He had asked the concierge at their hotel about what he should do and the woman had suggested the Freedom Train. Warren thanked her and then left the Embassy Suites with nowhere in mind. He smiled once he was outside. He had no idea where he was and he swore the concierge was flirting with him. She was probably ten years older than him but his last girlfriend had told him that his eyes were enough and he had grown not accustomed, but aware that women often stared him in the eye longer than was necessary. He was sure his tanned, surfer body helped but he didn’t surf for girls. It was the most peaceful chaos he had ever experienced, like to meditate in the middle of a sea battle.

He took a cab to Faniel Hall and from there he picked up the red Freedom Trail. He had thought it was a vestige from the Revolutionary War but a sing at the trailhead informed him it was merely a line that connected many of the famous and historic sites of the downtown Boston area. He snapped a shot of the sign, then a low wide shot of the thick red line that was the Freedom Trail. It was at this time that he remembered the roll was black and white. The vividness of the thick red line would be lost in grays and whites.

Warren followed the trail slowly for an hour, his neck creaked up and swirling, looking at buildings he’d never seen and skylines that didn’t look anything like Orange County. He laughed as he wondered whether Orange County even had a skyline. Warren saw where the Boston Garden was being torn down so a parking lot could be built to accommodate the new Fleet Center. Warren Cromer was an old-fashioned guy; he didn’t like the idea that classic buildings were destroyed so new, more profitable superdomes could be constructed. He had learned at a young age to appreciated culture. It photographed so well he found. He came upon a bar that coined itself America’s Oldest Tavern. Warren was an easily inspired guy and he happily spent five dollars for a Samuel Adam’s in the oldest bar in America. What was the difference between a tavern and a bar, he thought. Probably the free peanuts at a tavern he figured, munching on some. He left, content with the memory had had created but for the moment’s posterity he captured the boasting the sign outside and moved on. Click was all it took to have a moment forever.

Warren Cromer’s day was altered favorably at the Paul Revere house. She was shorter than he was, and dressed casually. She had a camera around her neck and looked as lost as he was. He was in love already. Her brown hair was long and shiny straight as he approached. Warren had nothing to say to her but he had the legitimacy of the Freedom Trail. God bless the Freedom Trail, he thought as he neared. He remembered to smile as he entered her peripheral vision.

"Hey," he said. When she looked at him, he could see she had light freckles spread across her nose and her eyes were soft and milky brown.

"Hi," she said, taking her eyes from the Paul Revere House sign. Victoria was in the middle of a homework assignment and was glad to be taken away from it.

"You’re a tourist too, eh?" he asked, smiling and squinting. He could almost feel Paul Revere and his horse riding up the small cobbled street encouraging him in his pursuits.

"Actually no," she said, "I have to do this for a homework asignment." Victoria held up her camera as it was a schoolbook.

"Cool, me too," said Warren. It wasn’t a complete lie. He probably would use the pictures for an assignment later on but for now, it was freelance work.

"Oh yeah?" she asked. Good, she thought, maybe he could help. Victoria had missed a few classes at Boston Community college and didn’t know how to sue the thing strapped around her neck. "You wanna join me? I don’t really know what I’m doing," she admitted freely. She had learned from her older sister that acting stupid was a great way to get a guy to do something for you.

"Hell yeah," he thought he said. "Sure, that’d be cool," was what came out. They smiled at each other. When people meet under strange circumstances, it’s easier to find their beautiful sides. Then again, maybe one’s beautiful side came out more naturally. No one will ever know.

"Cool, well let’s go," Victoria said. "It’s funny, but I’ve never even been to this area and I grew up thirty minutes from here. Where are you from?" she asked after Warren hadn’t said anytthing to her first comment.

"I’m from Orange County," he said. "It’s an hour south of L.A. My name’s Warren by the way," he said. "What’s yours?"

"Victoria," she responded but added quickly, "but people call me Vicky."

"Right on, can I call you Victoria?" he asked, squinting away from the sun as he awaited her response.

"Sure," she said. No one ever called her Victoria. Except for Warren, she reminded herself. You have a boyfriend, her conscience also said. I haven’t done anything wrong she retorted.

"Cool, well, are you ready?"

"Yep," she replied and they walked beyond the Paul Revere House, past a few small Italian restaurants that were hidden gems, past their real lives that waited for them at opposite ends of the same great country.

