Amaryllis

Okay, so this post has nothing to do with amaryllises, but I needed a catchy title. I just wanted to make it clear that you do not have to be a member of Blogger.com to post comments on a blog. Seriously.

To comment, first, simply click on the link which reads, for instance, "2 comments." Leave your comment in the box where it says "Leave your comment." (big surprise) Then, choose a way to leave your identity (or not).
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If you have one of the accounts listed under OpenID, choose the correct one and type in your user name.
If you simply want to leave whatever name you want to, type it in the name, and, if you like, leave the URL of your website.
Or you can go with anonymous. That's probably the most simple.

Therefore, folks, anyone can comment. And please do.

The Acquaintance

It was five o’ clock. The day had been spent futilely as I attempted to reconcile the haphazardly entered accounts of six months previous. I had spent the morning staring at the light-emitting screen and checking off deposits and withdrawals. All the hours in between now and then had been wasted in frustration as I gaped at the screened and punched in phone numbers of people who couldn’t really help me unless there in person.

The office was freezing; drinking two chilled bottles of water was no help. I ate hot soup around noon and occasionally switched places with the receptionist as she confirmed appointments, clicking periodically at her usual computer.

Soon I succumbed to failure. I resigned myself to watching television in a stiff backed leather chair in the waiting room. A six-year-old with dark hair down to her back was sitting cross-legged on the carpet just in front of the television; her mother was seeing a hygienist. Eventually Dad finished with work and we rolled our bicycles to the elevator and rumbled down to ground level.

When we clattered out into the foyer, we rode out of the complex’s white cement parking lot and pedaled down the sidewalk to the intersection. Dad stopped after me and I leaned over and pushed the scratched metal button for the walk signal. I stood on the cement straddling the bike; I straightened up and adjusted the bicycle. Then I looked up. A small, nondescript (but reasonably tasteful) vehicle waited in the left turn lane. As nondescript to my memory were the occupants of the two front seats (though I remember they were filled).

But sitting calmly in the back of the car, at the window closest to us, was a man. He was about twenty, with dark hair, and dark, intuitive, expressive, emotional eyes edged by thick dark brows. He wore a black coat; I ascertained that he was Middle Eastern.

We noticed each other at the same moment. Contrary to the instinct of an embarrassed glance in a public place, we did not turn away instantaneously. Our gazes held. The arrow blinked green. The left turners curved in front of me. Our heads turned, holding the moment in our memories perpetually. Then, slowly, intimately, he raised a hand from his lap, and waved it at me, palm facing the window. Comprehending it, I waved back, my being stationary on the cement.

And then the man was gone, replaced by the impersonal, remote cars trailing him. Our signal to walk flashed white. Dad spoke, joking to me that he had seen a man checking me out; I smiled and we laughed.

After we passed the intersection, I shot ahead of him, pedaling madly, breathing in the deep cold air as it bit my face and blew my hair back; I knew I would never see the man again. My eyes were imperceptibly moist: nobody would ever be aware of my encounter with the man.

Looking back on that moment, I know that the man knew the same things I knew- that we would, in all probability, never see one another again. So in that wave to me, he had said, “Hello.” And we had met. But he had also said, “Goodbye.”

And we had parted.

10/5/07 Finished 11:30 PM

I’ve got a secret-to be

Divulged in the dark

Told at twilight

Spoken in silence

It’s late right now

I’m not tired I can never get tired

On the weekends

There is no you

So I’m up at the kitchen table

Confessing a secret to a lined sheet

Ink cannot be erased

Today; every day, we are inches, feet, millimeters away

But not together

The glass is always half-empty

And distance is defined by

Being Love is fickle with change apart

And maybe tonight, if you haven’t driven to the beach

Or the city

You might be in the same town

And you could be awake at night; And

If we were lovers

I would be amazed at the close proximity

But tonight

you

and As soon as we are sure I

are of a man's attachment, we become indifferent apart

As soon as our hearts are contiguous

And our minds run parallel

Our souls will touch