- 4 -

* * * * *

         Trying to remember the last time you saw someone is a dicey affair. When you want to look back, events get in the way, obscuring the view.
         It was a birthday party, maybe. Of an aunt or uncle, perhaps. The house was large and it didn’t belong to the person that the party was in honor of. Outside, he stood on the deck alone and watched two squirrels chase each other. One was smaller than the other. Details stuck to him like darts and he never dared to pull any out for fear that he couldn’t handle the loss.
         They were playing pool in the game room. He could hear the regular clack of the balls as he worked with way down the hall. Voices mingled. Unintelligible. There had been four of them in there, family members all. No. Not all. Her boyfriend. Or someone else’s? He could never keep track. His parents were in another part of the house. Or they had left. He wasn’t sure, they had come separately and never kept track of each other anymore. A sign of growing old?
         There was no door to the room, just an open entryway. He stopped just short of it, near a heating vent on the floor. Details, again. Details. He couldn’t walk past the room, for some reason he didn’t want anyone to see him. He wanted to be a ghost in the house, a ghost in a life, wandering his intangible way with bordering walls his only source for direction. The thought of people paying attention to him gave him the disgusting sense of a second skin made entirely of scum, a dirty, slithery thing that scraped its slippery way against him every time he moved. He couldn’t escape it.
         So he stood against the wall, just outside the gathering, listening to the physical noise of kinetic motion and trying to distinguish the voices. He could have been quite content there, letting his mind go, sliding in between the lines of conversation.
         It took him a minute to realize they were discussing him.

* * * * *

         “. . . and the problem is, after a while, you don’t know if you actually, you know, like them, or even love them, because of who they are and the kind of person that they are or . . . or if you’re just responding to, you know, their attention, so I don’t know if I’m just, if I’m just reflecting his love for me and pretending that I’m satisfied with that or if . . . or if I’m generating it myself . . . and I don’t know and I keep wondering if it matters, because he’s not an asshole or anything and if someone loves you, isn’t that enough, isn’t that what everyone wants . . . but it’s supposed to be mutual and if all he’s feeling is just me rechanneling what he feels for . . . for me, then what good am I doing him, or me . . . I’m not giving, I’m just taking and I’m doing it with a lie and . . . that’s not me but . . . what if that’s the best you can hope for, what if that’s as good as you can get and the real thing, it just doesn’t exist, except in stories and delusions and I’m throwing away the closest I’ll ever get to the real thing for . . . for something that doesn’t really exist and if I do, it . . . I don’t want to be alone, that’s, I guess that’s what I’m saying, I’m afraid of being alone and I’m afraid of being lonely and I’m afraid the fear is making me desperate . . .”
         Scenes from phone conversations that will never occur, 2003