The conversation was nervous and minimal at first as they didn’t have much to talk about except themselves and neither wanted to be selfish with the moment.

"I’ve never actually walked on this bridge," Vicky said as they strolled carefree and young along the { } Bridge. At its end was Charlestown and some of the oldest cemeteries in America. Morbid as it was, and in their own ways, they both enjoyed taking pictures of the dead.

"Me either," he said, a moment too late for wittiness.

She chuckled out of polite obligation and then was quiet. They visited a shipyard across the bridge but both found it to be boring. Food became important and they sought out a restaurant. She suggested Papa Gino’s and Warren asked if she had eaten there before.

"Yeah, they have them all over Boston," she said.

"No, no," said Warren. "I wanna eat at a Mom’n’Pop place, I can eat at a chain store anytime. He was normally an easy going guy but why settle for less than culture. Luckily, Vicky was indifferent as girls often are when it came to picking a restaurant and said they should keep going then. "Look Victoria, what do you think about this place?" asked Warren, pointing to a bona-fide hole in the wall. A small white sign with plain red letters about the door called it Jenny’s Subs and Warran immediately.

"Sure," she said and thanked him as he held the door for her. Roger never opened a door for her, she thought. California women never say thanks, was Warren’s thought. The restaurant inside wasn’t a restaurant at all. It was a quaint deli with four tables and a pushpin board spelling out their sandwiches and extremely fair prices. While Vicky gnawed on a nail torn by having to make a decision, Warren mused at the realization this was a family affair. A dad, mom and two kids, all overweight and with the same red Irish face worked separate tasks behind the counter quietly but with the diligence of people who knew their lot in life.

Warren decided on a pastrami sandwich and asked Vicky what she wanted. "Uh, a turkey club," she said, unsure but decidedly.

"Uh hi sir," Warren said as he stepped up to the counter. He smiled inwardly; he thought the dad looked like the Nepalian drunk in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the one who had been in the drinking contest with Karen Allen.

Apparently he had paused too long because the dad asked, "What will it be, son?"

"Oh sorry. Victoria will have the turkey club, uh, no tomato," he said after it had been whispered in his ear by the cute brunette. "How’s your pastrami sandwich?" asked Warren.

"The best," he said without conviction or emotion.

"Okay," he replied with sarcasm, "I’m sold. Oh, and two drinks please." Warren motioned behind him where an old vending machine stood. Before Vicky could offer, Warren paid and then happily denied her when she tried to pay him back.

"Don’t worry," he said cheerily, "I won’t expect anything at the end."

Vicky laughed awkwardly. "Well that’s good," she said, unsure what to say. You’re boyfriend’s back, sang in her head. She quelled it with a drink of Dr. Pepper and was quite amused when he chose Diet Coke.

"Hey, I gotta watch my figure," he said, laughing at himself so she could laugh along.

Their sandwiches came and Warren enjoyed what to this day is the finest pastrami sandwich he had ever had. Vicky said hers was alright and the prodded her until she allowed it ‘good.’

Afterwards, after Warren had finished celebrating the quality of his sandwich, Vicky said, "Sheesh, you act like you’ve never had a good hero before."

"Well, that’s the first thing. We just call them sandwiches where I live. People think heroes are those people that hit game winning homers in the ninth inning.
"Yeah, like Mo Vaugn," she suggested, hoping to impress Warren with her baseball prowess. Roger was a Red Sox freak of a fan.

Warren was surprised by her knowledge. "Where did you learn about baseball?"

"Uh, I have a friend who has season tickets to Fenway," said Vicky, hoping to God that Warren wouldn’t notice that she was talking about her boyfriend. The boyfriend that opted to ‘work on his car with his buddies’ than go with her on her photo excursion. What an asshole, she thought.

"Oh cool, I’ve never been to Fenway." Warren had a weird feeling that the friend with season tickets was a guy she was sleeping with. She wasn’t his to be jealous of, but still…

An hour after lunch, they came upon what was commemorated as the oldest cemetery in Boston. It was a Wednesday and the gray, east coast clouds hung peacefully over them protecting them, and the Revolutionary heroes and their families, and the cowards who were buried right next to them. He came to the gates, held them as if imprisoned and looked back at Victoria. She was about five feet behind him and had a look of uncertainty on her face.

"Victoria, come on, let’s go, I can see some awesome tombstones in there."

