I hate waiting rooms, mostly for the not-so-subtly implied “waiting” part. I hate that I have to take time out of my day so that someone else can poke and prod me and, in the end, tell me I’m healthy, and I’m free to go, as if I’ve been imprisoned.

More than anything else, though, I hate the lazy attempt at making “customers” feel welcome. This mostly happens in the waiting room, since, once the underpaid and overworked nurse opens the monstrous door and announces your name, and you cross through that door, that portal, head hung low in submission to the humiliating process that’s about to take place- by then, it’s too late to escape.

In the waiting room, though, there’s still a chance that you’ll come to your senses and walk out. Flipping through the 2009 issue of TIME, you realize that the last time you did this you realized how much you were paying for someone to tell you you’re healthy.

It’s only a $50 co-pay- no big deal, you thought. But then the real costs started to enter your consciousness. I pay... what?... nearly $300 a month in premiums. That’s $3,600 a year, and I get check-ups every six months.

$1,850 for a god damned checkup. Holy shit. No, wait... that’s not right. You have a wife and kids, so they factor in.

Still, though.

There’s still time to walk out. The door is right there. And what would happen? I’d go home (maybe I’d stop at Arby’s on the way), and go about my regular day. No one would be the wiser.

That, of course, is why they have to make some attempt at hospitality. And it starts (and ends, really) in the waiting room.

And that’s fine. I get it. You gotta make a living, you need customers in the seats. But do you have to be so blatant about your noncommittal attitude towards my comfort?

Example: where the hell did you get this carpet? Yes, it’s better than no carpet- I’m sure these places aren’t insulated all that well, so carpet helps- but seriously, it looks like you mated the magic carpet from Aladdin with one of those optical illusions that make me dizzy when I look at them. What the hell’s wrong with Berber? Am I not good enough for Berber?

The wallpaper seems to go in the opposite direction. If the carpet is nausea-inducing Arabic confusion, the wallpaper is sterile Scandinavian emptiness. It’s Sartre, Camus, and Nietzsche all rolled up into one incredibly depressing wallpaper. I’ve never quite got the point of all their pessimism, but I’m sure that if I stared at this wallpaper long enough, I’d understand.

Then there’s the chairs, which are ergonomically designed to make parts of me that I didn’t know existed hurt. That works to your advantage, doesn’t it? I come in feeling fine, but the chairs ensure that, when you ask me if anything hurts, I have an answer prepared. My back hurts like hell, thank you.

The magazines, of course, are such a cliché that I’m not going to dwell on them. I’ll simply say this: shame on you. I know way too damn much about the 2004 Cadillac CTS and its “color-keyed center console, additional chrome trim and white lighting,” so thanks for that. That’s knowledge I can use.

And the fish tank -is that for me, too? I read somewhere that the mere presence of nature makes people calmer. Maybe that’s why everyone in the waiting room is just staring emptily at the fish, to steady ourselves after the visual barrage of carpets and wallpapers and the...

Oh, good. My name’s being called. It’s 11:30 now, so maybe I can be home by one and actually get some work done. Except... wait. I’ve fallen for it again! You’re not ready to see me- the nurse just wanted to usher me into the room so I can wait some more.

She sensed my restlessness, didn’t she? She knew I was about to bolt, that she was about to lose one. So she stuck me in this room, because she knows no one ever leaves these rooms. Do you know how often I’ve sat in one of these rooms waiting for a doctor while I had to pee so badly? I just can’t leave. What if I miss the doctor and he moves onto another patient? Am I really prepared to wait another two hours? No, the potential damage to my bladder is totally worth the chance to get out of here a few minutes early.

And even if I did decide that a bathroom excursion was worth the risk, I wouldn’t leave, because this place has a way of making grown men feel like they’re eight years old, sneaking out of study hall. That’s intentional, I suppose. I don’t know how it’s done, but I always imagine the architects of these places as very similar to experimental brain surgeons from 1910 Germany. No one knows how they make such uncomfortable environments; it’s an intangible gift. Probably has something to do with the lighting. No, I’m not going out there.

Finally, you’re here. Ok- it’s 12:15. Not too bad. I’ve been here for... wait, when did I get here? I can’t remember. What’s wrong with my brain right now? Probably that damn carpet.

Hey, doc, have you met Janice? Kinda tall, red hair... oh, yeah. Of course. She’s your patient- of course you’ve met her. Nice lady. Her kid’s birthday is tomorrow, and she...

Yeah, sorry. Breathe in, breathe out. Got it. FYI, you forgot to breathe on the stethoscope first. We talked about this last time, remember?

