk in, and at the far end of the room, a statue catches my eye, draws me to it magnetically. In the streamlined style of Benny Bufano, the artist has fashioned a madonna and child, mother looking down at the baby in her arms. The modernistic shape approximates that of a heart, mother and child representing the two lobes. I see in it, of course, Michelle. The nurturing mother who first captured my heart. But I'm ready to see Michelle everywhere, I do not see this as an omen. I am overcome just the same, try not to start sobbing. I catch myself, catch my breath, and turn to leave. When I see, in a corner invisible on entering, two life-size bronzes of horses, an adult and a youngster. I see, of course, Lucy and Charlie Brown. I have lost it now, no, this is not an omen, I say to myself, as I rush out, put on my sunglasses, and cry as I walk down the street. The bakery's a couple of blocks away, I read what I wrote six months ago, I start to cry, try to determine how to begin again. I'm touched by what I have so far, I can't read it without breaking down, I go outside to pace and smoke. I compose myself. This will be difficult, I think, but I can do it. And the tears aren't bitter, nor especially sad. I don't feel bad crying, I feel relieved. I need this outlet, for wild, non-specific emotions that I must acknowledge. I take a few deep breaths, compose myself, again. Then I walk into the art gallery next door to the bakery. On entering, the first thing I see is another sculpture of a bronze horse, about a foot high. Rearing. It has an exaggerated ass, with blatantly sexual overtones. This is Michelle, as a horse. I am aghast, I can barely stand. It is entitled Tuesday's Negotiation. My weekly lessons all started on Tuesdays. Valentine's Day was a Tuesday. This, I decide, is an omen. I start writing. Over the next weeks, I establish a routine. I start in mid-morning smoking cannabis in various winery parking lots as I drive upvalley. I walk around, admire the views, the architecture, the overall design. And I start to think about the story, and the vignettes of our history together appear, and I am with Michelle again. I don't listen to the radio anymore, don't want to hear the news, don't want to distract myself from the story. I am ready to write when I sit down, capable of reliving every moment, in excruciating, exquisite detail. I write until the bakery closes, I am soon writing after the bakery closes, the staff sees my intensity, they indulge this passion. My consciousness, for ten, twelve, hours a day, is all Michelle, all the time. I develop the ability to turn it off when I'm done each day, I feel the emotions only when I call them up. The anniversary of our meeting approaches, and I wonder if Michelle will appear at this year's rendition of the winery party. That would be some kind of perfect, a reconciliaton where we met, that would be too good to be true. The Saturday arrives, I need to go to the book store in Sonoma, but I avoid places I know Michelle frequents. No longer do I feel hostility for Michelle as I try to remember what books I have or don't, no longer do I remember that she didn't show up at the office. The negative associations are all mine, now. I think of how badly I treated her, the cruelties I tried to inflict. And I find I prefer it that way. I acquire a stack of old rarities, and go to a wine bar where a friend works. I sip port, I look at the finest collection of absinthe posters in the Americas, I admire the quality of the printing, the vivid colors, the fabulous designs, the voluptuous lives suggested. And Michelle's sister walks in, buys a bottle of wine. I can't help but watch. Her every move, every expression, screams disdain for everything she sees, must endure, from the transaction with the clerk to the person she must avoid walking out the door. She has a snear on her face as she passes by me, unrecognizing, on her way to her car. It's only an hour or two until the event, and she is dressed up, but not for a party at the winery. So I am not surprised when I don't find Michelle there several hours later. As before, I saunter around, look imperious, make people wonder who the arrogant-looking bastard might be. A young man keeps approaching me, asking if I'm an actor. Asking if I'm a model. He's very good-looking, very well-dressed. I'm afraid he wants to go home with me. He spares me the embarrassment of rejecting an advance. Not so the tipsy blonde, wearing a particular shiny dress of gold and silver appliques. A well-to-do divorcee from Europe, she all but drools over me. No, I'm afraid I don't dance, I tell her, and leave. That I am escaping from her is an unavoidable conclusion. The rain has continued long beyond its usual season, abating tonight, fortunately, for the event. But everything is sodden, and the dirt road across the ridge to my house becomes ever more dangerous. I think of this on the drive home, thinking also how foolish I was expecting to see Michelle. That really would have been too good to be true. I turn on the radio to distract myself, listen to the classical station. The rain has started again, it's late, and foggy, and