Today, a friend suggested I focus and write one screenplay a week here. An effort to focus as well as capture the ideas among my many scraps of paper and journal entries.

the keys in my pocket

Be patient, it’s just up the hill
This valley will feel like nothing
In few weeks when the weather warms
We can move the table outside
Three rooms, eating, sitting, loving
In all three, with a shower no tub
If I can find how to turn on the water
No car, there’s bikes they said
If they don’t have baskets we’ll get some
For flowers, that bread we saw, the wine
Walking bikes uphill for two months
Until late June, when we trade this
Taste of somewhere, there. Rest.
___________________________________

too hot

It may just be the lack of moving
Air in here, over the brick and up
Into the rafters of this high ceiling
Outside, Sunday sleeps deeply at 10
And already, the heat
Holding out with the AC you see
Hoping that the bird over there
Knows something I don’t flying
This way on what looks like a draft
Wings still, diving after a morning
Snack, coffee, or something cold maybe
There’s heat and then there’s too hot
Which may be where this day moves
And maybe I’ll move there
Absorb the heat and then tonight
Walk through the city again
Feeling a better part of it
Having endured it to the point
Where it doesn’t matter how hot
It may just be the lack of moving

___________________________________

each day at three

Today outside because the sun
Makes the fountain across the street
Spray a bit cooler with rainbow mist
And breezes twist around the bank
And lift the skirts and blow the hair
Brushed and tied, braided and clipped
Afternoon swift walks for the missing
Vegetable, cream bottle, a certain cheese
Each day at three, these three
Try to absorb the familiar masked
By a glass of this, glasses
Conversation, when really today
In this sun, with this calm
It’s about the breeze and what it can do
To their daydreams

_________________________________

"Dreamland" Chapter 1 (excerpt)

Chapter 1: Saturday Night

I wonder. Can they see us? Have they just finished their tea as well? They must be able to see the lights here. Where are they from? Where else have they been? I wonder.

Portside, facing the shore, he leaned on the deck rail and looked through his binoculars, carefully focused the lenses on each eyepiece. Rain was coming down like a light cool blanket. Evening silence had settled on the ship: there was no noise from the deck or the galley. The sea was calm below and barely made a splash as it moved against the hull. He was ready to go.

He opened the storeroom door behind him, careful that the rusty door did not make a sound. Faint light poured through the porthole. Inside, he saw the inflated rubber boat. Next to the boat was a long grey canvas bag with a thick strap and a zipper that ran its length. It appeared white in the light. Two coils of rope lay on the damp floor. Looped at the end of one rope were two oars.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. He jumped and turned around. There was Andre, his teeth flashing in the moonlight as he smiled. They embraced, said nothing, but exchanged signs in the dim light. Together, they tied the rope to the end of the rubber boat and lowered it over the side of the ship, feeling the slack as the boat reached the sea. Andre tied the rope to the ship railing and then helped him climb over the side.

He slid down the rope, breaking his descent, as he had learned, with the rope wrapped around one leg and between his boots. He reached the boat, sat and steadied himself. The waves were larger than he had anticipated. Then it seemed like an hour, but it was less than a minute before his bag and the oars appeared before him, dangling from the second rope. No one else about, just the figure of Andre, still dressed in his cook’s apron and wearing his white cap, waving from above. He waved back, not knowing if Andre could see him below.

He untied both ropes, first the one attached to his bag and the oars, then he untied the knot holding the rope to the boat. He held the rope for a moment, felt his stomach tighten, and held back the urge to vomit. He inhaled deeply, tugged the two ropes, and they disappeared quickly above him into the dark heaven on the deck above. A wave embraced then carried the small boat away from the ship in a sudden rush.

His fear turned into a surge of energy and excitement. He grabbed the oars and placed them securely into the gunnels and began to row. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw the lights from the town in the distance. He faced the ship, which looked immense. On the bridge, he could barely make out the figure of the skipper holding his coffee cup and gazing somewhere out to sea. Just below the bridge, still standing on the lower deck, stood Andre, waving his apron.