* * * * *

         Tristian was bracing himself against her couch, one knee sunk deep into the center cushion and the other foot resting on the floor. He had moved one of the curtains aside and was staring out the window behind the couch. Her apartment was several floors up and maybe near the same levels as the streetlamps. Ambient lighting from somewhere made him more outline than man, his features were completely obscured, washed away, made blank.
         “What am I looking at here, Tristian?” she demanded. “All I see is dark and I can see that every time I close my eyes.” She tried to keep her tone jocular but he had always been vague in his motivations and apparently that trait had become amplified. Maybe he was trying to scare her, to chase her away. It wouldn’t work. Family grew distant but never completely detached.
         He seemed to shudder at the sound of her voice and with gentle motion turned toward her. Frail, pale light made his eyes liquid.
         “I’m just looking . . . out,” he said, his voice a sigh.
         She went over and sat next to him then, resting her crossed arms on the back of the couch, putting both her knees on the cushion. Tristian was pointing but not at anything in particular, just pulling her attention to the outside, to the world, to the places above the world.
         Her apartment was one of the higher buildings in the area, although not the highest. The two buildings across the street were nearly as high and in the dark they rose like monoliths before her eyes. Arcing over them was the sky, an abyss poured over their heads. The air was cloudless and clear.
         “When I . . . ran from the . . . from the fight,” her cousin said, his voice nearly inaudible even though she was right next to him, “I really didn’t know where I was going . . . the tunnels were built in the asteroid itself, they just sort of hollowed it out but there’s . . . there’s also an upper city that was constructed on the surface, I don’t know if it’s a class thing or, or what but . . . they covered over that part with a clear dome, I guess and when I came out I . . . there was nothing stopping me from seeing . . .” his eyes tell the rest of the story.
         The stars were out tonight. They’d broken through the darkness and the only way she could think was in cliches. Dewdrop jewels, holes punched in the firmament, old photographs reaching out but never touching. There’s so many. On the street there was never any reason to look up, with the buildings pressing down on you from all sides, blotting out everything but concrete. And in her home she never thought to look out her window, as sad as that was. Her television was directly behind her. She tried to think about what that said about her.
         “They twinkle here because of the pollution,” Tristian said, his voice sounding more confidant, the topic putting him on steadier ground. “But out there . . . there’s nothing between you and them and . . . they don’t flicker or glimmer, they just shine. And everything, it’s a hundred times clearer, you think the sky here at night is black it’s . . . it’s frightening, you forget what color is.”
         “And that’s what you saw?” she asked, for some reason keeping her voice low. “When you left the, ah, tunnels? All the stars and everything?”
         “Yes,” he hissed. “Below me was ragged, bloody, ugly death and the stars . . . it’s cold and distant and lifeless but there’s a kind of beauty in it, you realize how small you are, it could just swallow you and . . . and that would be okay.”
         The hushed reverence to his voice gave her chills. Even as close as they were, the gap between their experiences could swallow her entire life whole and still leave plenty of room for whatever else followed her down. And this had been waiting for Tristian his entire life, waiting for him to reach it? She had never known her cousin, not in any way that mattered. But he had never known himself either and that mystery was all that propelled him sometimes.
         “Did you find us at all?” she heard herself asking. It was a giddy question for a woman too tired for the emotion. “I mean, I heard the sun’s just a brighter star but were you able to see, you know, Earth at all . . .”
         A smile made a fleeting impression on his face. “Everything looks different out there, nothing is where it’s supposed to be.” He shifted, rested his chin on his arms. “I tried,” he continued, “I don’t know why, I was panicking and afraid of being killed at any second but I guess I just . . .” he paused, and she suspected the thought was too personal to speak outloud. “I couldn’t find it, not even the sun. I didn’t even know where to start looking. I’m better now, ah, better at finding the stars, that is.”
         “That’s good, Tristian,” she said, patting him on the arm. “We’ll make a real space cadet out of you yet.” She tried to picture him in a Buck Rogers type costume, all flying belt and ray gun and it just wasn’t possible. Clinging reflective silver wouldn’t be his color.
         His arm shook with what might have been laughter, although he made no sound. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s not all terrible out there, no matter what I make it sound like. I’ve . . . already I’ve seen a lot of unpleasant, nasty things but it’s just . . . there’s just more of everything out there . . .” there was a rising tension to his voice.
         “I know, Tristian, I know . . .” she told him, physically stuffing a yawn back down her throat. One of the places slightly down the street was a bank with a neon clock set in its sign. The numbers were blurred but she didn’t think it was a time she wanted to see.
         “. . . and when it’s bad, it’s worse than anything you can imagine here,” he said to her, or maybe to no one at all, “but when you do run into something, into beauty, it’s richer than anything I’ll ever know and it . . . it makes it worth it, I guess.” He shrugged. His eyes were clear, and sad. “I tell myself that it does. For a second, I feel like things make sense.”
         As solemn as he was, she couldn’t help but smile. “You have to take me out there with you someday . . . I could use some more sense in my life.”
         “It never lasts,” he told her, almost mournfully, staring out into the night. She could only judge his expression by inference.
         “Isn’t once all you need, though?” she asked him, twisting to stare directly at him. He watched her with his peripheral vision, unwilling to turn away. “Because once you’ve felt it, even if it’s just one time, even if everything just makes sense for a little bit . . . you know it’s out there, that it’s possible and it exists and . . . you can have it again, if you’re patient enough.”
         “And are you? Patient enough?”
         “I think so,” she said immediately. Tristian said nothing she tilted her to the side for a moment to think about it further. “But actually, to be honest, probably not.” She grinned at him through the dark. “I’m like everyone else, I want all the answers now. You’re the last of a dying breed, I’m afraid, Tristian.”
         Glancing at her, he sniffed sharply, and began to laugh quietly. It was a faraway, curious sound.