dark, and I am dreading the road as I enter my property. I speed up as I leave the blacktop for the gravel and dirt, slip and slide as I shoot up the first hill, weaving over the ruts, and then I gun it through the soggy, flat stretch just before heading into the tree tunnel. A bog has developed over the months, and filling it with rocks and gravel does little to remedy the tenuous nature of the passage. The fill sinks into the mud, I have a difficult hundred feet to navigate. I enter the chute as usual, driving fast, whipping the wheel side-to-side as I pick out the high spots, and I jerk right to find my next mark, but the car doesn't respond, I keep going. Off the road, into the trees. It's pouring, and I'm stuck, and a concerto comes to an end on the radio. And I'm sitting in the car considering this rotten luck, this has never happened to me before. But this was the worst rainy season, for my property, in fifty years. And the announcer comes on the radio, the music is over, and he says, after identifying the piece I just heard, that it's five minutes to midnight. On April first. It is April Fool's Day. I accept that as an omen too. On Sunday morning, I drive the pickup truck into town. It proved useless on the dirt road in the rain because of its lack of weight and traction on the rear end, so I'd kept it parked near the blacktop just in case something like this happened. My friend with the Dodge Power Wagon appears at the coffeehouse, and I recruit him to pull my car from the mud. He's enthusiastic about the opportunity to show what the vehicle can do, a Korean War-vintage pick-up truck, Army style, with, perhaps, the lowest gears ever configured, four-wheel drive, huge tires. We drive up the mountain, assess the situation. The car slid off the road such that the undercarriage scraped into the dirt shoulder, the tires sunk into the muck on either side. I'd missed a body-damaging tree, and the brush barely scratched the paint. Pulling the car out may damage something underneath, however, but there is no choice. My buddy hooks his chain to my car, starts pulling. His tires spin ineffectually in the slime, the tension on the rear corner of the car just sufficient to pivot the vehicle even further off the road, into the trees, deeper into the mud. Our every further attempt exacerbates the problem. We accept failure, give up. The next morning, I recruit my other buddy, who owns a big, new truck, four-wheel drive, mud tires. He relishes the chance to show success where the old-timer failed. We drive up to the mountain and replicate the previous day's experience. Abashed, he takes me back to the coffeehouse, and my truck. I dread the task ahead. I have to do this myself, the hard way. I drive to Benicia, where equipment rental companies carry heavy-duty contraptions used by the local oil refineries. I rent a come-along, a chain-driven version of old-fashion block and tackle. The assembly weighs a hundred-and-fifty pounds, and I have to move it in stages, first I drag the chain end where I want it, then I drag over the big, steel, drive mechanism. It takes twenty minutes to get it the few hundred yards from my truck to the stuck car. I rig the apparatus between oak and car, the rain starts again, I am covered in muck by the time I begin the operation. The chain is weighted by its coat of thick, clay mud, and it wants to slip my grasp as I start pulling. It's necessary to run twenty feet of chain through the mechanism to move the car about an inch. I pull chain for hours, my hands are chapped and raw, every half hour or so I have to readjust the come-along to the shortening distance. My fingers stiffen, and I have to alternate between pulling the chain hand over hand, and gripping the chain as I walk the distance. Foul-tempered and angry, I swear incessantly, I am the legion reducing the impregnable citadel, I will destroy, inch by inch, I will prevail. They spent weeks cutting down the forest, stacking wood around stone walls, alighting it. Impregnable citadel quickly became inescapable oven. They prevailed. As I will. My anger does get me into trouble, if I'm not careful. It also makes me an unrelenting giant, however, often difficult to thwart. Right now, I must concede, anger is good Hour after hour I do battle with car, mud and rain, a half-mile of chain passes through my hands. By nightfall, I think I've done it. I hop into my car, it starts, I gun the engine, the wheels spin, take, and I shoot out from the mud. Victory, God damn it, I fucking beat you. My dinner date's in an hour or so, I have enough time to jog to the house, shave, bathe and change, tip-toe back through the mud in my loafers and slacks, and by six-thirty I'm on my way. I turn on the radio as I leave my property, drive onto the county road, the announcer mentions the date. I stiffen in place, emit a small gasp. It's Michelle's birthday. Had all been right in the world, I should have been on my way to her house, for dinner. With the rare little gifts I'd accumulated for her. Now sitting at home. I don't believe it. I really don't believe it. But I do. Yes, I really outsmarted myself this time. Fucking dumbass. I