He would have waved back, but his hands were frozen to the oars now. Shoulders pulling. His back into each stroke. The rain cooled his face. He rowed steady, remembering that he needed to be patient. The distance was at least one mile. Use the ship, the town lights to his left, and now…yes, now he saw it, the lighthouse slightly behind his right shoulder. He constantly checked his position and often corrected his direction. He felt himself making headway, but the ship still looked like a tall building above him with its few lights steady, a great black wall as he bobbed up, down and sideways. A fleeting feeling of desperation, but then he remembered a similar sensation off the coast of Lebanon. Images of that night surrounded him.

He rowed on.

“Jerry, it’s getting late and I’m wet, Love”.

“It’s Saturday night, Mum. No school tomorrow. We’ll have plenty of time to sleep. I’ll get you up at eight. Look at all those ships out there tonight, Mum. Just sitting there, still.”

Janet held an umbrella over them. Jerry stood there eating the remnants of his chips from a crisp white bag. They both stared out to sea, leaning on the railing at the promenade. The arcade lights behind them washed out the stars above but illuminated a portion of the beach leading to the sea. They stood silently for a time as the light rain drifted beneath the umbrella and onto their faces. It was cool tonight, for being late April.

“C’mon you. Time to get home. We don’t want Granny and Bart having to deal with you being tired tomorrow, Mate”.

They walked and the arcade lights began to fade behind them. To their street. Past a few of the shops. Up a side entrance, next to the hair salon, two floors up.

He checked his watch, but could not see the dial or the hands. Andre promised him that this was a good wristwatch with hands that would glow bright. But despite the dark sea, the cloudy moonlit sky, and darker even shadow of his ship, he could not make out the time. It must be around one in the morning. He must have been rowing at least an hour he estimated, but it felt much longer.

Then, behind him, he heard waves crashing. He stopped and turned around to see white waves in the distance. He no longer saw the town lights, and the intermittent pulsing beam of the lighthouse was now no longer in sight. He thought that he must keep rowing to the sound of the waves. He quickened his pace. Then grew exhausted and rested a few moments. His boat stopped suddenly and he fell backwards toward the bow. A dark wall. How tall?

He knelt in the boat and held himself against the wall, looking to his left then right. The street lights above gave some light and his eyes adjusted after having stared into the darkness all that time. To his right, he saw that the wall ended about fifty feet away. He rowed again, this time on his knees with one paddle, one side then the other. Every few feet, he touched the wet slippery wall to keep himself from crashing into it. The waves were gentle now. Almost there. Then he turned the corner.

The wall now led, on his left side, directly to shore. The beach was in sight now, a light grey. He rowed slowly, and looked out to sea across the stern. There were more than ten boats out there. Which one was his, he thought? Was Andre out there, still standing on the deck? He smiled to himself and then began to cry. He was ashore.

Janet lay awake. She heard the television through the wall. Her neighbours were old and the volume seemed always an issue. She thought about the day. A busy Saturday: 28 customers times 4 equals 112. Minus 12, 100, plus 3, 103. Train tomorrow around nine, in Victoria before 11, Hammersmith, 30 minutes. Ten minute walk to Granny’s. Tea, chat, straighten up, do Granny’s hair, to the pub around 4, walk to the tube station, Victoria by seven-ish, Margate around 9, stop at the shop, home before ten. Tomorrow stretched before her like a long string of glistening pearls, each an event, some brighter than others.

She got out of bed, put on her green bathrobe, shut the door to Jerry’s room, turned on the blue lamp at her desk by the window, and filled the kettle. The noisy kettle. Her tall blue cup, one tea bag, three sugars, two Hob Nobs on a plate. Radio 2 on low.

