Moonmadness

     Jon closed his eyes.

     He let himself remember sunlight and a vast field of grass, uneven as it wavered in soft, hot winds.  There was a tree, a stand alone tree at the edge of that field, older than anyone could remember, and at the foot of the tree were flowers, wildflowers of all sorts that had been seeded by the birds and nurtured in the relative cool of the shade.  Moss laid a velvet blanket in the shadows between the thick roots, and John recalled lying on that moss to look up through the tangle of branches above, where hints of clear blue sky teased.  He remembered the warmth of the air, the cool of the ground and the shy heat of Miranda’s lips on his.

        Jon smiled to himself.

        Nothing could compare to those lazy summer days when he and Miranda were at that tenuous period of life when they could run off from the never-ending litany of chores and steal time away. Too young for full responsibility on their family’s farms, yet too old for days of endless playing from sun up to sun down, they were just right for mornings of work and afternoons of leisure. Their friends and siblings would take off for town or swimming holes, or even the creek that meandered nearby to find some relief from the heat of the fields, but he and Miranda had found the tree and the flowers and each other.  Jon liked nothing better than to find her there, sitting cross-legged and weaving the stems of the wildflowers together into crowns and chains, her lap full of the picked blossoms.  He would settle beside her, head on one of the roots, reclining, and watch her through heavy-lidded eyes.  She was deft, her fingers, tanned brown, working the resistant stems just so, so the flowers presented themselves in the most attractive way.

       He liked the daisies best.

       He liked how the white was so bright it made Miranda’s tanned legs seem as dark as the tree trunk.  He liked it when she would settle a circlet of them on her head, on her dark, reddish-brown hair that tumbled in unruly waves over her bare shoulders, making a stark contrast that somehow, someway delighted him beyond all reckoning.  Mostly, though, he liked it when she would tickle his nose with a single flower when he had dozed off from the combination of summer heat and exhaustion from whatever he’d already spent his day doing, be it baling hay, mucking stalls, cleaning chicken or pig pens, or any other of the myriad tasks that might fall to him.  She would tease him until he opened his eyes, and then, only then, would she bend down and shroud him in her hair and press her soft, soft mouth to his.

       Jon’s smile broadened.

       He’d been shocked the first time she did it.  His eyes had flown open wide to see her face so close to his, the thick crescents of her eyelashes on her golden freckled cheeks like twin caterpillars, her lips pressed closed as they lingered on his mouth.  It was one of the few times in his life that he didn’t know what to do, so he had done nothing, waited until she lifted her head and hovered over him and opened her deep blue eyes with a silent question between her slightly furrowed brow.  He had smiled, a smile he knew, even in that moment, was simple and dazed, and she had smiled in return before she bent and did it again.  And again.  And again.

         After that, Miranda would always make him a chain of daisies as well, draping them around his neck, so that the scent of the flowers mingled with the scent of her sun baked skin until they became one in the same to him.

         Jon sighed.

         Neither of them ever discussed it, their meetings, or their kisses.  Outside of the realm of the tree they were simply Jon and Miranda, two of the many youngsters that lived in the farming community, undistinguishable from the others in any way.  When they met up in groups to go to a movie, or saw each other at the bowling alley, or on any other of the typical excursions afforded them, they barely acknowledged each other with more than a ‘hi’, if at all.  Only, sometimes, their eyes would meet over the heads of the younger children they were corralling, or across a room, and they would tilt their heads and grin, sharing, knowing, that tomorrow and the next day, and the next, there would be the tall grass and the tree and the flowers waiting for them.

        It was a long summer, lasting well past the school year, and when they could Jon and Miranda would steal away to the tree and watch as the leaves turned from green to red to gold.  Miranda eventually taught Jon how to make a simple chain of flowers himself.  The relentless blue sky shown through the branches more boldly and the hot wind cooled.  The last of the flowers withered, leaving only the hardier daisies, and Jon could recall with perfect clarity the day Miranda laid the last chain on his shoulders and kissed him differently, harder, to make it last through the coming cold season.  To make it last until they could steal away again.

        Jon opened his eyes and turned his head.

        The dark, reddish-brown hair he knew well had crept across the pillows like it always did.  He buried his face into the loose tendrils and breathed deeply.  Wild flowers and sunlight.  Miranda woke, and turned to him, her smile the same, her face unchanged in his eyes.  He cupped her cheek, saw the girl she had been along with the woman she was and smiled as she bent over him, shrouded him in her hair and pressed her lips to his; exciting, familiar, the past, the present, the future all twined together like the fragile flowers of their childhood.

       Jon closed his eyes and smiled to himself.  He would bring her daisies today.

          They came together to dance.

          The air was heavy with mist in the clearing amid the pines.  Aspen trees showed eerie white where they circled the uneven glen, sentinels to the singular occasion.  It happened infrequently, the only witnesses the hawks and eagles and owls in the top most branches of the ancient trees and the smaller forest creatures that peeked from the shelter of low brush and tall grass.  Little by little the mist dissipated, spreading itself thin over the soft mossy ground as the full moon rose up, up, up above, breaking through the clouds and clearing the sky.  The air quivered electric.  A wind rose high, swirling, making music of it’s own in the branches and the moon illuminated everything.

             The doe arrived first, as white as the moon, moving with grace, head high, neck arched, sniffing the air for her companion.  The buck soon followed from the opposite direction, his dark, black coat blending into the surroundings, proud, handsome, and fearless as he moved into the surround of light.  They approached each other slowly, edging through the accumulation of pine needles and leaves that carpeted the edges of the space leaving only small sounds in their wake.  Slowly, they moved forward toward each other and the mist rose up once again in a swift swirling eddy to hide them for a moment.  When it fell away, pooling at their feet, they stood there, face to face, shed of their animal skins, without their disguises and defenses.  Both souls tilted their heads to the sky, inhaling the air around them, still sensing their surroundings, yet defining their environment, before faces lowered and lips met.