do not discuss my feelings over dinner. I do not feel wretched, however, for which I am thankful. Divining the route to Michelle's heart proved a perilous, nebulous odyssey, I seem to have found my way only to founder at journey's end. I missed my opening, diverted by the sirens. Documenting the course is a different matter, a discrete project, with limits I can now define. I don't fully understand where I went wrong, but I can explain how I got there. In detail. This I can do, retracing the events, in my mind, daily, mysteries clarifying, fogs evaporating, I will understand. Forced to focus my attention on the elements leading to grief alleviates its effects, I will salvage what I can, as unrelentingly, at least, as I destroyed what I could. Each day I prepare myself for the trip through memory, the pleasures and pains, by smoking cannabis, admiring beautiful things, buildings, art, music, terrain. Then I turn my thoughts to Michelle, what we shared together, what I did to her, unmooring me from myself, I become a mere vessel of memory and emotion. As I drive the final miles to the cafe, the images, feelings, voices appear, reinterpreted, unfamiliar now, I break down and sob unexpectedly. I do not write, or think, I realize as I write and try to think. I am, in fact, channeling emotions I feel, as I experienced them before, experience now, over and over. I am downloading data, little processed, from brain to computer, grateful that it demands so little thought, none of the agonizing required to work Michelle. But thought now is unavoidable. The Sonoma Film Festival starts a few days after the recovery of my car, and I begin to dread the prospect of encountering Michelle. I can't face her now, don't want to without finishing my task, I must make clear to Michelle that I have no right to be disappointed by her. I can't tolerate the idea that I might make her feel guilty, that she in any way deserved what I did to her, the cruelties I inflicted. I cannot face her bearing the shame I deserve. I force myself to go the fast way to town, note the butterflies accumulating in my gut as I approach Michelle's house, remember my last visit there, a month ago, door shut, turning her back on me, disappearing into the gloom. The cutoff to Jaxon's last home, the deli, the feed store I never noticed till I bought hay for Michelle during her day of despair. I park on the square when I find a place, far enough from my destination that I have to walk by every spot where we ever shared a significant moment. The experience rattles me, I thought I'd contained my emotions, but I can't remember ever feeling so vulnerable in my life. If Michelle should walk up and say, Hi, I would, I think, collapse and sob. I have never felt like this. I have, never, felt like this. Ever. I don't expect Michelle to be here, she has reason to believe I will be, I suspect she might avoid these events just because of me. Please. My fragility becomes unavoidably recognized as I cross the street to the theater, and from the corner of my eye I catch sight of a couple behind me. I register Michelle and some man, try not to look, back on the sidewalk, I stop, to roll a cigarette, they walk by, it is not her. I am panting, starting to sweat. This will be very difficult. I hope I do not see her. Please. The festival and its appurtenances dominate the town, tents spotting the park, as info kiosks, hospitality lounges, sign-in booths. I pass by the Starbuck's counter that's appeared in front of the moviehouse, and go in for wine and snacks. I cannot really circulate, work the crowd, because of my emotional state, the rushing in my head. I walk outside to smoke, finish a cigarette, join the party next door to the theater, part of the festival. I promptly run into one of Michelle's former boarders, she asks what Michelle's been doing, I don't know, I say, kind of lost touch after she lost the stables. My voice is not noticeably tremulous. She says, Oh, here's my husband. Introductions, to a man I remember from my childhood. He once owned the Army surplus store that was my Eden, stocked with the remains of the great wars. It turns out they are escorting the ancient collector who owns the art farm across the highway from the old stables. His short term memory is defective, he does not remember our many encounters at galleries and shows. I am aflood with memories, all stardusted, even before I look to a man next to me in a food line, recognize the black actor from NYPD. Whom I last saw waiting in line at a Cuban restaurant in Los Angeles. When I looked at the man next to me in line, only to recognize the black actor from NYPD. He is in the night's premier film, opening the festival next door. Something strange is happening, I begin to suspect. Unsettled. Rushing in head, but subdued. Sensation of cocaine, again, but the subtle body high of the chewed leaf. I retreat back to the theater, weave through the throngs reaching for finger food and wine, take a seat on the left side of the auditorium, midway down, from whence I can lounge and watch the people. I try to compose myself, be cool, get a grip. And I'm canted toward the central