The kettle bubbled, hissed and finally ended its thunderous drama with a click. She poured the steamy water into the cup and let it darken. No milk. Damn. Forgot. Reaching up into the cupboard, she rummaged blind behind tins and jars and found the powdered creamer. Hasn’t been opened for a year. Like chalk. It should dissolve anyway. She stirred and stirred. Sips and burns her tongue. She cursed silently and danced across the floor. Try an ice cube or four.

She finally sat her chair and stared out the window, considering how everything seemed to be hard. Tedious. Repetitive. It would be nice to always have milk and the time to remember it.

He unzipped his bag and took out a knife from Andre’s kitchen. With it, he punctured the rubber boat. Looking at the walkway above, he checked to see if he was alone. He hurled the knife far out into the now calm sea and pushed the limp boat into the water. It looked so small now. Then he slung his bag over his shoulder and took up the two oars, one in each hand, and walked slowly up the nearby ramp to the promenade above. His legs were aching and for the first time he realized that he was soaked to the skin.

When he reached the prom, he turned right and began to walk quickly. He headed towards the dimmed town lights which glowed around the corner. Then a feeling of doubt. How far? He stopped at a bench which faced the sea and sat down, looking around at the houses. Hardly a light on. It seemed dark and too quiet. From his bag, he took out a small plastic bag containing a black notebook. He flipped to the middle of the book and took out a folded map. He couldn’t see it well. From his coat pocket, he took a black pen-like flash light, twisted its red filtered light on and held it in his teeth while he checked the map. Margate must be just around the corner.

With the light still in his teeth, he carefully folded the map and placed it in the same place in the notebook, slipped it back inside the plastic bag and secured it inside his coat. As he turned to zip up his bag, he noticed a brass plaque on the bench, centred on the back. He read the inscription: “In loving Memory of Dell and Bob. Granny, Grandad, Mum, Dad, Sister, Brother. 1973”. He turned off the light and stared for a moment back out to sea. Below, he gazed at the outline of a wall-enclosed pool-like area below to his right. He must have landed against the wall that faced the sea and followed the left wall to the beach.

_______________________

anticipating letters

Something is missing today in this time of email, texts, voicemail, and instant messaging. That sweet feeling in the pit of the stomach, checking the mailbox for a letter. Just mailed one this morning and it doesn’t matter if we criss-cross letters. Mine was about yesterday and class, the strange but delicious chili for lunch, how it put me to sleep in Electrical Engineering class but how I managed to pass the quiz, eight out of ten, tennis practice in the wind with leaves blowing in tornado cones on the courts, winning our match to be second doubles instead of third for the Cornell match on Saturday indoors, thankfully. Dinner then homework. There’s the smell of her letters and I usually take a moment to inhale it before I open it. The fragrance is like a lavender, mown grass version of placing my face into her hair and breathing as we walk on the beach. A few weeks ago, sand poured from an envelope, about teaspoon full. I carefully swept it from the floor, placing it in a folded piece of paper, a history quiz I bombed (forgettable on the Battle of Richmond) and now I have to remember to get a jar because I want more. There’s always the first quick read, for news, but usually because it’s crazy around here with my roommates talking and carrying on as we do. I often carry the letter in my hat to the messhall and read it during my second cup of coffee after dinner when everyone else scurries back to quarters to study and shine shoes. It’s then, on this long reading, this careful examination of handwriting and tone that I begin to compose my reply in the way of a sketch. Then, I’ll go to my room, get my books for homework and head to my library desk on the third floor and concentrate for a few hours while the letter sits in my hat. I smell it from time to time, anticipating the time I can write. Maybe tonight, but probably tomorrow during the free period mid-afternoon. Remember to place this one with the others, tied with that bit of string we used to repair the sail on Labor Day weekend. It smells like the sea, still.