"But it’s locked."

"So?"

"Can you see the lock there?" she asked, pointing at the Master Lock as if it was the biggest spider she had ever seen.

"So?" As far as he was concerned, Warren Cromer did not go three thousand miles to get stopped by a silly pad lock. Apparently she came only thirty minutes and it was plenty enough to stop her.

"Come on girl," he said, smiling as best he could. "Carpe diem, carpe diem." Aestheticism was important but getting it while seizing the moment was even better.

Vicky was horrified. Did all guys use this line, she wondered. "No, I’m not going," she said and began walking down the uneven sidewalk that bordered the old quiet street.

Warren now had a decision to make but as he quickly followed her away from the second oldest cemetery in Boston, he justified that they would surely see more cemeteries.

Vicky was pleased as punch when she heard Warren’s hurried footsteps and looked back to see him catching up. Roger would have climbed the gate. She didn’t show her satisfaction yet; Vicky would make him sweat it out for a minute.

"Hey," he said once he had caught up to her, "what’s up? Did I say something wrong?" At first she didn’t say anything, she just kept walking, holding her camera so it wouldn’t swing while she walked. "Victoria." She stopped.

"What?" she asked with an unnecessary tone annoyance.

"Are you mad?"

Her face softened a little and then she confessed. "I have a boyfriend, Warren."

Warren Cromer laughed. "So? You live three thousand miles away from me. And we don’t even know each other," he told her, smiling. "We’re just taking pictures and walking."

"I’m sorry."

"For what?" Warren continued smiling, acting as if her not wanting to be his girlfriend didn’t bother him. It didn’t, but he did like her.

"I don’t know," Vicky replied, and crinkled her brow in an attempt to locate the source of her apology. "Let’s keep walking," she suggested and led the way down the crickety path.

They came to another cemetery and this time warren was able to talk her into walking onto the dying grass hill. Vicky was confused. Guys always hit on her, so much that she was often rude before it was necessary. And this guy hadn’t even hit on her. She didn’t get it; she wanted to but she just didn’t. Warren, on the other hand, really liked her. He was however, affronted after she had blurted out for no reason that she had a boyfriend. He had decided then to just be friendly and cool, and to not flirt with her at all. Well, maybe a little.

Vicky was standing, taking a picture of a crooked tombstone of one Charles Furrow, a man who was killed in the fight for this young country’s freedom. Warren watched her and could see she didn’t care about what the picture would look like in terms of the final product. He was getting the feeling that she wanted to finish her roll and go home. He was tempted to shut himself off and just go about his business. But that wasn’t Warren.

"Victoria," he said, walking from Susan Welding’s resting place towards her.

"Yeah?" She sure was taking a lot of time on that picture, he thought. "Damn!" she cursed suddenly. Warren liked her profanity. He laughed and asked what the matter was. "I can’t get it to take the picture," she said, and looked at him with the helpless eyes she had used to get him to come along.

"Let me see," he said, and reached for it. When he grabbed it and took a closer look, it pulled her precariously close. Warren immediately felt awkward and said, "Sorry, here, take it off your neck."

Vicky had actually enjoyed being that close to him. He smelled good and she didn’t think they were too close but Roger would have, she reminded herself.

"Oh, here’s the problem," he said, withholding a laugh. "You have to advance the film." He pulled the lever that allowed more black film to be placed in the way to capture life from Vicky Lofting’s eyes. And what great eyes they were, he thought as she opened them fully during her thank you. "Don’t worry about it," he said nonchalantly. "But hey, I had an idea. That picture you were gonna take would be cool, but," he said with an enthusiasm she found quite attractive, "if you got down on your knees and got eye level with the tombstone, it might bring it to life, as a real person’s resting place, ya know?" Warren asked from his knees, looking up at her. This time it was Vicky who laughed. "What?" he asked, smiling at seeing the happy look on her face.

"Well," she said after she had finished laughing, "it’s just that it’s been awhile since a guy’s gotten on his hands and knees for me," and burst into laughter again. Warren joined her this time.

"That’s a shame, Victoria, it’s a pretty good view from here," he said and grimaced. He wished he hadn’t said that.