nave, I can see everyone enter, and through the far doors I see an apparition. Michelle and Annie walk in together. I expel my breath, start to breathe, fast shallow inhalations, I could hyperventilate, except that I don't. But could now. I can't believe my eyes. I would faint were I not sitting down. Instead, I sit, open-mouthed, literally, for many seconds. I force myself not to stare so directly, but I cannot release her from my eyes, anymore than I can free her from my heart. I am in a blinding shock, I am, again, starting to see red, infused by torrents of unfettered sentiment. I would run from the theater. If I could move. I am all but paralyzed, confronting my shame. I get over it. Annie is wearing a classically red dress, slight sheen to fabric, nicely cut, gold jewelry just right, in proper doses, blonde hair coiffed to best effect. Seeing her brings me around, she may be a bimbo, but she's a bimbo with style. I saw a certain potential out at the stables, but the accomplished product exceeds imaginings. The clicking starts in my head, Michelle isn't with another man, good sign, Annie quite the opposite, bad sign, very bad sign. Will Michelle never learn? However. However, this Michelle has recovered remarkably. She does not need my help, never really did. Not that woman, preening down the aisle with all the aplomb of a princess. Hair in signature pony-tail, she wears black slacks, sweater, knee length black coat, symphony of lamb's wool. Black stockings, black shoes, low heels. Just a hint of gold, I smell her perfume across the room. Not really, but still I could swoon. My heart skips, races, blinding flash, I don't fucking believe it, this woman moves, dresses, just like Tricia. But Michelle's body! I don't fucking believe it!. And I look at her, and then Annie, and back to Michelle. I don't fucking believe it. The two women provide the grandest entrance of the evening, no individual, or party, remotely comparable. I can't stop staring, they seem to come with their own lighting, internal glow, their features are sharper, more well-defined, than any in the room. As if viewed through a lens, the only subjects in sharp focus. They move, talk, greet, like seasoned socialites, joining a group of women fitting the very same description across the auditorium from me, in seats exactly opposite mine. Neither of them sees me, I cease trying to hide my fascination. The lights go down, the movie begins. The film stars John Goodman, who plays a just-released convict determined to attend a forty-year reunion at the dance school he attended in his hometown youth. His intention to reunite with the pretty thirteen-year-old girl who transformed him from awkward boy to hopeful young man. Obviously, the light of his life. Incidents intervene, Goodman cannot attend, he entreats a stranger to keep the date. The once-girl does not. The stranger, compelled now by curiosity, tracks her down. She lives in a low-rent garden complex, the cottage-like units arranged around a withering lawn, paint faded, careworn. The stranger knocks on the window inset in her door, a familiar door. A door very much like Michelle's. My heart is beginning to accelerate as it slowly swings inward, and a woman appears from the interior gloom, a woman with hard blue eyes, tight lips, weathered face. Wearing a mumu? Over a bloated body. She carries a lap dog in the crook of her arm. Yeah, whaddya want? Or something similar. The stranger hesitates, this woman, is not what he expected, from that girl. In fits and starts, he explains his mission, reminds her of the childhood beau, the reunion, she does not help, scowls impatiently. By now, I am weeping in the dark, this is my nightmare of Michelle, ten, fifteen years hence, in some other story, haggard, embittered, never a break in her life, broken, finally, once and for all. Despite the dark, I cannot hide my discomfiture, the house is packed, I cover my open mouth, I choke the silent sobs, but I am, unmistakeably convulsing where I sit, tears streaming down my face. I'm on the aisle, I can limit the effects of this breakdown, and the man sitting next to me is kind enough not to notice. After stuttering an explanation for his appearance, the stranger looks to the woman for a response, quick in coming. I forgot the reunion, couldn't care less. And I don't remember that guy anyway. Or something similar. She shuts the door in his face, he walks off bemused. And the woman walks across her tiny living room, into a tiny bedroom, to a bureau. She pulls open a drawer, revealing a cigar box. She removes it to her lap, flips open the top. Runs her fingers through the paper mementoes until she finds it. It's the dance card from the last time she saw the boy, the date she missed, the promise she forgot, written on it. His picture. She scrunches her face up, a few tears escape to roll down her cheeks. Well, by now, I can't even begin to contain myself. But I manage. The man sitting next to me is leaning away, I chuckle, somewhere, deep inside, at the absurdity of this situation. And the movie's over, the credits are rolling, and I'm catching my breath. Getting a grip. My first