* * * * *

         “. . . seen Tristian around at all? I swear, he’s becoming more like a mime every time I see him . . .”
         They don’t talk to him. They talk about him. It worked out to be the same thing.
         “I think he’s getting less sociable as he gets older, at least when he was a kid he used to talk at least, even if he didn’t make any sense . . .”
         “Yeah, remember when he kept claiming, that time we were at his house, remember he kept telling us that someone with red eyes kept staring at him from his closet?”
         “I don’t remember that . . .”
         “He was like five, so we were like, what? seven? maybe?”
         And that was how they put a man together, through words and stories, building a frame that he somehow had to cram himself into, no matter how awkward the fit.
         “I don’t know, you ask me, he doesn’t look like he wants to be here at all . . .”
         “See, now you’re wrong there, because-“
         ”What, he’s barely eaten and he doesn’t talk to anyone . . .”
         “Let me finish, I said let me . . .”
         “Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice enough and he’s not being a dick or anything, but I mean come on, this is family, you’re all his family . . .”
         And no matter what broke in the process, he had to fit himself into the boundaries, right? Listening, he felt himself becoming the man that they perceived him to be. Did it matter, in the end? It was the framework that lived on, long after the space inside had crumbled to dust. History wasn’t concerned with the interior.
         “Are you going to let me talk? Are you? Or are you just going to keep streamrolling over me?”
         “I’m just saying, that’s all I’m . . .”
         “Oh, Christ, let her talk, for the love . . .”
         “You people miss the point . . .”
         “So bring it back for us . . .”
         “Shush you, shut up . . .”
         “. . . you think he doesn’t want to be here, because he’s not, he’s not hugging people and dancing around and being all goofy and drinking and all that crap you people say you like to do . . .”
         He wanted to be the person that they said he could never be. Instead he sat half formed, shaped by their dueling perceptions. Could a man be molded by committee, his personality determined by democracy. Was it possible to be outvoted by himself?
         “. . . the thing is though, you’re all . . . all of you are overlooking one stupid, simple thing . . .”
         “That it’s your shot?”
         “Yeah, while we’re still young . . .”
         “. . . if he didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here.”
         “Wait, what do you mean?”
         “He wouldn’t come. Just what I said.”
         The magnets trapped in his bones were all realigning themselves, finding different directions. If he stood here long enough the strain might just pull him apart and he’d be just shards and blood.
         “So it’s that simple, huh? What makes you so sure?”
         “Don’t mind me, just, ah, waiting my turn here, nice and patient . . .”
         “It is. If you knew him at all, you’d know what I meant. We wouldn’t be having this conversation . . .”
         “Yeah and it might be someone else’s turn, but hey . . .”
         And blood and bone were components of a man, but you couldn’t mix them together and get a person. A corpse had all the right parts but it didn’t make a person anymore than the blocks he used to play with could be made into a house. It was missing what it needed. He had no idea what he had.
         “So how is it you know him so well, he’s related to all of us you know? What makes you so different? What special insight do you have?”
         “I bet that ball might just, maybe it’ll . . . oh no, how about that they can’t move spontaneously on their own . . . someone needs to hit one . . .”
         “Easy, the same one that tells me you read into things too much . . .”
         No idea? What he had, he had.
         “. . . and that he’s standing right outside the room. Aren’t you, Tristian?”
         Had he what idea? No, he had.