____________________________________________________________________

connecting the dots Tue.10.Nov

Tues.10.Nov

Sx met F today at lunch. Beautiful restaurant. Great food. Too bad I cannot use this it again. F seemed interested in the way Sx funded the venture in the beginning and felt such a foundation gives this a great deal of long-term flexibility. Sx appeared at ease and willing to discuss the history as well as the plans for at least five years out. F has the research underway, has fr two years and can easily continue to work from the University under his existing grants. Sx wishes to remain in the background and may contact us separately from time to time but I get the impression he and F will collaborate well. Lunch – delicious. We shared three dishes: fish, vegetables grilled and the sweet potato risotto – must try to cook this on Sunday. F invited me to dinner. Sx returned to the tower around 3 and called me with his cell number, so I’ll pass it to you. Will include this in a letter. F was gracious and funny. We met around 7:30 at my hotel. Drinks. Then to a place near the Italian Market. Nice to relax and get to know him. He made a few overtures, holding hands, emphasizing a point touching my arm, holding the door, his hand on my back. We kissed at my hotel at the elevator. I didn’t invite him up but it would have been easy, really. Sleep. Sx has a few questions. Two of the three I answered, the third deserves consideration and not time-sensitive:

- to what extent should we [Sx that is] discuss the design…to what level of detail? He’s prepared to be specific if required.

We should probably hold back on details to allow time for better pricing and to ensure we don’t stifle any ideas from the others as we go along. Strong and intelligent personalities. Certainly the former, hopefully both. F meeting M and Qz on Thursday. Include diagrams with letter.

________________________________________________________________

connecting the dots Sun.8.Nov

Sun.8.Nov

I received his text on Tuesday with the idea and he called me on Wednesday afternoon. We met for coffee at that place on 10^th Street. He was late. That’s when I called “Eg” and we talked briefly. Not sure if I’m ready for all of this travel each week. He’s planned meetings over the next month, given me a credit card for all expenses and sent me a short concept paper, handwritten, in the mail. Received it yesterday, and thought this would e a good day, a quiet rainy Sunday, to just think about this a while, do some writing, and attempt to connect some of the dots or at least identify the dots. This will be a change for me really; no laptop, a cell but just for voice calls. Al of this in handwriting, via the mail. Notes. I’ll need to channel my head back to the early 80s. So, he set some rules:

- No emails

- No blogging or social network writing

- Cell is OK for voice only

- Journal, handwritten, not just OK but required

- Letters to his 11^th street office as often as I wish. Handwritten. Return address to be the Portland Office

I was just looking for the letter again and it’s now folded neatly in the back flap of this “Moleskine” journal book. Office spaces for me in Washington, Philadelphia, Kansas City, Portland and Paris. We’re stayng away from London apparently. Too many competitors. So, this is a series of introductions. He wants to get people talking to see what happens. Leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow. Meeting on Tuesday, a luncheon. Just a few things to do:

- travel Monday – Sat, Philly

- Hotel Monday – Sat near Wash. Square.

- Lunch, place and time, for 3

- Office Loc. 2^nd and Walnut

Simple. Check webmail at the office and stay in touch with Mom that way. Everything stays in this book, secure each one with him as I finish them. Do not send this through the mail. Notes are OK for meetings. Transpose them here or mail them to him. Keep it simple and concentrate upon the people.

_________________________________________________________________

conscience matter

You’ve read about our affair. They published his journals a few years ago. I am who he called M. This isn’t meant to tell any deep secrets. You may have some questions and I’ll be happy to take those when I finish this.

We met while he was recovering from back surgery as you know. The day felt dark and at noon the rain continued to pour after six hours. His room was lit only by his reading lamp as he sat up in bed. I brought him lunch and we talked about how he was faring, his pain, and the books he was reading at the time.

You know the rest. In my mind, I keep a calendar of that month of May. It feels like each of those days is souvenir in a magical box of memory. Sometimes I lift the lid, peer inside and take one to hold for a while. Still have my letters from him and my journal. The talks we had on the phone.