rational thought, recovering from this emotional storm, the absurdity of this situation. That image of a future Michelle perfectly approximates my nightmare. But that woman I saw walking into the theater two hours ago will never be that woman on the screen. Michelle impresses me all over again, I shouldn't be surprised, how many times have I said that? I fight the inclination to fly from the theater, to hide my now florid, tear-lashed face, but I have to watch Michelle, this latest incarnation, a highly polished woman of sophistication. Just before the lights come up, I vacate my seat, go to the front of the theater to allow the crowd to filter out. Which it does slowly, this is a film festival, they are talking about the film, everyone takes his time, the wine and food now dispensed in the lobby encouraging knots of people at the exits. Animatedly, Michelle chatters with her friends, the likes of which I never suspected, prosperous, practiced social creatures. She lingers, flits between her groups on the other side of the room, the crowd trickles out, little by little. I follow, finally, don't want to be too obvious, and Michelle slowly works her way toward the exit on her side, stopping along the way to visit. I parallell her on my side, a little further along, until a clot of wine drinkers at the door retards the flow, forcing the stream through seat rows, to the other aisle. I follow the line, canting my head away from Michelle, eyes locked on her. And I'm getting closer, but at an angle, I will not run into her, I'll see to that, and I'm getting closer, and closer, my heart beats faster, I take one step, closer, another step, closer, and somewhere, in the distance of a step or two, it happens fast, I see, I see, I see that it is not Michelle. It is not Michelle. It is not Annie. Again, my mouth hangs open, ever so slightly. My head is spinning, rushing sound, I can't believe what I see. Saw. Literally. I scrutinize these women closely, they do not look exactly like Michelle or Annie, but close, could be fraternal twins. I understand, now, the sharper focus, this woman does have sharper features than Michelle. She has a perfect body, at least one of my versions, I walk slowly toward her, and then away, through the door. Isn't this interesting, I think to myself, trying to clear my head, the shock. To conceive a plan, moves must be made. And the story has taken a very strange turn. Yes, I'm thinking, I can work with this. Milling with the crowd in the lobby, I acquire a glass of wine, hover by the door to the auditorium, to observe this woman. She's surrounded by friends, I will have no opportunity here. I discard the glass of wine, go to the Starbuck's stand in front, order tea, smoke a cigarette. Stub out the cigarette, re-enter the theater, can't find the woman. Damn. I walk back out toward the ticket booth, and I see the woman in black, alone, at the Starbuck's stand. I wait for her to finish her transaction, she moves toward the cream pitchers. I sidle up beside her, pretending to put something into my tea. The setup is perfect, no friends of hers around, no other customers, I will have her to myself for a minute or two if I play it right. Excuse me, I say. Yes? You wouldn't happen to be a horsewoman, would you? Slightly taken aback, she smiles, says, No, but I think I like the idea. Why do you ask? Oh, I don't know, I say. You just look like you should be a horsewoman. Something about the body, perhaps. You think so? she says, bright smile. As a matter of fact, I say, raised eyebrows, you bear a striking resemblance to a riding instructor I once had. A long, time, ago. Really? she says, glint in eye, knowing smile. So, what's your name, I ask. Devon, she says. Terry, I say, How do you do? We exchange firm handshakes, I excuse myself. Well, I say, I hope to see you around some more. Yeah, me too, she says. She departs to her friends, I go my own way. Throughout the next day, I keep an eye out for her, but never cross paths with the faux Michelle. I spend much of the Saturday afternoon in the company of another woman I'd met the night before. In the very same bar, same spot, where I first saw Michelle let her hair down. I disengage for a solitary dinner, change into the right blazer for the gala dance. It's at the Vet's Hall on the edge of town, my last visit here one of those times I tried to lure Michelle into a non-date date. She didn't bite. The woman who took my ticket for that year-ago fund-raiser promptly set a divorcee friend after me, forcing an early retreat. No great loss, the party an anemic affair, I thanked my luck that Michelle hadn't responded. The current party shares no characteristics of that last, hundreds of well-dressed people are eating, drinking, dancing, tables groaning with over-designed finger food, wineries pour dozens of brands. I arrive late, following a long dinner, restricting myself to desserts and drinks at the ball. An Afro-Caribbean band and dance review perform in the main room, crowds gyrate in place, alone, with each other. I circulate for an hour or so, catch the last set of the band. And I see Devon. She's with friends, I am not