             The air around them sighed.

             Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, they began what they came to do, circling together to the voiceless tune played by the trees.  A sway, a turn, heel and toe, their hands, familiar but alien, met and touched, traveled up arms to hold and steady themselves as they moved.  Toes tender from disuse luxuriated in the moss beneath them, tickled each other as feet overlapped.  And they smiled, their different dark eyes locked onto each other’s, unblinking; admiring; longing.  Their time was finite and fragile, a thing so precious that it couldn’t be wasted on remembering when they had been together last, but was to be savored in the here and now.

             And they danced.

             They moved and trembled to their own music, to the music of the glen and the trees and the wildlife around them, to the crickets that lent their particular cadence.  They pressed close, then moved apart, then pressed close yet again in their own rhythm, eyes locked, fingers twined, left and right.  She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, face against neck, breathing in the wild, human scent of him, so different from the feral perfume she knew.  He buried his face in the tangle of her hair, rubbing against the silk of it, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of flowers and female.  There was knowing in their gestures: fluency, fluidity.  He cupped her face, cradled her head as they both looked to the sky once more and he saw the reflection of the moon in her eyes, fell in love with her all over again as he did every time they met in the protection of the glen under the auspices of the moon, where they could be their true selves and not the selves imposed on them.  She looked up at him and smiled, then laughed, a sound that echoed off the mist and trees, a sound that superseded the music of nature, a sound that made him laugh with her.

              Joy, light as air, sprang up around them in its myriad forms.  Amorphous, amorous, it scampered and slid about their ankles, bit at their heels with soft, baby nips that compelled them dance faster, to bend and dip and swirl with abandon.  On and on it went, a tango, a waltz, a dance exclusive to only to them, and as they spun and dived and leaned and bent, the mist mingled with the joy until all of it became oneness, a single thing, unique and unparalleled, until it overwhelmed itself and burst into a thousand bits of light, shattering throughout the glen, bursting upward, outward, in all directions to coat the moss and the sky and the trees surrounding.

              Gently, they settled, parted, backed away from each other; one hand each caressing the arm of the other until only the tips of their fingers touched and a spark, small but strong, ignited and lit the glen once more before the mist returned to cover them, to cover the moon.

               The air sighed around them.

               When the mist dissolved, dissipated, the doe and the buck stood together on the mossy grass, heads inclined, her neck low, his neck bent over hers in protection.  The sounds of the night rose up slowly once again, insinuating itself into their very breath, blanketing them as they shivered back into their feral selves.  They stood together, side by side, desperately close in the light of the brilliant moon and awaited the dawn.

               Only the crickets saw them smile.

He packed his things while it was still dark, before the sun was even a suggestion in the sky.  The early hour still held the summer heat, but there was a hint of cool air skimming the ground that presaged autumn.  It was time to leave.

 Jude lifted his straw pinch-front and repositioned it on his head.  In a month, this hat would offer no protection where he was going, it would simply be fashion.  Today, though, he was a cowboy still, getting ready to ride off into the sunrise.  When he thought about it, it made no sense, so he declined to think about it.  He was just doing it, doing what he needed to do, leaving everything and everyone he knew behind in a cloud of Kansas dust to try to carve out something more than the life he had here.  No one understood why he was leaving the security of his job, of being rooted and home-grown, he just was.  Jude simply knew it was what he had to do.

 He looked out across the flatlands that went on for miles and caught an insinuation of dawn, a streak of purple where there had been black.  If he could have seen himself, he would have seen that his mouth was drawn into the same thin, determined line as the horizon, that the furrow between his eyes was deepening beyond his years.  As familiar and beautiful the fields and plains were, as content as he could make himself with his small fêtes and victories in this place, it wasn’t enough.  It had never been enough.

 There was something inside Jude that itched just below the surface of his skin.  It wore at him daily, made him more impatient with his job as a teacher, with his students, who weren’t all that much older than himself.  He saw them come and go, come and go, while he stayed just where he was; nothing changed for him, and he had begun to feel the pressure of time.  Perhaps it was because so many things had come to him so quickly it had warped his sensibilities, for he was far from old, far from middle-aged, closer to youth than not.  He’d been the ‘youngest’ this and the ‘first’ at that, and the ‘only’ to achieve so very many things.  At the same time he’d always been discontent with himself and had a hair-trigger temper that often worked directly against all that he wanted to accomplish.  And there was the other thing, the look in his eyes that needed to search and seek out that which was new and different.  These plains may have birthed him, but his soul screamed for more.

 Jude placed the last of his few bags into the back of his battered pick-up where they buffered his most prized possessions, a small collection of guitars and sundry instruments that were his pride and joy, his stock in trade, his tools that helped to build his life, and then he closed the tailgate and secured the cap.  He turned from the truck to the house, dark and silent before him.  All the goodbyes had been said the evening before.  Mother, father, brothers, they had been supportive, happy for him, hopeful for him, yet they had shared glances between themselves, shaken their heads ever so slightly, shown their doubts in subtle ways that Jude had been keenly aware of.  He was glad they were all asleep, that they weren’t there to see him off, because they had planted their doubts inside his head alongside his own, larger, more significant doubts, creating a tangled garden there that might have changed his mind, but there could be no turning back now.  It would be breaking a promise to himself.  Worse, it would ruin him, for he knew deep within he would lose the opportunity to soar on his own for good and for all.  With that thought, his mother slipped silently out the back door, careful to not let the screen door slam.