Wait, what? All I heard was “concerned.” What was the rest of that?

Oh. I see. But it could be nothing, right? Oh. Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Gotta be honest, doc, your tone isn’t exactly inspiring confidence. Don’t they have classes in med school on not freaking your patients out?

Okay. Yeah, sure. I guess I’ll see you next Tuesday.

Umm... hey, doc? Well, it looks like I’m going to be spending a lot more time here, right? So, could we maybe do something about that god damned carpet?

I can’t remember the last time I felt land, but I can remember its warmth, its texture, the solidness of it. I remember these things as I catch my first glimpse of land in recent memory.

I’ve been drifting at sea for so long that the constant motion has become second nature. I sway when the ocean sways. We have an understanding.

All the same, land has its appeal, and as I wash up onto the shore, I feel the sand against me, almost tickling. Nothing is happening, but I’ve become used to that.

Hours pass, and I notice the sun rising. It looks different, somehow, though I’m still watching it rise on the water. The ground beneath me should make no difference, but it does.

I see a man running towards me, panting. He sees me, as he must, because the morning sun shining off of me must produce a bright reflection. He kneels in the sand beside me, but doesn’t pick me up right away. He is either catching his breath, or wondering what I’m doing on this beach, or both.

Though he doesn’t, I know why I’m here, on this beach on this morning. I have a story to tell.

He’s taken me home. I’m on his nightstand, which is one of few pieces of furniture in the room. It might even be called spartan. There’s a great view of the sea from the back porch, though, which is on the other side of a glass door in the bedroom.

He’s taking a shower now. There’s not much to do but look around, so I do. There are three pictures on the far wall, which seem to be the only decoration. All are of the same woman. Her auburn hair curls up just underneath her strongly defined jaw. In all three photographs, she’s smiling, and it looks as if smiling is her natural state, as if to erase the smile would take a deliberate effort.

He comes out of the shower, drying his hair with a towel, and for a moment, he stands in the doorway and looks at me. He’s not quite sure what to do with me. Finally, he throws the towel on the bed and walks to the nightstand, picking me up.

For a few moments, he rolls his fingers over me. He’s not sure how to proceed. He sighs softly, then sets me down on the bed. He walks into another room, then comes back in with a corkscrew. He picks me up, then takes out my cork. He lays it gently on the nightstand, then turns me over and gently shakes me. The letter slides out into his hand. He sets me on the bed, then sits next to me, and begins to read.

He reads slowly, carefully. I see a tear begin to form, a puddle in his eye. He blinks, and the tear begins to fall down his right cheek. Soon, he’s finished, and he lowers the letter, lifting his gaze to the wall. He stares off into the distance, somewhere beyond the wall, and doesn’t move. He pulls a phone out of his pocket, and dials a number.

“Hi, Jen. I won’t be able to stop by today. No, nothing’s wrong. I just have to go to the library for awhile. Sure. The sink will hold until tomorrow. Just use the one in the bathroom for now. No, I’m fine. Okay. Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He picks me up, then picks up the letter, sliding it back into me. He lays me on the nightstand, then walks out the front door.

When he comes home, the sun is almost set. He seems much more decisive somehow, his every movement more deliberate. He’s packing a suitcase, for a three-day (or so) trip, judging by the amount of clothing. He’s very meticulous, I notice, and takes only the essentials: clothes, toiletries, a journal. He looks to me with a decisive glance, then slides the letter back into its place and puts the cork back in. He walks out the front door again, suitcase in one hand, me in the other. There’s a yellow taxi waiting outside. We get in, and he sets the suitcase down on the far seat, holding onto me with both hands, almost caressing.

We spend the next three hours driving. In the last hour, it begins to rain. Not a word is spoken between the man and the driver. Finally, we stop. He pays the driver in cash and steps onto a rain-soaked sidewalk. The taxi drives off quietly. The man stands in the gentle rain, facing a red brick house with white trim. White door, white shutters. There’s a chain-link fence with a gate, and I notice the many puddles in the front yard. The lawn has not been cared for properly, but an effort was made. We stand at the gate for a long time, until a middle-aged couple in running shorts and shoes trot past, interrupting the man’s thoughts. He takes a step forward, slowly lifting the gate’s latch. He takes a step forward, cautiously, then walks to the front porch. He takes a deep breath, and I notice how many reflections the puddles contain. There are worlds within those puddles, though I doubt many notice them.

He rings the doorbell, and an elderly woman answers the door after some time. She looks puzzled, but quickly recovers, and offers us shelter from the rain, even before asking the man’s name.