Luckily, Vicky was till coming out of laughter and it didn’t really bother her. "Yeah, I bet you like it," she said and the laughter was rejuvenated. Eventually, he got her to get on the ground and take the picture. She was glad Roger wasn’t there. He would never have suggested a way for Vicky to take a better picture. And Warren looked happy to be around her. She fueled him up incessantly and he had the energy to amuse her for hours. And that’s what happened. Once their rolls of film were finished, and Warren had seen enough of Charlestown, Massachusetts, they made the long and private walk across the bridge. Hundreds of cars passed them while they walked over the ( ) River, but no one knew who they were or what they were talking about. And, as they walked they kept their eyes forward and down, looking at the huge, brown-red steel bolts that made their crossing possible. They talked about serious and inconsequential topics. Warren prodded until Vicky told him about her boyfriend and then, much to Vicky’s surprise, he told her that he had a girlfriend.

"You do?" she asked, amazed. She had stopped walking.

"Yeah, what’s the big deal?"

"Well, it’s just that, that," but she didn’t know. "I don’t know," Vicky admitted and began walking again.

"It’s ok, neither do I," he said, and caught up to her quickly. She liked him chasing after her. "She lives in Washington, going to school there," Warren said rather quietly once they were back up to bridge-crossing speed. "Near Seattle."

"Oh yeah? Isn’t that hard?" she asked. Vicky thought that if she lived that far away from Roger, they definitely would not be together.

"Yeah, it is, and we’re not technically together, but we both decided to really make sure before you sleep with them." Warren hadn’t touched another person but in the two months since she’d been gone, he suspected that Laurie had been having fun. It quietly crushed him but it certainly wasn’t something he would burden Vicky with.

"Wow."

"Exactly," he said, and they were quiet until they had finished crossing the bridge. When they did get to the other side, he hoped Vicky wouldn’t want to go right away and she would have, except Warren asked her if she had ever had a beer in America’s Oldest Tavern.

"No, I haven’t" She was glad that there was still something left for them to do. She wouldn’t have suggested anything else but it felt natural for her to want to go and have a drink in America’s Oldest Tavern. How could she not go, she had asked her best friend later that night after she had gotten home. Her friend, who was quite a bit more promiscuous than Vicky had only wanted the bottom-line. "But did you sleep with him," she had asked, eager for that asshole Roger to be pushed from the picture.

"Cool, well uh, would you like to have a drink with me," he had asked awkwardly. For some reason, he changed to a much more formal tone.

It had made her feel a little uncomfortable but she still wanted to go. She had a Long Island Iced Tea and he had his second Samuel Adams’ of the day. They sat in a dark corner and it amazed them both how different the day became once alcohol was thrown into the equation. They talked about more personal things and then, while Warren was in the restroom, Vicky bought two more rounds of drinks. Warren could not contain his surprise.

"Oh man, Victoria, you’re my kind of girl."

Vicky giggled, as it was a stiff drink, and they sat a little closer but neither of them really noticed. The happy hour crowd began shuffling in. They were a mixture of downtown locals and tourists who were staying in hotels in the area and had heard about the great happy hour in America’s Oldest Tavern. A third round of drinks came and two tequila shots, thanks to Warren’s credit card, and they became louder and looser along with the crowd. Vicky was getting close to drunk and Warren was buzzed. They both had perma-grins and in their own ways, they both flirted with each other in the dark bar. They left twenty minutes later, bursting through the heavy door and onto the street, laughing and drunk. They walked on into the peach afternoon and as far as they were bother concerned, time did not have a place in their world. They came upon a used bookstore and Warren found a copy of Sweet Thursday, his favorite book at the time and bought it on a whim. He had Vicky sign the bookmark and Warren talked to the nerdy cashier. He was, in every essence, a nerd. The glasses, horribly unmatching clothes and a high-pitched voice to boot. But, in a moment of clarity, Warren realized that he was who he was. He stopped poking fun after that and it was dusk and purple when they left.

Warren could see Vicky’s flushed face and she looked so innocent and free to the world. He took a deep breath, and watched the glaring red lights of impatient traffic on the small street. Vicky was sitting on the steps outside the bookstore and didn’t seem to be watching anything, just in the moment.

"Carpe diem, girl, right on," he said in a quick philosophic moment.

This brought Vicky from her stupor. "What did you say?"

"Carpe diem," he repeated. "Ya know, seize the –"

"I know what it means," she said impatiently. "Look, I gotta go." Vicky got up to leave.