going to confront the whole gaggle. I'll wait for her to separate, catch her alone. I continue my cruise, through the venue, return to the dancing, see that Devon's alone, briefly. I lose the pinot noir and chocolate truffles, chase her down. Hi, Devon, I say. How are you? Fine, she says, friendly. Let's dance, I say, taking her hand. She follows me, we dance for less than a minute, the music stops. We wait for the next song, I discover she lives in Santa Barbara, a career in media. The music starts, we dance again, we aren't bumping and grinding each other, but she is playing her part. And then it's over, the last dance, it seems. The crowd bestows lavish applause, the band takes its bows, the master of ceremonies says laudatory things about the act just done. One of Devon's friends comes to reclaim her, just as one of the band members tries to hustle her. Devon talks with him, I start grilling her friend, about Devon. The friend knows I'm interested, doesn't find me so objectionable as to prevent her from revealing the vital statistics. With a glint in the eye and a knowing smile. I command Devon's attention again, we exchange numbers, Yes, I can call her for lunch one of these days when I'm that way. And I'll be that way soon, flying to Colombia from Los Angeles in a couple of weeks. Yes, we'll be in touch. The rest of Devon's women friends envelope her, I excuse myself, walking into the night. I check my watch. It's five to midnight. Yes, I'm thinking, the story is taking some interesting turns, here. And about that happy ending. What exactly does that mean right now? I awaken on the mountain the next morning, geez, I think, what difference a day makes. I sit in bed, roll a cigarette, smoke as I look out the window onto the opposing hills, oaks. I already had half a dozen endings for this story with Michelle, but fate had launched me into a new direction. One way or another, I had a great story and a great end. Presuming I'd reached one, and that was not clear. Sunday is the last day of the festival, Devon's returning home some time late this morning. I might be able to connect with her before she leaves, try to set my hook. I think no less of Michelle, I would still drop everything for her, but I never really expect to have the opportunity. I will console myself as I must, and a new woman worthy of seducton, my efforts, will certainly quell the grief. I get up, perform my ablutions, head to the coffeehouse for breakfast. I pace and smoke out front, but with a sense of awe, it is, indeed, a wonderful life. For months I suffered this torment over Michelle, for weeks I flagellated myself for my intended cruelties, it stripped my heart bare. Prospects of a new, rather striking woman, provide reason enough to live. Yes, yes, I think, shake my head, chuckle. I feel like myself again, unburdened by these crippling emotions. And I can't quite believe how effortlessly, thoughtlessly, I evoked Michelle to work on this woman who so resembles her. Well, I'm thinking, that's why you are, perhaps, the most outrageous character ever to walk the face of the earth. A small part of it, anyway. You do things like that so easily. Instinct, really. I park on the street that dead ends on the square, just short of an antique shop I occasionally frequent. I walk up the street toward the square, something in the window catches my eye, I enter. I'm looking at a piece of antique glass, when I notice the stack of old books. One by Bret Harte, first great novelist of California. Old and cheap, nice lithographs, five bucks. Fits nicely in the pocket of my suede flight jacket. Good omen, I'm thinking, good omen, indeed. I continue on my way, slightly nagging thought. Concerning the store. The last time I entered was before my last Christmas lunch with Michelle. When we discussed the job. At the Basque bakery. Mental flinch. The square and the streets facing it host more people than usual on a Sunday morning, the last gasp of the film festival encouraging everyone to make the most of this last day. I cruise the various venues, look for someone interesting in the VIP tent, stop for tea, dessert, a light wine. Proceeding to the theater, I pass the Basque bakery, something in the window catches my eye. Devon's pony-tail is bobbing up and down, through the reflection. She sits just inside, to the immediate right of the door. I angle toward the entrance, see she's with another woman, push open the plate glass door, start to pivot around Devon's back, to present myself, just running into her, yeah, what a coincidence, I'm getting ready to say something. It is not Devon. It's Michelle. Michelle does not see me, the place is so crowded that her friend doesn't perceive my aborted approach. I step to the end of the long line, a mere three or four feet from the front door. And Michelle. I pant where I stand, I tremble, my knees are weak, I melt inside, all mushy, my heart palpitates, I feel in those moments every cliche associated with love, romance, emotion spills from my heart in torrents. I'm dizzy, my spirit screams, head rushes, the veins throb in my temples. There must be thirty, forty, people in this small