There’s a fire flickering in the living room, and the man is soon seated on the sofa, with two blankets beneath him to catch the water dripping from his hair. The woman brings him hot tea in a pale green coffee mug. She sits opposite him in a chair from the ‘70s, green with thin brown stripes. The whole room feels much like the chair, old and worn but clean and comfortable. The woman still looks confused, but now her eyes are narrowed a bit. She is worried about the man, but she doesn’t know him.

Finally, the man speaks.

“I’m here about John.”

The woman’s head tilts slightly, her eyes widening.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone about John in years,” she says. Her chest and arms seem to contract a bit, as if to get closer to her heart. “Who are you?”

“I have something that was meant for you.”

He reaches for me, pulls out the cork, and lets the letter slowly slide out, but not all the way. The letter is in me, and it is not, and he holds out his hand to her. She pulls the letter from me. For some reason, the confusion in her eyes is no longer there. She unrolls the letter with great care, and begins to read. Her hand goes to her mouth, and it stays there. The man looks at her, and then looks around the room, then back at her. He doesn’t want to stare, but he wants to watch her read.

She takes her time. Finally, she lifts her gaze, staring through a window at an oak tree tucked in the corner of the front yard. She watches the yellow and red leaves fall to the ground.

He waits. He watches her breath stutter, then recompose itself. Her eyes turn to him.

“How did you get this?”

“I found it on the beach yesterday morning.”

“Where?”

“North Carolina. Rodanthe.”

She nods.

“And you came all this way to bring it to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. I had to.”

They sit in silence, sipping their tea, and then he introduces himself, setting me down on the end table that doubles as a magazine rack.

“Will you tell me about John?” he asks.

A subtle smile sweeps over her face, erasing the many wrinkles sprouting from the corners of her lips.

“John and I were an accident. In ‘62, I was engaged to someone else. We went to the cinema to see ‘The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance’ on New Year’s Day- my fiancee was quite fond of John Wayne. He suddenly came down ill, though, and took a taxi home. I told him that I wanted to stay. It was a cold but beautiful day, after all, and I didn’t want to go home. After he left, I left the movie and went back to the lobby. I stood in front of all the movie posters, trying to decide which one I wanted to see. I loved Jimmy Stewart, but John Wayne wasn’t my cup of tea. A young man with scraggly hair stood beside me.

He leaned over to me and said ‘life is too short to waste two hours on a western.’

‘Care to make a recommendation?’ I asked.

‘Lolita.’ He said it with a sort of cunning smirk on his face.

I’d heard of Lolita, but only vaguely. By all accounts, it was an immoral movie. Pedophilia and such. He talked me into it, though. Said that the movie didn’t condone pedophilia, only gave such a different point of view that it forced a person to use different brain cells, ones that hadn’t been used, probably, since they were kids.“

“So you watched Lolita,” the man said.

“So we watched Lolita, “ she answered. “We were married two years later.”

She was staring through the window again, this time with a look of contentment.

The man shifts in his seat, then leans forward, and asks, “When did the baby come?”

The woman’s face hardens, then the corners of her mouth slowly reach for the floor. She turns to the man.

“Not long after we were married.” She pauses.

“I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this,” she says. “I don’t even know you.”

“Please,” he says. “I’ve come all this way.”

“I suppose it needs to be told. I’ve been so alone here for such a very long time.”

“Please, continue.”

She raises her eyebrows slightly, as people do before making a confession. She inhales, slowly, deliberating. She turns again to the window, exhales, and turns to look the man in the eyes.

“I gave the baby up.” She barely manages the words, and begins sobbing mid-sentence, as if the words and the tears are one and the same, and to release the one is to release the other.

“I gave it up for adoption. I couldn’t do it without him. We had no one, you see. No one. I didn’t even have a job. My parents were poor, and I refused to burden them.”

She chokes back another sob, reaching for a tissue from the coffee table.

The man relaxes back into his seat.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “Look at me, carrying on this way in front of a complete stranger.” She reached for another tissue.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“No, it’s not. Look at me. Sixty-seven years old and I’m acting like a blithering idiot.”

“Please. Please continue the story.”

“I don’t want to. What do you care, anyway? A young man watching an old woman embarrass herself like this? My pain is mine. It’s comfortable. Let it be.”

“But you must want to let it out.”

“Oh, what the hell do you know about pain and what to do with it? Leave an old woman be.”

The man stands up and starts, slowly, towards the front door. Then he turns and walks back to the woman, kneeling in front of her. His eyes glisten.