 They said nothing to each other for a prolonged moment, just stood and looked past the darkness into each other.  Jude was small, like she was, unlike his father and brothers who were taller, stockier and homespun.  He had her more wiry strength, whipcord arms and legs that could endure more than most that held harder, closer, faster, without reservation when they chose to hold.  And he was darker, like she was, inside and out, with chestnut hair and eyes to match, but turned all shades of brown and red and gold when their emotions were engaged.  Jude had her spirit, her curiosity, her desire to truly live life, and her romantic, passionate nature, but he also had her ability to hide it all, to swallow himself whole so that nothing and no one could touch him.  It was only at this moment, while they stared through the darkness at each other that he recognized himself in her, and her in him, and that if he stayed here that strong life force inside of him that was her legacy would end up cramped and drained the way it was in her.

 She embraced him without a sound and Jude knew what it was like, then, to be held close in order to be let go.

 “You drive safe,” she told him, her voice barely a whisper.  It wasn’t her words but her small, fine hands on his forearms that spoke volumes.  They’d had their differences, he and she, their arguments, their stubbornness, their tempers that flared causing friction between them that often escalated to slamming doors and stalking exits.  There had been times when they hadn’t communicated at all for long periods of time.  But there was always love, always forgiveness between them, and here, now, that’s all there was.

 She removed her hands and Jude felt the lack.

 She slipped her fingers into the pocket of her robe and took out a handful of bills, crisp and new and tightly folded together, pressing them into his palm.  Jude tried to give them back, almost ashamed at her gesture, at her generosity, for there was never extra in their house, only less.  She was adamant, though, and forced the money into his hand.

 “It’s mine,” she said, and her other hand, her empty hand, reached up and cupped his cheek.  “This is mine, and I can do with it as I like.  Take it, and go.  Go now.  Go.”  She leaned into him and kissed his mouth, something he couldn’t remember her doing since he was a small child and was eager for her company and closeness.  Her lips were chilly, then warmed as they lingered for only a second.  “Go,” she whispered against his mouth.  “Please, Jude, go now.”  With that she quickly turned and went back into the house, as silently as she had come out of it, as if she had never come out at all.

 Jude looked at the money in his hand for a long moment, and then stuffed it into his back pocket.  He tugged on the tailgate of his old truck, a reflex he didn’t acknowledge, and got into the cab, turned the key and drove the truck around in a wide arc.  As he passed the back door he saw her from behind the screen, a shadow that raised a hand and waved him off.  He slowed, stopped, and raised his own hand; found he could smile even as tears made themselves thick in his throat.  And even though he couldn’t see it clearly, he clearly understood, utterly knew, that she was smiling too as he rode off into the sunrise, and that she was, and would always be, riding with him.

Jonas lived at the edge of the woods, where the foot of the mountains met the expanse of the valley.  It was a small cabin he lived in; just big enough for his needs and comfort.  Nothing more than a room or two, for he lived alone.  There was a barn, as well, where he kept a horse and parked a jeep, for his sole joy was riding over the plains and in the canyons.  Once a week he traveled by car into the nearby town to gather provisions and call his daughters, who lived different lives, far, far away from his mountains and valleys.

  He loved his daughters, but they didn’t understand him.  They didn’t understand his need for solitude.  They didn’t understand his loneliness.  Their own lives barely intersected each other’s, for they weren’t related by blood, but by love, and not even their own love, but his love for them and for the separate women who had birthed them.  Jonas didn’t think about that much, about the chasm between the two of them, or of the fragile bridges that held them together, but he did think of them often on his solitary rambles.  He thought of Mariah, his youngest, his natural child who was him all over again in all ways but looks, for where he was small and slim, she was tall and voluptuous.  She was gifted and wonderful, full of life, full of music, perhaps the best part of him and a true reflection of the younger man he once was.  He thought of Sophia, his child by choice, older than Mariah, a gentle woman of unfathomable compassion who had captured his heart as sure as her mother had.  And every day, every single day he thought of Sophia’s mother, the wife who had been no wife, but who had been his life, his mate, his true other half.  He no longer thought of her by name, it hurt too much; instead he saw her in every tree, every bird, every autumn leaf, every sun beam and drop of rain.  He missed that woman, and had left their life when she had left hers as unexpectedly as she had entered it.  Jonas loved his daughters, but they didn’t understand his grief, or how it consumed him completely; how everything in his old life was a painful reminder that he was alone and that it was easier to be here, where he was, then there, where she, that miracle that she had been, wasn’t.

 Jonas looked out the window and saw that the sky was curdling with clouds.  Snow was coming.  He gave a cursory glance around the room, assessed his needs, his lacks, and sighed.  He squashed his battered hat on his head, shrugged on his coat and went to the barn for his jeep.

 The ride into town was beautiful, the road winding up and down through a narrow pass that always gave the illusion of night on the brightest days, the high stone walls a luminous blue.  The town was small, nothing more than an outpost really, with a grocery, and post office, and a feed-come-general store.  If he needed anything beyond the bare necessities, Jonas had to travel miles from this small hamlet, over mountains and into the next valley where there was a proper city.  He didn’t do that often.

 Jonas gathered his needs, food, fodder, a few pairs of warm socks to replace some that had worn through.  He smiled and nodded and tipped his hat when required, spoke few words and made quick work of his excursion.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like the people who lived there; it was simply that he no longer wanted the company of people.  He didn’t want conversation and discourse, or to discuss the affairs of the day.  He wanted to be in his cabin or with his horse, riding.  For a moment, he considered calling his daughters, but rejected that thought.  It wasn’t his usual day; they would become concerned and they were concerned enough already.