* * * * *

         Before her the stars shifted, blurred, performed an impromptu movie impersonation of hyperspace. It was an impressive effect. It was the day catching up with her. A yawn clutched her, took hold and refused to relinquish its grip. She tried to speak through it and found her mouth only stuffed with cotton.
         Finally she was able to force a sentence away. Brave soldiers, brave soldiers. “Oh God, I’m sorry Tristian, but I think I’m done, I had to be at work early this morning to get ready for some stupid meeting they postponed anyway and I’ve just been running around like a nut the whole day and . . .” she was talking without considering that he might not be listening. Figures. A pity if she wasted such a good speech.
         “You can see Mars,” he whispered, as if the everything she had just said could be boiled into Gee, Tristian, where is Mars? His eyes were locked on something far past her apartment and maybe even the atmosphere. Distant worlds. Her mind was going there quickly, fragmenting as it went. A little longer and there might not be enough spaceship left for a secure dock. “It’s right out there, it’s bright tonight . . . see it?”
         He wasn’t listening. He never did when it was convenient for him. Absurd focus, his parents had called it, when he wasn’t around. Once, his grandmother had said he was her favorite. To this day she wasn’t exactly sure why. Lack of choice? It’ll make for strange decisions, especially when such things aren’t needed.
         So she had to respond, of course. It was only expected. Throwing herself back up so she was situated next to him, she tried to stare out and match the invisible line his pointing finger was making. He was indicating a place between the two apartments right across the street. The two apartments stood silent, apparently unaware that they were being ignored in favor of the emptiness between them. Perhaps they didn’t care. Few lights were on at the buildings, several lit squares indicated either activity or paranoia within the rooms. Sometimes the lights created weird patterns, almost seemed to spell out words. Tonight it was all dark.
         “I’ve been there, you know,” Tristian said, with almost pathetic insistence. “I’ve been in cities, things people never knew existed. All our probes and we’ve missed it all.”
         She tried to look and focus, but all the stars, they were melting together. Blearily, she tried to figure out which tiny dot she was supposed to be paying attention to, but they were all so small and distant that it was hard to care.
         “It’s the brightest one,” he said, helpfully. “You can spot it really clearly tonight. Earth didn’t look as bright, when I was there. Really.”
         But squinting told her nothing. She tried for one last attempt, tried to separate one tiny glimmer from another, but it was all the same. She lacked his insight. They were all bright dots to her.
         A yawn made the decision easy, erased all alternate actions. “I’m sorry, Tristian . . .” Spinning around, she slumped down deeper into the couch, sinking into a space that felt all too cozy. Jesus, was she going to make it to her bed? It was probably bad form to ask Tristian to carry her. “I just don’t see it. I’m too tired, maybe. But I just can’t see anymore.”
         Her cousin didn’t respond immediately. “Ah, that’s . . . that’s okay. That’s fine.” He sounded subdued but her hearing was going as well. “I guess you’ll probably want to go to bed, then. I guess.”
         “Give the lad a prize,” she said with a grin, finding the energy to hop off the furniture. Tristian slid off in a more deliberate, boneless fashion. The object bounced against his hip, darker than the darkness itself. Something in her wanted to see it revealed again. There was a magic to his life now, a prestige she couldn’t fathom. “But, yeah, I should get some rest.” Another yawn was blocked by the back of her hand. “I’m going to be a zombie at work as it is.”
         “Sorry,” Tristian said, almost sounding sincere.
         “Yeah, yeah whatever,” she responded airily. “But really,” she added, looking at him sideways and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “thanks for coming. Seriously. I never get enough visitors here and . . . it was nice. It really was.”
         “Thanks,” he said, hands in his pockets again, glancing down at the floor. Embarressed, maybe? His voice was shrouded, all textures hidden. “I’m, ah, I’m doing my best to become . . . to act more human, I guess.” A sardonic smile might have caught the edge of a shadow. “I, um . . . how am I doing? Am I doing okay?”
         “Fantastic,” she told him, with a grin. Her bedroom was in the other direction and they were both walking toward the kitchen. The light threw their shadows behind them, bodies slapped into two dimensions. “We might make someone functional out of you yet, hm?”
         “Funny, that’s what my friends keep telling me,” he noted dryly. “Don’t let them admit that they’re right.”
         “I won’t tell a soul,” she said, strolling into the kitchen ahead of him, gathering up her coffee mug even as Tristian moved to the counter where his still laid and snatched it up. They reached the sink together, althoughu she had to stop to empty the pot out and rinse it with water. “So,” she said conversationally, as he snuck his cup in to rinse it out, “do any of your friends, do they know about . . .”