“What do I know about pain? I lost my wife and child last year. We went fishing about a mile off the coast. Our boat sprung a leak and sank. There was nothing left of it by the time we saw the shark. I watched the look of terror on my daughter’s face as it dragged her mother off. Her shrieks pierced our ears until they suddenly stopped when the massive set of teeth ripped her body in half and painted the sea in red.

I held my daughter as it finished her, then came back and circled us. For five full minutes the god damned thing toyed with us, until it came charging. I threw myself in front of it, but it didn’t open its mouth. It knocked me backwards, and I lost the grip on my daughter’s hands. She was ten feet away, and all I could do was watch as it circled back on my little girl, dragging her off by the leg. I’ve no idea how long it took her to die. I could still hear her screams when she was finally dragged underwater.”

The woman had her hand on her mouth, and stared in horror.

“Don’t tell me that I don’t know pain.”

The terror on her face sinks into her eyes, and she furrows her eyebrows, softly clenching her jaw.

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” she demands.

He rises slowly, then sits back down on the sofa. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it.

“I was running on the beach the morning I found that letter. I was running away from the pain, and as I ran, I decided to end my life. My mind was made up. I was going to write the note and end it all that very day. Then I found the letter, and everything changed.”

“Why? I understand that you’ve experienced pain, too, but what does it have to do with me?” Her voice rises with every word, until she’s screaming. “What the hell do you want from me!”

“I wanted to meet my mother.”

I was making an omelette when I heard the knock on the door. It was frantic, intense, like someone was trying to beat the door down.

I stood still, spatula in hand, for a few seconds.

The banging stopped.

“Mark! Mark! Mark, please!”

I exhaled and set the spatula down. It was only Tina.

“Mark!”

I ran to the front door and opened it.

Tina rushed past me and collapsing into a heap on the sofa. She grabbed a throw pillow, straightened herself out, and held hte pillow over her face.

I sat down, cautiously, in the recliner, and watched her heavy breathing, the motion of the pillow heaving up and down.

“Tina, what the hell is wrong?”

The pillow slowly started moving towards Tina’s torso, uncovering her face, and taking with it most of her mascara. Outside, a slow rain started tapping on the window.

Tina’s body was stiff, like a plank of wood lain on the sofa, and she was staring at the textured ceiling. Her head tilted towards me.

“I did something bad, Mark.”

Her eyes flashed. She was starting to scare me, a little.

“Okay,” I managed. “Tell me what you did.”

She held her breath, and after a pause, exhaled. “I cheated.”

“You cheated?”

“YES!” She erupted, then began sobbing quietly. “I cheated.”

“I see. Does he know?”

“Yes, he knows. Or, at least, I think he knows. If he doesn’t yet, he soon will.” She was staring at the ceiling again.

“Hold on. I’ll be right back,” I said, and I went into the kitchen and made tea.

A few minutes later, I walked into the living room. Tina was finally sitting up, wiping the mascara from her cheeks. She sniffled as she extended her hand to take the tea.

“Thanks,” she said, with a half-hearted smile.

“So do you wanna tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know what happened. It was harmless, at first... just a little daydreaming, y’know? Then it... escalated.”

“Escalated how?”

“It started with dreams. After a while, the dreams didn’t stop when I woke. It was like the dream had overflowed into my waking life. My morning started in a sort of trance.

It was beautiful, Mark. It felt like some sort of nectar was coursing through my veins. I’d take a shower, do the dishes, go for a walk, and everything was intensified, magnified, almost. Like life had finally breathed its secret into me, and I knew without knowing.”

“You’re losing me, Tina.”

She was staring at the window now, watching what were now pellets of rain pelt the glass, each sliding down to the window sill below to make room for the next raindrop soon to be hurled from the sky.

Then the rain stopped, and everything was calm again, but for the rolling thunder miles away.

“It went on, and I couldn’t stop it. I love him, Mark, and I cheated on him. It was infrequent at first. A couple times a month, maybe. Then it was once a week. Soon I was cheating every chance I got, making excuses for myself. I couldn’t help myself. It felt like something I was born to do, meant to do, like it was embedded in me somehow, this capacity.”

We sat in silence for five minutes, ten minutes. I sipped my tea. Tina weeped silently.

Then there was another knock on the door, a slow, steady tapping this time.

Tina let out a faint gasp, then turned to me with fear in her eyes. She was afraid of him.

I walked to the door and opened it, but saw only the swaying trees and wet pavement. I started to close the door, but the sound of Tina’s voice stopped me.