room, the air filled with fifteen or twenty conversations. I hear Michelle's voice, scraps of her recent life leaking to me from the dialog with her friend. I hear little, absorb nothing, this new pounding in my head deafening over the roar within. I gasp for air. Recovering, I try to think. Devon, yes, I thought it was Devon, never occurred to me it was Michelle. Jesus. I can't believe this. And who was this Devon? Oh, yeah. Devon. She was going to distract me from Michelle, at least in my plans, a new campaign. I wouldn't remember what she looked like, right now, under normal circumstances. But she is no Michelle, despite the resemblance, she does not own a piece of my soul. That she does not want. Oh, my God, I'm thinking, I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe it. Quick afterthought. What a great fucking story this is turning out to be. I don't, fucking, believe it. By now I wonder if Michelle has seen me, must have, will know it's me even from behind. The khakis, matching baseball hat, the jacket, she knows my uniforms. Or does she? I was diferent out there, even before the new boots and jeans. No, I think, I wore all this the day I left for Vegas. When Michelle told me about the drunken honeymoon and wedding, in that order, at Treasure Island. What are you thinking, dumbass, I ask myself. Pay attention! The line crawls forward, Michelle's voice disappears amid the general cacaphony, I reach the counter after five minutes. I order tea and a pastry, scan the room for a seat, take care not to look in Michelle's direction, note a stool at the counter. It's at the end closest to Michelle, I sit down, ten, twelve feet from her. She looks directly at a profile of my seated body. My every move is considered, from sipping the tea, to breaking the pastry, savoring each bite for her benefit, her sight. I take out the book of short stories, question whether she notes my trembling, presume not. Her voice drifts into my head, I don't want to eavesdrop, can't help hearing. Scraps. Working eighty hours a week somewhere. Getting things together. It's all good. A pretty girl approaches me, smiles, stands at the counter, I strike up a conversation, work her a bit, her boyfriend notes our interchange, walks over a little too quickly, insecurity revealed. I laugh inside, geez, I'm twice your age, you really think I can steal her away that fast? I know Michelle is watching, can't help it, what's she thinking right now? I can't hear her words distinctly, but the tone never changes, she does not sound uncomfortable as she speaks. What is she thinking? Of me. Now. I shake as I open the book to a random page, attempt to read. It's a short story about the earthquake that destroys San Francisco at the turn of the new millenium, leaving the city in ruins, never to be reclaimed. The words go in one eye, out the other, wait a minute, when was this written? Late 1870s. He predicted the devastating quake! His timing is off a bit, but I forgive him. The hundredth anniversary is a week-and-a-half away. An omen? I'll consider that another time. We've been in each other's presence for twenty, thirty minutes, Michelle unable not to look at me, I think it significant that she has not already left. Hoping for an approach? God knows I'm not up to it, I'm sorry Michelle. I want to run to her, to grab her, hold her, inhale Michelle. Oh, how I miss you. I catch the sob before it escapes, cough. The tone changes from her table, departure imminent, I sense. By cocking my head just so, as if looking at the bill of fare above the main counter, I can see her with my peripheral vision, see her stand, gather her things, walk out the door, My gaze shifts in reference to her inability to catch it, I follow her out with my angled eyes, hear her voice, for the very last time, glimpse her face, for the very last time, I rise as she starts up the street, I follow her out the door, at a distance. And the last I see of Michelle is her receding back, walking away. Again. For the very last time. I circuit the park several times, smoking, shaking my head in disbelief at what just happened. Whatever it was. I am exhausted, spent, limp. I do not try to understand, interpret anything, I am all adaze. Enough. Do something I tell myself, unable to obey the command. I walk the park perimeter aimlessly, look at the sidewalk. So I won't see all of our landmarks and lose my bearings completely. A glance up breaks my trance, the theater. Just go to the damn movies, watch whatever it is. You need a seat in a dark place. A long rest. Walking through the lobby, I note a poster revealing that student films from the highschool are now playing. I open the door to the auditorium, let it close behind me as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There's a little girl on the movie screen, on her knees. She holds a football, as if for a placekicker. And then she says, Honest, Charlie Brown, this time I really will hold the football for you. I stagger to a seat by the door and collapse. When I come around, I'm pacing and smoking at the edge of the park. I am not sure how I got there. But I've been pacing and smoking ever since.