         “About what this means?” he replied, pointing with an elbow toward the object. Elaborating further would have been wasted words. He took a deep breath anyway, but he was young and had oxygen to spare. “They . . . well, they . . . they know,” he said simply. “There was an incident and, ah . . .” he stopped, looked briefly confused, as if he had just been informed of the tangles of his own life. “I think it’ll be okay,” he finished, the sound of a man reading off a slice of paper that had just been handed to him.
         “It tends to be, if you just give it time . . .” and he smiled at her somewhat tightly. A nerve, perhaps, still exposed. She wondered what had happened. She needed a whole new frame of reference to really understand his life.
         “Don’t worry about washing that out, I’ll do it tomorrow,” and he dropped it like she had set it on fire with a word. Perhaps people did things like that. New concepts, new concepts. “Jesus, if you break it then I don’t have to wash it at all. Careful there.”
         “Sorry, I . . . sorry,” he spat out in slow motion, strangely flustered. This is the guy who goes into space and waves that thing around?
         “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. Weariness was bearing down on her now. If she didn’t get to bed soon she wouldn’t be waking up for work tomorrow. “Just . . . ah, whatever, I’m going to bed.” She smiled up at her cousin, who for a second barely seemed to comprehend what she was saying. “But you take care of yourself, Tristian. And come back and visit.”
         “Sure . . . sure, I will,” he said and for a second she thought he was patronizing her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t all that much fun tonight, I didn’t mean-“
         ”I said don’t worry about it,” she said, taking his arm. “Sometimes you need someone to listen who isn’t a mirror, right? I know how it is. You got it out of your system, next time you’ll be the bouncy, wacky kid we all know and love.” He smiled at that. His skin was chilled under her hand, like he’d been outside for hours. It vaguely occurred to her that he had never said exactly what the Agents had looked like. That was a strange thought. She was in a strange mood. No filter existed to stop the words. “And bring some friends with you when you come, this place needs more voices.” She stepped forward to bump him in the ribs with her elbow. “I’m sure with this new allure about you, you can’t keep the ladies away.”
         “Right,” he said with flat humor. “That’s why I keep the sword . . . to chase them all away.”
         “Well don’t do that,” she told him, in that mock seriousness only severe tiredness could allow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a girl . . . it’s about damn time, you think? You’re too nice to be by yourself forever.” She poked him in the chest. “Come on, tell me that you’ve got a nice girl out there . . . come on, look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face.”
         “I . . .” he matched her gaze for a second and then looked away as if he’d been cut. “There might be . . . this girl and I, we’re . . . we don’t know yet, but we’re working on it . . .” he shrugged, his stance suggesting shame. “It’s a start.”
         “That’s great, Tristian,” she said, stepping back, feeling the dull ache in her jaw that came from a suppressed yawn. “You have to bring her over here, let me meet her. I want to be the first in the family, I think I deserve the first meeting, right? Don’t I deserve that?”
         “You’re . . . you’re right, you do,” he said simply, nearly stumbling away from her. This was silly, he wanted a graceful exit and she kept making small talk. There was plenty of time for this later. That’s why they invented telephones, right? “First chance I can trick her into coming here, I’ll bring her over . . .”
         “I’ll hold you to it,” she warned him with a grin. The yawn burst out again and with it the last of her willpower. “Oh God, I’m done . . .” she managed to recover enough to gather her cousin in a tight hug. He returned it with an equal tightness that she found touching in a strange way. Somehow she’d always felt close to him without really being able to tell if he felt the same way, always figuring by inference, by filling in the spaces that weren’t there. “Good night, Tristian, thank you so much for stopping over . . . I’m really glad you did. Take care, okay?”
         She felt colder after letting go of him. There was a jagged hesitancy to his movements. He opened the door while still looking at her. The hallway beyond was an amorphous mouth ready to gobble him up. Her mind wasn’t making connections anymore, just rendering it all surreal.
         Tristian looked at her, looked down, then back at her again. There was a subtle jitteriness in his stance that had to be caffeine derived. No more for you, she silently vowed. How long had he been standing there? Time to go home, Tristian. We all need our rest. It’s time to go.
         Perhaps he heard her. Who knew what mysterious powers he had now? His lips moved and she thought she had gone deaf or maybe her mind was too slow to catch the words anymore.
         But no, he spoke. He said.
         “Good . . . good-night,” said Tristian and with a final glance and without a further word he took a step out the door, went back and went out and was gone. And was gone.