“Mark,” she said simply. I turned to her, still clutching the doorknob in one hand. She was clutching the throw pillow against her chest, her eyes a salty mixture of guilt and dread. She nodded towards the door behind me.

There was an enveloped stuck to the door, a penknife run through it. I unlodged the knife, took the envelope in my hand, and closed the door.

I started to hand Tina the envelope.

“You read it,” she said. “I can’t.”

I nodded and, still standing in the doorway, opened the envelope, unfolded the single page of crisp white paper, and read.

When I finished, I walked to the sofa and knelt beside Tina, who was still clutching the pillow, still breathing heavily. Her eyes wanted answers now, but they also didn’t.

“You’re going to want to read this.”

She snatched the letter from my hands and read:

Dearest Tina,

Yes, I know what you’ve done. I understand why you might be afraid now, why you must be nervous about my reaction. Let’s take a minute to think about this.

You’ve known me nearly your entire life... but only nearly. We didn’t know each other as kids, really, or at least when you were a kid. You lived without me for the longest time, not even knowing of my existence until you started to grow up. I know I was a lot to handle at first, but once we got comfortable with each other, things went pretty smoothly, I think.

It’s funny. When I found out you’d cheated on me, all I could feel was relief. Don’t get me wrong- I want you to need me. I’m the best thing for you, in fact. I know that, and I think you do, too.

But I was all you’d ever known, or at least all you could remember. You needed an escape. You are capable of such wonderful things, Tina, and you can accomplish good things with me.

To accomplish great things, though, you needed to do what you did. You needed to let your mind, your heart, your body wander. I, in and of myself, am the ground beneath your feet, but you’d never looked up to see the sky until you did what you did. You’d never seen the rest of the world, the one that exists precisely because you dreamt it.

Love me, Tina, but don’t worship me. Come to me, stay with me, but dream when you may, and wander when you must. I’ll always be here waiting for you when you get back.

Truly yours,

Reality

Michael had become quite accustomed to his morning routine. He woke at seven, made his coffee, and stepped onto the front porch with a steaming cup and a fresh cigarette.

He sat there for ten minutes or so, watching the neighborhood prepare for their day. The kids strolled by, on their way to the schoolbus, at 7:08.

A minute later, a black Taurus with six bumper stickers drove by. Most days, the driver had her black hair pulled into a pony tail.

Then the immaculate white Jeep who always drove a bit too fast for Michael’s taste.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, listening to the birds’ songs. He was always amazed at the fact that he never heard them until he made a conscious effort to do so.

The alarm on his phone began to chime. 7:15. He walked inside, showered, then dressed in the clothes he had lain out the night before. At 8:05, he was on the road, and by 8:45, he’d reached the office.

The next eight hours would be passed with a smile as he helped customers fill out their tax returns. He enjoyed tax season. It gave him a chance to chat with his customers. He couldn’t have done it year-round: he reveled in the solitude that came in the other eight months of the year. Whatever the season, it knew its place, and Michael’s place in it.

Five o’clock came, as it always does, and Michael stopped at the gas station on the way home. The cashier knew his brand of cigarette, but not his name. Michael preferred it that way.

Being a Friday, he stopped at the bank to deposit his check, flirting a bit with the blonde teller who always called him “Mike.” He preferred Michael, but he never corrected her.

Michael pulled into the driveway and walked around the southeast corner of the car to the mailbox. He opened it, took out the mail, and began to sift through it, walking towards the house without looking up. When his right foot came down on the first porch step, he felt something other than pavement. He looked up from the mail. It was another foot- an elegant pair of black pumps.

His eyes widened as the letters fell out of his hand, onto the sidewalk.

“Hello, Michael.”

He recovered himself, the shock giving way to an almost imperceptible smile.

“Hello, Rebecca.”

She was as beautiful as ever, he thought as her soft brown eyes looked up at him from underneath a pillow of bangs.

He did not remember the night they met- he had been far too drunk to remember the party. It was his first frat party at UCLA, and he had been a bit too eager to impress his newly-acquired crew with his drinking skills.

He woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and a small blonde angel at the foot of his bed, reading Jane Austen in paperback.

She served him breakfast in bed- two eggs, sausage, and wheat toast.

Michael had often wondered why she never answered when he asked why she had been there that morning, especially as she insisted that nothing had happened. He never pressed the subject, though.

They spent the next three years together, and during the second year, he proposed. The plans were set: the Episcopalian church, the purple lilacs, the three-tiered cake- until Michael received an offer of employment from his father’s old friend back home in Maryland. As soon as he graduated, Michael went home.