My husband and my children know about all of this of course. Have they read the letters and my journal? No. I have discussed it with them a few times. A few journalists have found me and asked for interviews but I haven’t given one. His biographer called me and we spoke for a time, but I feel he just wanted to know that I really existed somewhere as if that was enough for now.

So, I do exist and I am real and I am here before you, talking, flesh and blood, a bit embarrassed and wondering what I should say. I have a speech here, written. It took me a few weeks to write and I rewrote it many times and now I find that it doesn’t feel what’s coming forth in my brain at this moment. So, I’ll set this aside for you to read later, and for now just talk.

You must be interested in this because it must weigh upon your minds and upon your calling here. You are all human beings with compassion and doubt. You may have loved someone before coming here. You may dream of romantic love. You each have your story and your journey.

I am not here to apologize for him or defend his name. That’s not really needed because there’s so much that he wrote that shows us what he thought and the many ways he thought about things. All those questions. The way he would ramble on about things, talking fast, that joy in his voice when he was telling you a story or trying to explain things. Thinking out loud.

You have all read more about him than I have. You’ve probably listened to recordings of his talks, read his poetry. So what can I add to his story? I can only add mine to it and his story is forever attached to mine. You can’t forget something like that.

This is the manuscript for something I call “Conscience Matter”. It’s more like a series of sketches from that time as I remember and imagine them. We used the protection of “Conscience Matter” in a way of course not intended and for that I’m somewhat regretful. But at the time, being in love, it didn’t matter to us really.

The world feels very confusing to me at times these days. We have so many ways to communicate and learn things from so many places and sources. We can connect with people from all over the world instantly. Write things and have them appear to someone in an instant. So one thing I’d like to relate to you is the feeling of anticipation and how that felt at the time.

My work days were busy then. Twelve hour shifts sometimes longer if needed. Besides my ward duties, I had to study a great deal. Between studying, being on the ward, sleeping, eating, and reading, that was my day really. I had a small room that was quiet with two windows facing some trees.

I waited for his calls. He knew my shift schedule. I made sure of that. I would sit and watch the phone, not in a nervous way, but more in a longing way of wanting to hear his voice. So, in a way, with all that’s been written, you can pinpoint the events: the calls, the letters, the times we met. But what I remember with happiness are those blank spaces. The times of thinking and remembering, imagining our next meeting, and more often just the present moment of that feeling of love and tenderness.

Yet, here I am talking about memory. And you there, listening, some of you taking notes, waiting for my next word. I am making myself nervous, sorry. Felt myself drift back there just then. That’s really what I’m trying to explain. The drifting.

The in between times I filled with work and writing to him. You don’t have those letters because he burned them before he traveled to the Far East. But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it? It makes me wonder. Makes me sad sometimes that I cannot remember what I wrote. I remember the ideas and the emotions. But all those words. So let’s agree that we’d all like to reread those letters. But we cannot.

I have all of his letters and someday, you’ll see them. But not now. What did he write? How explicit was his writing? How romantic? You’ve gotten to know him by reading him. You can imagine. Let your imaginations fly and simply use the adjective of “very” next to each answer you imagine.

He could be subtle and very brash. Questioning himself and yet confident upon the next page. Erotic and then painfully aware of who he was. He wrestled with himself a great deal from what I saw in him. He wrestled with things inside of himself. He wrestled with his existence, the things around him, the people he met. Not in a fighting sense, but you know he enjoyed a good debate, right? And from his writing you see how he wrestled with ideas.

Maybe the word wrestle is not the right word for you, but that’s what I felt from him; struggle, tension, but at the same time he appeared to me to be motivated by a search for peace. A peaceful way for himself. Reconciled in the way he lived there alone. He enjoyed being alone, I think. I enjoyed being alone.