* * * * *

         Her words pulled him into the entryway even as his own actions were tearing him away. He didn’t know he would leave shortly after, not until several minutes later and a lifetime further down. Images were a tumbling array of disassociated colors, only assembled with painstaking care later. None of them were facing him, holding the cues with an ease that had to be genetic. He went past the room on desperate skates, feeling her voice render him solid, physical, able to be harmed. He caught a glimpse of her hair, her sweater, not even her face but it didn’t matter. He was already wounded, and fleeing. No competition, he couldn’t win.
         “. . . the hell, was that him, was that who I think . . .”
         “. . . there the whole damn time, I bet, just listening, holy mother of . . .”
         He had always wanted to be seen through.
         “. . . tell me, how the hell did you . . . how did you know he was there . . .”
         When it turned out that hadn’t been the problem at all.
         “Jesus, you people, it was easy . . .”
         He was afraid of being seen, by anyone, transparent or otherwise.
         “. . . you guys just don’t look, you just don’t know how to look . . .”
         Not realizing that it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
         “. . . his shadow, you idiots, I saw his shadow, in the doorway . . .”
         Nor the best thing, but just simply a thing and something that he had to accept.
         “. . . and he’s got this distinctive shadow, it’s always the same, no matter where I am I think I’ll always know it, it’s just one of those things, you know, that just stays with you . . .”