He never told Rebecca that he was leaving. He simply left. Looking back, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t had the courage to face her. It had crossed his mind that he was simply not good at confrontation, but he quickly dismissed the thought as nonsense.

He had often wondered what had become of her, but he never imagined she would be sitting on his doorstep fifteen years later with that same mesmerizing, crooked smile.

Michael led her inside, hanging her coat and purse on the coat rack in the foyer as she took a seat on the living room sofa. He began to make his tea — he always had a spicy black when he got home — when Rebecca walked into the kitchen and offered to make it herself.

“You’ve had a long day. I’ve been sitting on your porch reading a book for two hours. Sit down and I’ll bring it to you.”

Michael took off his shoes and placed them just on the inside of the front door. He noticed the green Mercedes coming around the corner and wondered if the blue Chrysler had been on time: he’d missed it today.

They’d been sitting on the sofa for two hours, and were working on their third cup of tea when Rebecca suggested that they switch to wine. He told her where to find it, then watched her walk away. She’d put on a few pounds, but only a few, and she wore it well. In fact, she looked better, somehow- more complete.

Michael realized that he’d forgotten to eat dinner, but by now it was a bit too late.

Rebecca came back in with the wine, a seventeen-ear-old Brunello de Montalcino. Michael had been saving it for a special occasion, but none had come along.

He asked her, for the third time, why she was there, and got slightly annoyed when she again dodged the question.

After the third glass of wine, Michael again excused himself. He made his way into the bathroom, and caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror as he washed his hands. His eyes were unusually red. Probably just the wine.

He walked back to the living room and, as he reached the entryway from the kitchen, he stopped. Rebecca was standing at the sliding glass door at the back of the room, gazing out. The sun must’ve been setting, and it was casting a red glow over the entire room. It was an intense red at the doorway, becoming softer as it reached further into the house, until it became a weak pink at the fireplace on the east wall. Michael noticed the way Rebecca’s hands and arms seemed to absorb the color.

“Becca, it’s wonderful to see you, but for the last time, will you please tell me what you’re doing here?”

Rebecca turned slowly to face him, and Michael felt a slight wave of nausea come over him.

“It’s doesn’t matter, Michael. What matters is that I’m here.”

“Okay. Well, then, how long are you here? Where are you going from here? Are you passing through?”

“Relax, Michael. Have another sip of wine.”

“Fine.” He recognized a feeling of irritation beginning to set in, then brushed it off as he stepped into the living room and lit the fireplace. It was a gas fireplace- all the wonder and beauty of an evening fire with none of the hassle.

He turned the dial to the left-most position, then held in the pilot light. He listened for the familiar click, click, click, then watched as the fire appeared out of thin air.

He turned to Rebecca, still standing in the doorway, and noticed the reflection of the fire dancing in her eyes.

“Why did you leave me, Michael?”

He was taken aback. The conversation had thus far been pleasant, but he knew he would have to answer the question eventually.

“I don’t know, Becca. I was uncomfortable out there. I didn’t belong with the California crowd. You did, but I didn’t. I had to take the life that was given to me. I knew that wouldn’t be enough for you. You had to make a life out of nothing. I’m not cut out for that.”

She said nothing, and Michael could hear the ticking of his old grandfather clock.

Longer and longer, she stood, not speaking, not moving. Seconds passed. Tick, tick, tick.

“For God’s sake, Becca, say something. It was fifteen years ago. It’s in the past. Aren’t you the one who said that it didn’t matter? That you’re here now?”

Silence.

“Look, I had to hurt you, either way. I could tell you and hurt you, or not tell you and hurt you. I didn’t like either choice. I just picked one, I guess.”

She was looking directly at him, her small chin protruding fiercely towards the floor, her eyes fixed on him, or perhaps on something behind him. Michael felt as if she were staring right through him. Still, she said nothing.

She crossed her arms and reached down to the ends of her blouse — a fairly tight purple number with a chaotic, black abstract print running from sleeve to sleeve across her chest — then pulled it over her head. She took one step towards him, then another, then another. Reaching him, she placed her right hand on his shoulder, then slowly leaned towards him.

He could feel her breath on his ear, for only a moment, as she reached behind him with her left hand, which still held the purple blouse. Turning, Michael realized that she was holding the blouse in the flames.

He leaped backwards, nearly falling onto the coffee table.

“Becca, what the fuck!”

The blouse had caught fire now, and as Rebecca turned towards him, Michael once again saw the fire in her eyes.