I enjoy time to think and write, read and listen to music. My husband’s dealt with this patiently for years. I have my own room for study and quiet. Like a refuge from the day to day things. Not a cave or hideout, but a place that’s my place. For me that’s important. Even then, being really away from home for the first time, working at a real hospital, studying, on my own, I was never really lonely. A few times, I felt sorry for myself when we couldn’t be together, but that was temporary.

Being alone felt very free to me. It’s not just the independence, but to me it was more a sense of feeling the freedom of thinking and the beauty of the quiet, the lack of distractions. He was like that as well. We talked often about that happiness that comes with being alone and the chance to know ourselves and feel comfortable in our own skin as people sometimes say.

I was young at the time we met, twenty-five that Spring and I felt beautiful. He thought so, too. Here’s a picture of us then at the picnic on May 7. And here I am with a friend; we’re in our nurses uniforms all crisp and starched, ready to save the world. My hair was longer then. I am happy you’re laughing about that picture. Do you see the smiles on our faces? I‘ll leave that picture up on the screen for a while to make this a bit more real for us.

That picture can be distracting for me but I’ll let it distract you from my boring talk here. Comfortable in our own skin. At peace. Not quite confidence, but rather a confidence together. For me, I felt complete with him. He filled what was missing in my life. What was missing for me? Tenderness, someone to listen to what I really felt about life, and someone who treasured me and what I wanted to give.

But let me just say, that I was not unhappy before I met him. I felt very happy with my life, my family and friends. I was not lonely because as I said before I relished that time to myself. He seemed happy to me, too. Full of life and ideas. He wrestled a great deal with life’s questions but it didn’t feel to me that he transferred any of that tension to me.

What he transferred, gave to me was kindness, care, and genuine love. That’s a big word, love. So small, just four letters. But we shared all the aspects of love in spite of the distance and the lives we had to lead. Yes, there was a beautiful physical aspect to our love and that has a graphic, visual quality that I suppose you can film and recreate with music in the background. People may want to see that, I’m sure.

But there was that lovemaking of the mind, the thoughts, which to me were more erotic and sensual than any kiss or embrace we shared. I mean that. It’s this essence of thought. That begins to explain what I mean as anticipation. What feelings do we have when we look forward to something, seeing someone?

Inside that space of time alone, I would deliberately place myself in a state of mind to remember and to daydream. I had a radio but no television in my room. Placing the radio on low, I listened to classical music sometimes. Then I would think of him and try to actually see what he was doing. Throughout the day, I could follow him. He mentioned often in letters and conversations what his day was like.

After a while, I knew when he would call and I would be sure to be in my room then. I knew that he had to be careful when he called. It often sounded as if he found the circumstances exciting and I remember a few times we laughed together comparing ourselves to teenagers. Te phone calls meant a great deal to me. We calmed each other and listened.

He always listened to my rambles and worries. I missed him very much and wanted to see him more often. I tried not to make him feel badly or pressured. It was hard at times to catch up on the phone. For me, it took about ten minutes to relax and feel connected with him again. Sometimes that bothered me because I wanted to be more spontaneous. The anticipation always wrapped around me like a cool exciting breeze.

I wrote him every day, sometimes twice, and mailed the letters to the office with “Conscience Matter” printed on the back of the envelope and I remember using an extra piece of writing paper to fold around my letters to prevent anyone from holding it up in the light and peering inside. Sometimes he used these extra sheets of paper in his own letters.

In the beginning I would rewrite things to make sure I said things well. He being a writer, I was self-conscious about my writing. But soon, that changed and I just would relax at my desk, clear my mind and just be with him in words. Rereading his letters, I would try to respond to what he said, and those things he asked about my days. Sometimes the phone calls and the letters blended and I would have to remember what we said and wrote. My journal filled during those days. Surprisingly my studies went well, I think because of the focus I had upon him and his encouragement.