* * * * *

         If her bedroom light hadn’t been on she might have just tripped and fallen and fallen asleep right on the floor, which would have made for a stiff awakening.
         Moving toward the bed she hazarded a glance at the clock only to look away sharply when it showed her that it was way later than she had wanted it to be. Dammit Tristian, it’s a good thing you’re family. Well, all she had to do was make it to lunch then she could catch a quick nap and then suffer through the rest of the day. She would just claim she was up all night working on a project. They might just believe that.
         The shades were slightly open, letting pale fingers of moonlight seep into the room. She went over to close them, taking a second to look out the window onto the street. Far away the bright lights of a distant skyline, a kingdom tantalizingly out of reach glittered like fallen jewels, closer than the heavens but still too far to touch. Below, the streets were dark and empty. She stared out for longer than she expected, perhaps waiting to see if there was movement. Part of her looked for Tristian but didn’t see him of course. Did he drive here? She had never asked. He better not be walking home this late alone. But then, what did he have to worry about? What was going to hurt him? It was so hard for her mind to adjust to all of this, she had stepped into a movie seconds before the script had gone up in flames. Seeing him at the next family gathering was going to be an interesting experience, it was going to take all of her willpower not to say anything about tonight to him. Still, it was nice that he came, she wished he could have stayed longer. The daily grind was just too unexciting these days, she’d have to think about switching jobs soon, move into something a little more interesting. She was living for the weekends these days, at least her friends gave her some respite from the rest of the world. Tristian’s world was probably never boring anymore. She wondered how far she could step into it and still remain untouched.
         A gaping yawn scattered all of her thoughts and made her head swim. The world blurred and rotated but she brought it back into meager focus quickly. Enough, then. Closing the shades, she took one last look at the sky but the clouds must have moved in. Everything was black and grey and endless. The stars were gone. Oh well, they’d be back tomorrow. Isn’t that how it always went? Not like they were going anywhere. The bed looked too inviting for words. She turned the light out, igniting the room with darkness, coating her in nothing. Slipping in, she double checked to make sure that her alarm was set. Morning was going to come all too quickly. She wasn’t sure what she liked better, waking up too early but able to lay in bed knowing you didn’t have to get up for a few more hours, or simply waking up on time after a nice continuous sleep. To be honest she would have liked to take the day off tomorrow. But that wasn’t going to happen.
         The pillow was too soft, the sheets too comfortable. Her thoughts melted and crumbled. The clock numbers hovered before her, indistinct, wrapped in cool haze. It didn’t matter. There was no time. Exhaustion was claiming her inch by inch. Did Tristian even have a job anymore? Pehaps he ran the Universe. Or tried to outrun the world. His limbs were red bars, cutting cruel slashes in the floor. Clock hands were a knife to the air. Turning and turning but never going anywhere. To be in charge in place. This place was dragging her down to a safe world. To be his voice, painted crimson the walls. Heat without heat. Tristian. Blood and blood and blood and family. Where to go when nobody will take you in. Everybody likes a countdown. We’ll turn the lights out, you see. Turning them out with our falling gears. Tumble time tumble. Her eyes were closed. Strike the breathing, find a rhythm. Tristian, you pinwheel like a crystal arc. Body was nowhere, drifting away. Sleep to come, swung like a pirate. To take this spaceship into the silent zone. No escape, Tristian. We’ll always find. Sleep. Watch it descend. Down. Down. Down.
         With the body disconnect, sleep caves, rushes to fill the empty spaces. Do you. And takes her away, to its fertile grip. Tristian, I. And with a deep breath, she went under. And was gone. And was gone.

* * * * *

         “. . . and he’s got this distinctive shadow, it’s always the same . . .”

* * * * *

         The streets are empty but he’s standing there, doing nothing to add to the population. The brisk night wind causes the grass that pokes between the sidewalk cracks to caress his shoes with gentle care. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes focused upwards. Somewhere not too distant a car briefly coughs into sputtering life and quickly fails, getting nothing for the attempt. Down the street, on the corner, a traffic light goes from red to green to yellow to red again, playing for a missing audience. It’s a beacon for all the wrong travellers.
         He’s staring upwards and the streetlamp fails to illuminate him entirely. There’s a window capturing his attention and it won’t let him go. Gauzy light peeks out from behind billowy coverings. It’s too far away for him to reach. On the other corner a shadowed figure stumbles out, spits something pulpy onto the ground and retreats in the same fashion, never speaking a word.
         There’s no expression on his face. The wind quietly rustles his hair, as if begging for a reaction. The light shines on, stable, unrelenting. Another minute passes. Back to green again. Nobody moves. The weight shifts to the balls of his feet. Hovers at yellow for a brief second.
         Like the air being sucked into a vacuum, the light goes out.
         To red.
         His face doesn’t change. A tightness trickles into his back. He waits for another few seconds, waiting for something improbable to reverse itself. The window stays dark. The signal changes to green. He remains planted, unyielding. Defeat he doesn’t know. But there’s no enemy. There’s no one around. The light’s gone out. Out. One more second is all he’ll allow.
         Then he makes a small, whimpered sound, turns away as sharply as fractured glass and strides to the streets, rapidly and without hesitation, his elongated ghost lingering behind, stretched and turned sickly, but unable to fully escape.

* * * * *

         “. . . and no matter where I am I think I’ll always know it, it’s just one of those things, you know, that just stays with you . . .”