She threw the blouse on the couch, and Michael stood, stunned, for only a second before beginning to kick at the flames with his feet.

“What the fuck are you doing? This is my god damn house!”

By the time his leg began to tire, the last of the flames were out. Michael looked at the couch, and the watermelon-sized ring of torched leather, which filled the room with its unmistakable stench.

“Okay, Becca, you’ve proven your point.” He cursed the singed hair on his leg and took a step to his left to sit on one of the unharmed sofa cushions.

He put his face in his hands, breathing deeply. She had a right to be angry, of course, and he had yet to tell her that he was sorry for what he’d done. He had to apologize.

He slowly opened his eyes, his hands sliding away from his face.

It took a moment to register what he saw. The entire room was engulfed in flames. Rebecca still stood in the center of it all. She wore no expression whatever.

Michael froze, not knowing what to do.

“What the fuck is wrong with you! FUCK!”

“The past is the past, Michael, and nothing can change it. It’s possible that it doesn’t even exist. The only evidence — the only thing that makes the past real — is what it leaves behind, the seed that it plants.”

The flames were getting taller, fiercer, and Michael began to feel the fire’s heat on his skin. He ran to the back door, but as soon as he touched the knob to open it, he recoiled. It was too hot. He turned towards the kitchen just as the ceiling began to collapse.

He was trapped.

“Becca, why the fuck are you doing this? I hurt you, but this is my god damned life we’re talking about!”

“I am your life, Michael! Fire is your life!”

Michael moved to the center of the room, where only a small square was still untouched by the flames, and it was disappearing quickly.

He cowered down and braced for what was to come, covering his head with his hands, tucking his nose into his arm.

“You’re not my life,” he sobbed. “You’re a fucking demon.”

He felt a pull on his hand as she wrenched it from his head. She knelt beside him, her face inching closer to his, until he could taste her breath through the smoke.

“No, Michael. I’m your demon.”

A man came to my door today. He said little and invited himself in. He only stood in the doorway, a bit menacingly, if you ask me. He was dressed very darkly in a long grey coat and hat, and seemed bent on not allowing the light of day to pass through (he was of formidable size).

I offered coffee or tea, and he denied. I offered a warm chair and blanket, but he did not move.

I began to feel uncomfortable, not knowing his business, or why he was here. I felt a slight chill, and warmed my hands in the fireplace, taking my eyes off of the stranger for only a moment. When I turned, he was gone.

He came again the next day. Same clothes, I think, but he wore a determined scowl. This time, I invited him in. He stepped across the threshold, one pace inside the doorway, and there he stayed. Still, he did not speak.

I excused myself and made some coffee, thinking that perhaps he would pull a disappearing act in the meantime, but when I returned, he was there. I offered coffee, which he turned down, but not before flashing what I believe was a mild look of longing towards the cup.

I noticed the wrinkles for the first time, extending like the roots of a tree, almost growing, from the corners of his mouth, his eyes.

I sat, and reached for a quilt to cover my cold legs. When I looked up, the visitor was gone.

The following day, as I made my morning coffee, I looked out of the kitchen window and saw snow. It was light snow, and was not covering the ground. It seemed determined only to pass by my window, without any intention of reaching its destination. To make me aware of its fleeting presence seemed its only purpose.

I took a sip of coffee and realized that I was waiting for the visitor.

I smiled faintly when I heard the knock on the door. I let him in, and there he stood, in his spot in the doorway. His frame now enveloped the entire entryway, and I could not see the snow behind him.

I sat in my chair with my quilt and my coffee, and, content to silence, I looked on my visitor. He neither smiled nor scowled. He wasn’t even there, it seemed. He only was- a very odd sort of thought that left me comforted, somehow.

We had an understanding, this visitor and I, and every day — for months, for years — he came, dutifully, faithfully. We never spoke, but were satisfied to simply be in each other’s presence.

More years passed, and one day, the visitor did not come. I wept- for him, for the familiarity which I no longer felt. There was no visitor, and I was alone again.

Then I heard a knock.

I almost ran to the door. There was indeed a visitor standing before me, but this stranger was smaller, was smiling, and was clad in vibrant colors- orange and blue and green.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What do you want?”

The visitor smiled.

“You are not my regular visitor. Where is my regular visitor? Do you know him?”

“Yes, I do. He and I have come to visit you for many years now.”

“He and you? I’ve never seen you. My visitor always traveled alone.”