 The snow came.

 It dusted the ground at first, and then put a proper coating on the valley.  By the time it began to accumulate, Jonas was back in his cabin, safe and snug.  He banked a fire in the ancient but serviceable stove, banked another in the cozy fireplace, made himself a fried egg and a pot of coffee and settled in.  He read, for his only indulgence was books that lined the walls of the cabin like an extra layer of insulation.  Bundled in an old saddle blanket he sat in his comfortable chair and read until he fell asleep, waking when a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the glass in the windows.

 He got up and added a few sticks to the fire in the stove and the one in the hearth, before looking out into the darkness.

 She was in the window, smiling at him.  Jonas felt sharpness in his chest.  Her hair blew around her face just the way he remembered it, in long, white waves that mingled with the snow; that seemed a part of the snow.  He smiled back at her, remembering how she struggled with those long tendrils, remembering how she hated the way it knotted, remembering how he loved to tangle himself in it.  A sound bubbled from his lips, her name, whispered, and the vision of her dissolved into the storm.  Jonas realized that he was standing barefoot on the cold wooden floor.  He glanced at his feet wondering where his socks had gone to, and then noticing them on the floor near his boots where he had removed them, to what purpose he couldn’t recall.  His eyes went back to the window and all he saw was his own reflection, the narrow, thin face with his own length of white hair pulled back in a severe braid, the whole of this portrait surrounded by frost etchings.

 When Jonas slipped into his bed, he noticed that his cheeks were wet and that his hands trembled.  He noticed that his hands were old.

 The following morning Jonas woke to a distinct hush.  One look at the windows told him the reason, for the storm continued to rage outside and the snow was thick on the ground.  He pulled on his heavy coat, wrapped a scarf around his face and made his way to the barn to check on his horse, then made his way back, frozen to the bone.  There would be no ride that day, perhaps not tomorrow from the looks of things.  He settled in, stoked the fires, heated some soup, and huddled into his chair where it was warm with his current book.  He dozed throughout the day into the night, never setting foot out into the storm.

 Jonas dreamed.

 He dreamed of the past, of the women that had shared his life; the one he had left and the one who had left him.  He dreamed of happiness taken, given and lost.  He dreamed of the vision in the window, of the woman who had never formally been his wife, for she refused him time and again with the offer of his name, preferring that her presence in his life on a daily basis serve as validation enough of her love for him.  And when he woke in the middle of the night, with the embers casting long shadows on the walls, she was there again, a pale face in the frosted window, smiling her familiar smile.  Jonas drew himself up, let the blankets fall back and stared at her, at the well-known lines of her face.  Her eyes were tender, kind, and created a longing in him that made him shrink back under the heavy blankets and squeeze his eyes shut while he again, allowed her name to slip out of his rigid mouth, and again, she disappeared into the snow.

 Jonas slept late into the day.  When he eventually pulled himself from bed it was as if he hadn’t slept at all.  His thoughts were heavy upon him as he ate a breakfast of bread and butter before venturing outside to see to his horse.

 The air was sharp when he left the cabin.  Each breath Jonas took seemed filled with ice crystals that burned his nose and made his eyes water.  Slowly, with deliberate precision, he began to shovel and tamp a path to the barn, every so often checking the sky that was still quilted with storm clouds that had yet to unleash themselves.  He thought that perhaps his work was for naught, that the careful rut he had made would only refill itself in quick order, but shook that thought off, for he enjoyed the strain of the work on its own.  Aching muscles helped to quiet his aching heart.

 His horse was fine, needing only the usual care, and again, Jonas was purposeful in his tending to the stall, to the trough, to the watering of his lone companion.  He took the time to curry the stallion, brushing him with great care until his coat was smoothed and the horse was calm.  Then he left the barn and stood outside again in the frigid air, taking deep breaths and wondering if he might ride out tomorrow, that thought interrupted by a fresh gust of flakes that dropped down on his upturned face.  No.  Not today, not tomorrow.  It seemed that the true winter had arrived unexpectedly early and he would have to adjust and adapt his days to the new rhythm.  Jonas secured the barn door, touched the rough wood with his gloved hand before making his way back to the cabin.

 He wasn’t hungry, although he thought he should be.  Instead, he ran a bath, the only convenience he allowed himself because he had always liked to soak in hot water, and today he wanted to soothe his back, soothe his head that seemed heavy with fatigue.  Jonas sat in his tub, chin deep and let his mind drift with the steam.  She had liked the water, too, hot, warm, cool, all kinds.  They had shared that, the love of soaking.  They had often shared a tub, or the shower.  He could recall her hair, long, dark before it had shot through with silver and eventually whitened completely, he could recall it drifting around them in the tub, tangling with his own overlong hair that she refused to let him cut.  The pang in his chest returned, heavy, relentless as the first day it took up residence; the day she left him.  It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a purposeful leave taking, that it was, in fact, a reluctant goodbye, a veritable battle that the both of them had waged until it was hopeless.  Hopeless.  Jonas had felt hopeless ever since.

 The water cooled and he finished his bathing, showered off the residue of the bath and dressed himself in warm clothing.  He had the fires to tend to, and he forced himself to eat toasted bread and butter, a swallow of tepid soup, before settling in his chair with his blanket and book.  His eyes drooped; sleep came quickly and his dreams were vivid and sharp.