Warren was flabbergasted. "Victoria, what just happened? Did I say something wrong?"

"No. Yes. I don’t know," said Vicky. "It’s late, and I really should get back."

"Alright, well let me at least walk you to your car, ok?"

She looked at his honest face and acquiesced. "Okay, let’s go." They walked down streets that they had walked down earlier but they looked unfamiliar whenlit by dozens of lampposts that served as small evening suns. Warren and Vicky were quiet at first and he waited for her to soften before he would say anything.

"What do you want to be?" The silence had become too much for Vicky.

"You mean, who am I?" asked Warren. "I’m just kidding," he said quickly, "I know what you meant."

"Good," she responded, smiling. "So anyways, who are you?"

"Well," he began slowly, becoming quite serious in his tone, "I wanna be a photographer. I love doing landscapes but I would love to do rock’n’roll portraits."

Vicky was entranced. The last year she had taken a voice over class and the instructor had said that when someone spoke about a passion in their lives, their real voice came out. Roger didn’t have a real voice, she thought and it seemed to her Warren knew what he wanted to be. As a young woman, she didn’t need a guy who was totally focused but it was nice to know that they are at least aware of the future.

"Victoria?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you wanna be, I asked?" repeated Warren. He was amused by her sudden departure from the conversation. She had been somwhere else but the body had kept walking.

"Lots of things actually," she said. Vicky saw her car and it saddened her. This day shouldn’t end, she thought. "There’s my car," and pointed to a blue Chevy Cavalier parked on a side street they were coming to.

"Oh." Warren had no idea where he was just now realized that he had no idea where the hotel was at. Now they were at the car, standing for a second when Warren asked her, "Do you think you could give me a ride to the hotel? I have no idea where I am," he said frankly.

Vicky laughed. She liked his honesty and it was nice wasn’t just trying to get in her pants, though that wouldn’t be too bad, she thought. Her laughter retreated to a pleasant smile. "Of course. Hop in kid. Don’t mind the mess," she said once she had unlocked his door. Warren sat down on two weeks’ worth of stuff. Yikes!, he thought, but somehow it all encompassed who Vicky was.

They were kind of quiet on the ten-minute drive to the Embassy Suites. Both of them wished they had something to say but didn’t.

"Well, I had a great time today," Warren said once they pulled up to the hotel.

"So did I." She was curious how he would exit her life.

They exchanged addresses, and even email though Vicky later thought that she only checked her email at Roger’s so that wouldn’t do.

"You’re a great girl Victoria, I’ll remember you."

Then she had a great idea. "Why don’t we exchange rolls of film? That way we’ll always have something of each other’s, no matter what happens between us." She smiled and looked at him expectantly. The twinkle in her eye sold him. At first he had been hesitant because he knew he had taken some good photographs that day.

He agreed and reached into his bag to grab the film. It was the first time they had touched each other and her hand electrified him.

"Alright, well," she said. Vicky wanted Warren to be the one to say good-bye.

"Goodnight, Victoria, please take car," he said, leaning inside the cab of the blue car in the purple night.

"I will, Warren, it was nice meeting you," she said properly, as if at a cotillion dance.

"Let’s keep in touch girl, don’t forget me," he said. He stood and walked away. It was hard for him, but the moment had ended and neither of them could do anything about it without making it awkward. Unfortunately for them, neither one was the kind to relinquish control of themselves. It was hard to explain but it didn’t matter because they were gone.

As had become custom when he turned twenty-five a few months earlier, Warren left his studio on sixth street around nine-thirty in the morning. He walked to the Third Street Promenade and bought the Los Angeles Times and any new Photography magazines that came out. He loved the tradition he had created and had begun seeing many of the same people everyday as he noticed that most people had a routine or tradition in their lives. He had an inspired moment and thought that for his next month’s assignment he would shoot the people he saw on his way to get the paper everyday. There was the guy delivering bread to the backs of restaurants, a shopkeeper that beat his rug against a fire hydrant, the post man making his rounds early so he might be able to get in nine holes at the golf course off of Pico. It was beautiful, everyone had their lot in life an while many didn’t actually help the world go round, Warren felt they were here and thus as important as anyone else.