So, you must wonder about how this changed him. I wonder about that too. It changed me. The intense longing and desire, the mental and physical awakenings took me places I had never felt before. And with each day, even being apart as we were, those feelings seemed to become stronger and truthfully this became exhausting sometimes.

Too feel that intensely takes a great deal of energy, I believe. I remember sleeping very well and then having these periods where I’d sleep only three hours a night. My mind felt like it was on fire. Because of that energy and emotion, I can remember a great deal about that month in particular. And because in my heart I knew that we would never be together, my record of the time, my journal, became like a sketchbook that never left my side. Today, I’m happy for that.

I’m happy that we’re here talking about this. It’s awkward for some of you because you think of him as a spiritual man. It’s definitely something that will stir up resentment in the church. I agree that we should remember him in certain ways and because of his body of work, all those writings, lectures, notes, journals, we have such a rich picture of him.

What is missing are my letters and for the time being his letters to me. I’ll be very clear with you today. His writing, even now seems very descriptive, poetic and sexual. He wrote poems to me. You have some of those. He was very much a man and I know you want to know. I can see it in your eyes. How graphic do you want me to be? We were deeply in love and we did those things short of having intercourse that couples do to please one another. And it was beautiful to share that with him.

People may or may not want to hear my story about that time. I’m thinking now that this story I’ve written is just a love story. Nothing more than that. People will discuss the fact that this story only means something because he was a priest. I cannot fault people for seeing it that way. For me, I believe that because of who we were, particularly because of who he was as a person, his capacity for love and his knowledge of love was immense. He’s written about that.

_______________________________________________________________

striking resemblance to Sal Mineo

Four o’clock ad he was due to arrive in fifteen minutes maybe less as she could look up and see his window on the 8^th floor of the green-glassed building, just two blocks from this café. She texted him: can you see me? He replied: yes.

A pause and Sara ordered a white wine and some cashews. The woman at the table beside her got up to go, adjusting the things in her large straw handbag, the kind you purchase on a cruise and realize when you get it home that it’s much larger that you first thought but you use it anyway and take the occasional snide remark with a secret satisfaction of having made the cruise and had such a pleasant time. After she left, Sara noticed a paper bag on the table full of round objects.

He texted: having orange juice or just oranges? She replied: wine, white…get down here, please xxx The waiter came by to clean the table after the departed woman, saw the bag opened it and said, she left her oranges, four of them, want a couple? Sara said, sure and accepted two, big robust oranges the size of grapefruits.

He texted: you should have gotten three so you could juggle like a clown She read his text, smiled, and glanced up to see a dingy white van drive by with a clown driving. She texted: WTF! are you houdini? He relied: no, jesus christ.

A young man dressed in gray slacks a black t-shirt, black sandals, coffee skin, black shaggy hair, and bearing a striking resemblance to Sal Mineo sat at the table next to her, checked his phone and took a packet of cigarettes out of his slacks pocket and placed them and a gold lighter on the table. He ordered green tea and the fruit plate.

Sara said, excuse me, would you like an orange? Thanks, he said. Hi I’m Sara. J.C., do you live about? They shook hands and she handed him an orange which he began to peel. The waiter came with two small plates, one for each of them.

I live just there across the street, you? He had separated the juicy segments and arranged them on his plate. Mmmm…I don’t think there’s any seeds in this, try one. I live in Israel, here on business for a while. Such a lovely day, I decided to just walk around town today and work outside if you call this work.

Are you waiting for anyone?

My friend, Taylor, works in that building there, in fact bet he sees us talking right now. Come sit here, he won’t mind.

Thank you… He begain to peel her orange and add the segments to his plate. Smoke? Not usually. Help yourself, they’re French and potent but they smell rather nice. He lit one, took a drag and handed it to her to taste. Thanks. Strong, you’re right.

The waiter brought wine, cashews, green tea and fruit. Taylor came into view, crossing the street. Sara waved. J.C. stood. She hugged Taylor. This is J.C., J.C., Taylor. They shook hands…