 He was young again, or younger, and they were together and he was happy.  He could see himself smiling, laughing out loud with her, and she laughed too, her eyes flashing.  They danced, she was always a little surprised that he danced, and danced well, but they danced and laughed and in his dream, Jonas felt the sun on his face and the warmth of her hands and a lightness he hadn’t felt in a decade.  On waking he heard the hush of snow all around him, and without looking, knew she was there, in the window.  He got up and approached the glass, saw his own reflection on top of hers and reached out, the tips of his fingers skimming the cold surface.

 His hand melted through the glass and the rest of him followed and she was there, again, there, warm and there was no coldness at all, for the snow melted away from them and they were young again, or younger, and they were together in the sun, dancing, as it had always been.

           His name was Jeremy, but everyone called him Jem.  Her name was Julia, but everyone called her Jules.  From the outside looking in, they were two people of extraordinary nature, both talented, with lively senses of humor and generous souls.  Friends enjoyed their company while strangers were compelled to stare at them and wonder who they were and if they might know them.  It wasn’t their physical beauty, for there was nothing of that nature to latch onto, it was an interior light in each of them that burned just below the surface of beauty that made them as appealing as candy apples on a crisp autumn day.

       From the inside looking out, though, Jem and Jules believed things to be quite different.  They were opposite sides of the same coin. One of them naturally introverted: the other extroverted.  One of them had survived a hard childhood; the other had been supremely contented in their youth.  One of them had survived a difficult transition into adulthood; the other had slipped through life fairly unscathed.  Yet each of them would have claimed the other’s sins and pain if asked, for Jem and Jules were extremely critical of themselves, and if they shared anything at all it was the curse of idealism combined with a quest for perfection.  Their own standards were so high they could never be met, therefore they were disappointments to themselves, self-proclaimed failures, neither of them able to grasp the happiness that even those closest to them assumed to be the foundation for their lives.  If anything, they rejected happiness and grasped at substitutes.

       Jem turned his misery inward.  He never presented as anything but a light heart to the people he met.  Sometimes there was anger, but it was a tooth gritting, grin-and-bear-it type of anger that often resulted in a walking away from the focus of his wrath so as to avoid physical confrontation, be it an object, a dog, or a person.  He claimed to prefer to be alone, but kept to crowds.  Jules projected her misery outward.  She gave, of her time, her money, herself, or any combination of the three.  She gave with a furrow and a frown, always wondering in the back of her mind what her giving would cost her, hoping that in giving people would be satisfied and eventually leave her alone.  Jules kept to herself, but always ended up amidst company.

        Mutual friends brought Jem and Jules into each other’s universes.  Friends who had been walked away from, friends who had been urged to abandon them, had remained loyal to the Jem and Jules, believed, in fact, that the two singles would make a rather good pair.  They sensed the similarities, knew the differences, and thought that two such exceptional people, the doer and the giver, would compliment each other.  A random meeting was planned after much thought and discussion above and around the two, carefully implemented, for both Jem and Jules were highly suspicious of the motivations of others, being highly suspicious of their own motivations.

        It was a delicate dance that they executed, the both of them tiptoeing around the edges of each other on first meeting.  Jem and Jules knew what the expectations of them were and tended to capitulate to please others.  This was too difficult, though, for their natural instincts sent up warning flares within an instant, threw up walls just seconds later and made for nothing more than an arena where polite conversation was made and tentative smiles exchanged.  No amount of gentle prodding, no amount of jovial coaxing, nothing, could breach their fortifications.  Frustration abounded within the convivial group, for the friends, so well-intentioned, felt their attempt had failed; Jem and Jules harbored their own dissatisfaction at not being able to please those friends who were well-intentioned, yet misguided.  Jem shook his internal head; it was an uncomfortable state of affairs.  Jules rolled her internal eyes; it was an unrealistic situation.  They smiled at one another, sensing the ridiculous of their mutual predicament and finding a certain amount of humor in it.  Jem shook his head outright, imperceptible to all but Jules, who shifted her eyes in something that might have been a roll and they laughed aloud.  A tiny tension eased.  The friends were mollified.  The two strangers relaxed as much as their natures allowed.  Conversation was simple, for Jem liked to talk, and Jules liked to listen.

       The meeting was not a complete failure by the standards of the friends, for they saw the smiles and laughter and talk as positive signs.  Perhaps?  Maybe?  Possibly?  As they all said their good-byes hope was kindled by a touching of hands and brushing of cheek against cheek.

       Jem went home, alone, teeth grinding behind a smile, feeling as if a little something inside him had come undone and desperate to knit it back into place.  Jules went home, alone, and plotted sweet revenge that would never come to fruition while she spackled an interior crack that had somehow come to light.  They slept soundly and had dreams they forgot on waking.  They threw themselves into doing and giving and the hectic paces of their lives, knowing, assured that they were still whole in their loneliness; comfortable in their misery.

        It was so much easier that way.  But…

       Sometimes Jem looked at his busy hands and remembered soft fingers.  Sometimes Jules touched her face and recalled a rough cheek.  Every time they pushed those thoughts away, knitted and spackled them up and went about their busyness.  But sometimes, when it was very late or very early, sometimes those thoughts came back to taunt and tease with a hint of cruel hope.  The friends resumed their plotting and planned yet more randomness.

       Jem and Jules wished that these friends understood.  Why couldn’t they understand that sometimes, most times, it was just too frightening to risk being happy?  Happiness was fleeting and slippery; something that slid and floated and gave them nothing to hold onto.  Loneliness was solid, rock solid and substantial.  It was easy to keep a grip on things when you were lonely and alone.  It was warm and familiar; simple.  Neither of them wanted the complications of happy, with the implicit knowledge that happiness, if embraced, eventually let you go.  Loneliness was a faithful companion.