Warren had become a professional photographer in the last year. It had been difficult at first, but he had published a series of pictures in the National Geographic on life in Venice Beach and from there it became easy to get jobs. You put National Geographic on your resume and people actually listen, or in his case, look at what you’ve got. His parents were so proud but the initial excitement had worn off for Warren because he had known all along that he would make it. His dad had always taught him to find the one thing you’re best at and do it better than anyone. He was considered a young talent in the photography world and there was talk of National Geographic paying for him to take Amtrak across the country for two months and capturing the sprit of America from the eyes of a twenty-five year old. He was happy and his life felt casual because it regarded him with respect.

Now while the weather that Santa Monica Monday was the same as it had been for fifty years, today was different. He was a different mailman that day. Probably trying to get in eighteen that day, he smirked as he passed a mailman frantically trying to understand the nuances of someone else’s route. Also, when he got to the promenade, he saw a magazine that caught his eye. It was a black’n’white photograph of a tombstone with the title underneath calling it ‘Boston Cemeteries Are Not Dead’. He paid for the newspaper and then told the vendor, "I’ll take this one too." As he walked back to his apartment, he noticed it was a local Boston magazine and the tombstones would be the main story. It was October after all, and was a month long witching hour.

He arrived back at his apartment, opened the windows and let the blue beach breeze clear the small room of last night’s sleep. His two plants, King and Queen leaned towards the downtown area, yearning for the hazy yellow that fell into the room. He watered them, spoke his soft reassuring gibberish and plopped down onto his futon over a bagel and orange juice. Five days out of seven there isn’t anything news worthy yet they still had to fill up a hundred pages. By the back of the Front section, they were one step shy of cats being helped out of trees. That day, he only got through the sports section before the magazine lying on the ground tempted him. He opened his front door, brought a lawn chair onto his tiny balcony and glanced through it until he got to the cover story. And then he read the title again but this time it meant something different:

None of the words meant anything to him except the title and its author. Victoria! They had kept in contact off and on for six months before it slowly dissipated and he had completely forgotten about her, as she had probably of him. He flipped through the article and the pictures were good. Kind of raw but they were exemplary. Then he saw something that made him think eleven in the morning wasn’t too early for a Samuel Adams. They were his pictures and she had published them under her name. That was plagiarism, or stolen, he thought, immediately infuriated. Wait. He had given her the roll of film. They were her pictures. He swallowed half of the beer and his initial anger subsided. Two years ago he wouldn’t have minded because he had never even been published before but now, now that his work was worth money he hated to see someone else making money off them.

A quiet moment with Coltrane in the background pushed a thought forward into his brain. Warren spent the next twenty minutes making phone calls and before he knew it, he was being patched through to Victoria Lofting.

"This is Victoria," the voice said. He got the impression she was busy with something else.

"Yes, this is Warren Cromer, Miss Lofting. I had some questions about the photographs published in this month’s magazine."

"Yes, Mr. Cromer, what is your question?" she asked formally. Apparently she didn’t remember him even more than he didn’t remember her.

"Victoria," he said.

"Who is this?" she demanded. He could tell she had stopped working.

"Victoria," Warren said, "it’s me."

"Oh my God, Warren, how are you?" she asked. Warren wondered if she had known the whole time.

"I’m fine, I –"

"I’m so glad you called. Hey, what are you doing next weekend?"

"Nothing," he said.

"Do you still live near L.A.?" she asked.

"Yes, but Victoria—" he tried but again she interrupted.

"I’m going to be in Los Angeles next Thursday. God, I knew you would call," she said. She was moving too fast for Warren.

"Oh yeah?" he asked. It would be cool to see her again. He wondered if she still had a boyfriend.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Warren?" she asked, as casually as that could come out.

"Uh no, do you?"

"No, Warren, I like boys," she said and laughed. "No, Warren, I’m single too. Would you like to meet up?" There was a vitality, a spark to her even through the phone.

"Yeah, that would be cool," he said noncommittally.

"Well, my plane gets in at seven p.m., flight 143 on American, can you pick me up?"

"Sure," he said, deciding he should probably write the information down.

"Great, I’ll see you then. There is so much I want to tell you but I’ll wait until I see you, ok?"

"Alright," he said, his hair blowing back from her energy.

"I’ll see you then, take care," and Victoria hung up.