“No. I’ve been here, though, on every visit- only you couldn’t see me. He’s bigger than me, you see, but I was always behind him, on your porch. I have stood on this porch, every day, waiting for you to invite me in for coffee or tea. But you never asked, because you never saw.”

“You were here? With him? Who is he? Who are you?”

“Forgive me. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joy. The visitor you long for is my brother. His name is Pain.”

I was in my boss’s office. I sat down in the leather chair opposite his desk, looking out over the bay, admiring his view. I tried to think of the people below, but my mind kept coming back to the fact that I was sitting in my boss’s office.

I had no idea why I was there. I had done something wrong, I was sure of that. In an act of sadism, he left me wondering for fifteen minutes. When he entered the room, he smiled at his secretary before closing the door, directing his gaze toward me, and letting a crestfallen look sweep over his face.

He fired me. The rest is a blur, although I vaguely recall wondering what his home life was like, whether he glided through life with the calm assurance that seemed to propel him forward at work.

I was a bit numb as I rode the elevator toward the first floor with a box of my belongings. I wished that I could hide that box. I might as well be wearing a sign saying ‘I was just fired.’

I didn’t go home. There was nothing to go home to. I didn’t want to go anywhere else, either. Everywhere else, there were people, and I didn’t want to see people. When you want the company of others, they’re nowhere to be found. When you want to escape them, they’re everywhere.

I toyed with the idea of suicide, then quickly cast it off. Death wouldn’t be interesting. Liberating, perhaps, but not interesting. I hadn’t yet lived enough to die.

I thought of the bridge on the outskirts of St. Petersburg in Crime and Punishment. In the book, every emotion seemed to converge on that bridge. Fear, ambition, happiness, sadness, indignation, jealousy- all in one place. I decided to find a bridge on which to think. Perhaps they were indeed a gathering place for emotion, and I needed to feel something, to chase the numbness away.

I found respite under a small bridge overlooking an inlet on the northern edge of the Tampa Bay. I listened to the cars pass overhead while watching for signs of life in the water below. The occasional jumping fish caused ripples on the water, and the ripples comforted me. They had a predictable cause and a predictable effect.

I listened to the cars pass over the bridge. I silently cursed each driver as someone blessed with better luck than I, then I cursed myself for cursing them.

I fell asleep. As I dreamed, Death approached me, wearing the traditional garb with one exception: his robe and scepter were entirely white- blindingly so, almost. He sat down beside me with a quiet sigh.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“No. Are you taking me?”

“No. It’s not time, yet.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You’re interesting, and I need a break. I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?”

“Of taking.”

“Taking lives?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you stop?”

“I can’t stop. I’m needed. My service is needed.”

He saw my confusion.

“If there were no death," he said, "there would be no life. Loathed as I am, humanity descends into chaos in my absence. Death is the only thing that propels life. Without death, there is no fear. Without fear, there is nothing. Fear drives every action, every thought, every moment of life.”

“It can’t be behind everything.”

“Yes. Everything. A lawyer’s ambition, a mother’s love, a lover’s embrace. A walk in the park, an evening meal, a friendly conversation- all driven by fear. It’s not the catastrophe that you assume it to be. Fear is the necessary ingredient to life, and rightfully so. It is the most powerful catalyst, and the most misunderstood. Fear is not terrifying; that is only one form it takes. Fear is art. It is sadness, it is compassion, it is loneliness, it is love. All striving is a movement towards fear. All suffering is movement away from it.”

I woke up. Above me was a girl, and as I shook off my sleep, I noticed that she was smiling.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Who are you?”

“It’s not important. Did you have a nice nap?”

“I’m not sure.”

Still fighting off the remnants of grogginess, she took off her clothes, laid them neatly on a large rock, and walked to the water. She was small, with delicate features and a wave of auburn hair that curled in on itself just above her shoulders. She didn’t look back at me as she walked. Slowly, she submerged herself in the water. I expected her to ask me to join her, but she didn’t. She just floated in the water, not quite swimming, but not quite being still. I watched in amazement, and then I became amazed at the fact that I was amazed. Surely a woman soaking in a body of water is not uncommon. Why should it be amazing, or significant even?

I soon joined her, unprompted. I felt compelled to tell her.

“I just lost my job.”

“Oh.” There was neither sympathy nor judgment in her voice.

“I wasn’t good at it. I pretended to be, but I wasn’t. I suppose they finally found me out.”

“Why did you work there?”

I tried to think. “I’m not sure. It just sort of happened that way.”

“What did you love about it?”

“Well.... nothing, really.”

“Then why are you mourning the loss of it?”