       Still, they met again and again within the controlled randomness machined by their friends, thrust together unwillingly, unwittingly, until the discomfort of expectation grew to be the normal course of their lives.  They were the couple within the couples that weren’t a couple; the unpaired pair.  It was not of their choosing, but had been chosen for them, and they, willing to please yet unwilling to bend, grit and groaned and became used to each other as reluctant participants in a ballet they didn’t know the steps to.

       Sometimes, most times, though, there were hands and cheeks; such utterly cold politeness that kept Jem and Jules at bay.  Eventually, through no fault of their own, through the exercise of repetition, the fingers would linger and squeeze a fraction tighter, and the cheeks would press closer, perhaps with a slight hint of lips.  Once, Jem was sure that Jules might have breathed in his ear, felt the phantom illusion of heat against his cool skin and he quivered before he could stop himself, almost sure that Jules quivered, too.  Once, Jules was sure that Jem might have twined his fingers with hers, and tickled the palm of her hand, sending a tremor up her arm that she couldn’t stop, and Jules was almost sure that Jem trembled, too.

       Jem began to consider Jules.  Jules began to consider Jem.  Neither of them considered themselves, for they never considered themselves anything but unworthy of the considerations of others.  Wonder insinuated itself past the tightly woven shrouds and well spackled ramparts.  Internal heads shook with awe, internal eyes rolled with fear.  Perhaps?  Maybe?  Possibly?  Sometimes, when it was very late, or very early, Jem and Jules might shudder with the potential of change, of risk, of life actually touching them somewhere other than on their polite, cool surfaces.  Loneliness rebelled, sensing something was amiss.  Loneliness offered its firm, warm shoulder to Jem and Jules, reminding them of the precarious ways of a world-wide open, of the potential for disaster, or worse, the potential for happiness which could only ever be fleeting and singular and painful when it inevitably left.  But…

       Jem edged closer to Jules, a single, tentative step.  Jules edged closer to Jem, a toe’s length.  The friends retreated, looked away to allow the unraveling to transpire, to let the plaster crumble.  Fingertips touching fingertips, palm to palm, and loneliness screamed a warning that fell on deaf ears.  Cheek to cheek, rough on soft, and loneliness wept at the sway that began, the back and forth, as tentative tendrils of trust wove their way through the loosened fabric and cracked walls.  Jem held his breath, listened close, raised an eyebrow to Jules who listened closer to the silence of loneliness defeated.

       Jem bent and smiled, Jules inclined and grinned, and as hands held then released and cheeks slid in slow motion past each other there was only a moment, a fraction of hesitation when their lips shivered above and below with joy at the gamble of their kiss.

            Blind Henry sat in a tiny living room in the middle of Manhattan on a decrepit leatherette sofa.  He liked to greet his guests with a personal riddle.  “How do you like the art on my walls?” he would ask, and he would cackle at the hesitation and discomfort of people who didn’t know how to respond to the bare, white plaster pockmarked with nail holes.  For years he had done this for his own amusement, listening intently to understand the people who came and went from his apartment; their voices gave them away, spoke of loneliness or happiness or any number of emotions which Henry would categorize and save.

      Many people came and went from the apartment, for Henry, disinclined to being alone, had turned the handful of his small, cramped rooms into studio, stage and gallery.  There were times when the bare plaster was alive with paintings or drawing or all manner of artwork, or the stage was alive with music, and those were the times when Henry didn’t question his patrons, but welcomed them with cheap wine from plastic cups and a mason jar where they could cram in rumpled bills at their own discretion.  Those days and nights were almost as interesting, because he enjoyed the busyness of the flow of human traffic, but he still took more delight in cornering his patrons with his riddle.

             “How do you like the art on my walls?”

             Stammered responses were Henry’s favorites, where tongues tripped over frozen lips and stuttered out nothing.  He would sit with a cigarette and his serving of cheap wine poured into his own personal jelly jar and chuckle out loud at the boys and young men who could find no words.  He would hold the hands of the girls and young ladies, feeling the moistening of palms at their consternation of having no answer for him and reserve his laughter for a more private time when the embarrassment would be less profound than it already was.

       Blind Henry liked women more than men.

       Blind Henry liked women very much.

      Young, old, black, white, pink, yellow or brown, Blind Henry liked the company of women.  He enjoyed the softness of their skin and the timbre of their voices, so lilting and sensual.  He liked the smell of them, perfumed or not.  He liked that they were never afraid of him, for he was old, his face creased with life, and, of course, he was blind, so they assumed he could not, would not, judge them.  But he did, to a one, for they could never answer his question and that was all he needed to know them through and through, to understand their strengths and weaknesses, to assess their frailties, and to evaluate them with clinical sharpness.  That he might have contempt for them did nothing to lessen his pleasure of their femaleness.  Sometimes it even heightened his pleasure, for some of them longed for acceptance and he played on that as if he were seducing them, assuring them that it was perfectly fine that they didn’t know the answer to his riddle, when the opposite was quite the case.  Blind Henry had no feeling about the men who visited him.  They were just men of different ages, all the same for the most part, but for the occasional exception.  Once in a while, once in a blue moon if he could recall the color blue, one of them would stand out, for he would perceive them to be as blind as he was, although their eyes were perfectly fine, or he would ferret out a certain sensitivity that was uncommon.

      “How do you like the art on my walls?” Henry asked.  It was a hot day, an even hotter evening, when he smelled the man as he came into the apartment.  There was a song in this stranger’s step and the scent of sweet grass; the swagger of a smile.  The man bent down on one knee and leaned in close to Blind Henry over the arm of the old sofa.

       “Wow, man, its kinda minimalistic, in’it?”  The voice was full of music, with an accent that was foreign, that spoke of the countryside and of mountains and vast skies, of horses and leather and otherness.  The voice broke out into deep, generous laughter at its own declaration, at its own joke and Blind Henry sensed a longing, an interior space that needed filling.

       “It certainly is Cowboy.  It certainly is,” Henry said, and cackled his own brand of dry laugh for finally, for once, someone knew the answer to his riddle.  The man took up Blind Henry’s hand in his, the broad palm and short fingers warm against his own thin, narrow digits.  Henry felt the vibrance and life in him flow through his fragile skin.  “Have a drink, man, please, help yourself.”

       “Thanks.” Only the man didn’t move.  He continued to hold Blind Henry’s hand for a few seconds longer, hesitating, and Henry waited, curious as to what might happen, what might be said.  He felt the calloused fingertips of the stranger’s hand, the fleshy, generous texture of skin that had known manual labor.  “I gotta go set up, man.  See you later.”

       Blind Henry let go of the hand grudgingly, with a grunt that masked his disappointment, for the man, this stranger, this ‘Cowboy’, had answered his riddle without hesitation and it seemed like a small miracle, so his expectations were high.  He wanted to spend more time with him, but the stranger moved on into the other room that held a miniscule stage.  Henry understood then, that the man had something to do with the performance that was happening that evening and he began to look forward to it rather than just tolerating it for company’s sake.  A rustle of voices intruded on his thoughts.  Blind Henry smelled the sugar and salt of women approaching.

       “How do you like the art on my walls?” he asked as one of them drew close and took up the space where the Cowboy had just vacated, filling it as distinctly as the Cowboy had left a blank.  Henry took her hand and felt a strange, masculine strength in it, along with quicksilver beneath the surface.  She was mint and vanilla and moonlight.  Moist.  A Mist with an attitude.  The person she was with was wet, too, but of a more dense quality; a Fog.

       “I dig the minimalism,” she said in a voice that was close to his ear and wafted wine and smoke at him.  Her hand squeezed his, then her free arm snaked his thin shoulders.  “You can never have enough ‘less’ I suppose.”  Her laughter was like bells, and her friend’s laughter harmonized with it.  There was disparity between the two of them, for Blind Henry knew that the one farthest was a forward person from the rhythm of her footsteps, while the one who held him was hesitant and unsure.  They complimented each other while opposing each other, for he knew that the follower was the leader and the leader was the follower; that one of them was supposed to be there, while the other had simply come in blind faith.  Henry felt something resonate in his chest when the misty woman retreated and the foggy one drew close.  There was conversation then, but his head had followed the Mist into the room where the Cowboy was, sensing tendrils reaching, reaching, and reaching in all directions to test and taste the waters of the atmosphere.

       People came to fill the rooms to overflowing, but Blind Henry stayed where he always stayed, on his cracked leatherette sofa with his jar of wine.  He listened to the music that played and caught the distinctive twang of the Cowboy in the sounds, although he wasn’t the driving force of the songs.  He listened to the people all around him and caught whiffs and snippets of love, hate, disillusionment, disappointment, anticipation and wonder.  All of it was wrapped in the misty tendrils from the only other person in the apartment who knew the answer to his riddle.

      When the Mist drifted back into his space, Blind Henry reached out and grabbed her wrist.

      “What art is hanging on your walls?” he asked her.  “What do you create?”

      “Nothing,” she said as she perched on the arm of the sofa once again and held his hand, twining her gentle illusive tentacles around him for a moment.  Blind Henry knew she was lying, but didn’t mind.  The Fog had returned as well, all nervous expectation.

      “Yes you do,” the Fog said around the in-drawn breath of lips on a cigarette.  “You write.  You …”

      “What do you write about?” Blind Henry asked.  The Mist sighed.

      “Love.”

      “What you wanna write about that for?” Blind Henry snapped.  He squeezed her hand in frustration that someone who could answer his riddle could waste time on such a thing.

      “What else is there?” she said, and laughed at his frustration which only frustrated him more.  The tentacles pulsed and reached, and Blind Henry felt them squeeze around his insides.  He felt them unwind and slither all around the Mist until they reached her objectives: the Fog, the Cowboy, and the steady beat of his own life.  He heard the Cowboy fall into the Fog, the start of a heart beating quicker at the onset of common words of introduction, then another heart, the steady thrum of the Mist, then another, more tentative and unsure, was his own joining in the chorus that the Mist created.

      Blind Henry heard the Mist laugh to herself and couldn’t stop himself kissing her hand before she withdrew it so she could finish tying up all the loose ends that surrounded her, his included.  Before she left his side, though, she bent and put her minty mouth close to his ear.

      “How do you like the art on MY walls?” she asked.

      “I’m likin’ it fine, just fine,” he mumbled, his tongue stuttering over his frozen lips as they thawed.  His hand held fast to her wrist and weighed the cost of his words against the bitterness in his mouth.  “Don’t go.”

       “I’m right here.  Come with me,” she assured him.  The Mist kissed his cheek, sugar and salt at the same time, and pulled Henry to his feet, to walk him away from the cracked, old sofa into the Fog with the Cowboy, the four of them a portrait, a moment in time.

       Blind Henry hung it on his walls.

           Joe sat in the window and watched the sunrise tint the sky above the mountains.  There was only the merest hint of lavender at the edge of the horizon, for the sun was behind snow clouds today, but it pleased him.  It pleased him in the same way that his cup of coffee pleased him, or the coal fire in the stove of his cabin.  They were warm, inviting visions.  He smiled to himself as he lowered his gaze to the courtyard just outside.  One of the ranch hands walked briskly across the yard to the barn in the distance, another two who had been working diligently to clear the snow that had fallen the evening before joining him.  Their voices carried through the hushed air as whispers, fading as they entered the barn to care for the horses.

            Light spilled out of the windows of the main house creating golden circles on the ground outside.  Joe imagined that the staff, two local women skilled at caring, were up and starting the preparations for the day.  There were meals to be made, rooms to be cleaned, people to be accommodated.  The house was full, which pleased Joe more than anything.

            He closed his eyes and conjured a vision from the past, a vision of decrepit buildings and dirt and weeds that had somehow, someway, become this ranch, these cabins, that barn.  Was it possible for things to alter that fast?  He opened his eyes to see people spilling from the ranch house, his guests, his peers, his friends, a cluster of them bundled up to their eyes, laughing as they made their way to one of the many small structures nearby that held all manner of equipment meant to entertain.  This morning, at the unholy hour that only musicians seemed to honor, it looked to Joe that they would be cross-country skiing before breakfast and then bed.

            Life often worked backward at the ranch, which suited Joe just fine.  Everything about the ranch suited him, from the layout of the buildings to the color of the wood floors to the views of mountains, lake and canyon.  The pace was what he made it.  If he chose to spend his time in the recording studio that was buried deep below the ranch house he spent it there making music for himself or with the myriad musicians who came and went on any given day.  If he chose to be alone, he stayed where he was, in this smaller cabin that was sufficient to meet his every need.  If he wished to join his guests on any given morning to explore the area on horseback, foot, ski or snowshoe, he was welcomed to; if not, he was welcomed to be absent.  It was the best of both worlds, satisfying his need for society and his need for privacy.

            For once he could do as he liked, when he liked, without worry or interference.

            Best of all, this place was a place for his family, which had grown bigger instead of smaller, for it now embraced those beyond his blood to include those people he loved the most and considered his blood.  In fact his daughter, a woman whose talent had grown to supersede his own, although that was his opinion alone for most of his peers, much to his own embarrassment, thought him gifted and timeless, was due to come with her own family later in the week.  That thought made him outright grin.

            “You’re home,” she said.

            Joe heard the soft voice before he heard the footsteps, but then he never heard her footsteps when she walked into a room.  She often surprised him by appearing as if from nowhere, perhaps the wafts of her perfume preceding her, but it was typically her voice that startled him into awareness.  Now, she sat behind him at the window and rested her chin on his shoulder and snaked her arms around his waist.  When he had met her, his shoulders were a little less strong, but his waist had been a bit more slim.  She never said anything, just accepted him the way he was as she always had.  That had been one of the biggest gifts of his life and he never took it for granted.

            “You’re happy,” she told him.

            Happy seemed too small a word to describe the moment, but he accepted it because he was happy.  He rested his free hand on hers as they held him, and she immediately twined their fingers together, firmly, but loosely, so he knew she was there, but not to restrict or constrict.

            “More snow.  That’s good,” she stated.

            She liked it when it snowed, said it made her feel nestled in and safe.  She liked the white of it and the way it muffled sound.  More than that, she liked that it helped the ranch, helped to bring the people there that enjoyed it as much as she did and were willing to pay for the experience.  It seemed winter was their busiest time, when the studio and ranch were booked up proper and they were rife with activity, be it the steady stream of adventures outdoors, or the steady sound of music being created and recorded.  Spring was good, too, and summer, and autumn and all the time it seemed, yet it was never overcrowded or burdensome, because she was vigilant about the when and where and who of the ranch.

            Her fingers slipped from his and raked through his hair.

            “It’s long.”  Joe heard the smile in her voice as she began to untangle the unruly waves that had gotten tangled from the breeze when he had made the short walk from the ranch to the cabin.

            “I should get it cut,” he said.

            “Not yet,” she murmured, and she began to braid it, unconcerned that the brown was now shot through with more than a little gray.  She plaited it firmly, but loosely, and finished it off with some bit of elastic from the pocket of her robe.

            “Thanksgiving later this week.  Everyone should be arriving over the next few days,” she told him.  Children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, brothers and sisters, family and friends.  She petted the braid down the line of his spine, making him shiver, just a little.  Then she took his cup from his hands, where the dregs had grown cold, and stood, her hand extended to him in a familiar gesture that he had never been able to resist.  He took her hand and looked up at her.  She looked the same.  It amazed him that while he got older, she always looked the same.

“Your eyes are yellow today,” she said with a wry twist of her lips.  “All clear, like topaz.  What are you looking for?”  She cocked her head with the question and let her smile broaden.  She always knew that when his eyes grew intent they changed color and Joe knew his part in this little dance they had danced for so many years.

“Nothing,” Joe responded, because that was always his response to this particular question she often asked.  Once upon a time they had argued about it, but now it was just a little call and response between them, their own peculiar song.  Nothing, because now, finally, he had all he had ever wanted, regardless of the obstacles he had always perceived as insurmountable that she had never considered at all.  Nothing, because now, finally, all things came to him with ease for she had taught him not to fight his own good instincts.  Yet he knew, as she did, that nothing meant everything and that everything was all around them.

Joe gripped her hand, firmly, but loosely, so as not to pressure or cling too tightly, and lifted it to his lips to kiss it.  He rose to follow her wherever she was going to lead him, because he knew for a fact that she had led him to this very moment, where all he wanted for was all this “nothing” and his happiness, that had often been elusive through only his own foolish doubts, was finally complete.