Warren went and bought another six pack of beer before he would allow himself to think about the scenario for a second. On his way down to the liquor store, he saw three or four people doing whatever it was they did and Warren wondered if they did the same thing everyday like his nine-thirty people did. He could turn it into a much larger layout if he wanted to. He liked the idea and scribbled a few ideas down when he got. He had actually forgotten about Victoria until he came back and saw the day, time, and flight number on the pad of paper. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to talk about the pictures. She had changed the topic too; it made him even more curious what the next weekend would be about. No matter, he thought, but a beer would help.

The next Thursday came and he was there, with his biography of Ansel Adams at the airport waiting for her. He felt it was strange but still fond himself braking a routine he had to meet this girl he had spent one day with. When she came off the plane, she looked spectacular and all of Warren’s concerns about the situation left with the plane in the next terminal. She had a flower and an envelope with her. He thought maybe some guy had given her the glower but she handed it to him. Warren was embarrassed, but she hugged him and said, "God Warren, you look great!"

"So do you," he said and she really did. She looked the same except for the natural glow that came with glorious aging, specifically the mid-twenties.

"And this is for you," she said, handing him the envelope, "but don’t open it yet, ok?"

"But—"

"Nope, you have to wait." She was smiling. Warren wanted her right then and there but thought they should at least get her bags first.

They spent the first hours catching up on four years, and then had indeed been different. She had graduated and gotten a job for the magazine and as it was fairly new, she had moved through the ranks quickly. Victoria sat fascinated to hear Warren was a photographer, but the she confided, "I know Warren, I’ve actually heard your name mentioned in the circles I come across at my job."

"Really?" he asked, flattered.

She told him it was so.

A six pack later they had left his apartment and headed for the liquor store. Victoria was actually skipping which wouldn’t have looked that odd except she was wearing a business suit. Their lives had been cruising down separate paths yet somehow they met in the middle. She like his quiet nature, and how his work spoke for him.

He like her outgoingness, and how she was seemingly indifferent to anything serious. It was quite an attitude wearing a three hundred-dollar outfit.

They bought a twelve pack of Coronas and limes. Victoria had never really had Mexican beer and then they went back to his apartment. Warren and Victoria were drunk and almost naked by midnight but stopped right when it was getting interesting.

"Do you have any protection?"

"What?" he replied breathlessly, avoiding her question as if an alarm going off too early.

"Here, I have some," she said and slid off the bed and towards her purse. Shit, he thought, either this is one hell of a modern girl or she had this planned from the start.

"What’s in the envelope, Victoria?" Warren was lying on his back with his hands behind his head.

"What?" she asked in the same way he had a minute earlier.

"The envelope?" he repeated. Warren picked it up and was still holding it when she came over with a metallic square in her hands.

"Open it," she said, somewhat annoyed.

"What’s up Victoria?" he asked, getting closer to her. They were connected but still barely knew each other well enough for true intimacy.

"It’s just that, well, I wanted to see how things were between us before you saw that," she said vaguely, still fiddling with the silver square.

Curiosity overwhelmed him and he opened the small yellow envelope with the Boston publication’s mailing address on it. He was still looking at her.

She kept his eye contact and he looked down once it was opened enough.

Warren pulled out what appeared to be a check made out to him for a thousand dollars.

"What’s this for," he asked.

"The pictures," she said, as if that summed up the whole story.

"And?" he asked.

Victoria took a deep breath and lie on the bed. "Well, I knew the pictures wer yours, I’d had them all this time, and then like six months ago, during a meeting we tossed around the idea of doing a little perspectus on Boston area cemeteries, ya know?" She paused. Warren was silent so she continued. And so I said that I have these pictures from a project from a couple of years agao and I brought the pictures in and they loved them!" Victoria’s eyes brightened.

"But," she said, dropping her eyes from his, "I couldn’t remember your name for the life of me. I just couldn’t. So," she said, beginning to sound more like a confession than a story, "I published them under my name thinking that if you’d actually made it as a photographer then you would find out and I’d be able to see you again." In case Warren had been confused she spelled it out for him. "I wanted to see you and this was my only way of doing it. But, I needed to to find out how we were together before you saw the check so I could see if we had something real or not." Then, as if a dog surrending to another, she laid on her back and waited to see his response.

"You went to all of this trouble to find me, found me when I found out and then came across the country to see me with a check for a thousand dollars for me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Wow," he said, and sat up. "And you dig me, right? ‘Cause I like you, and I’ve thought about you from time to time, ya know? Anyways girl, say what you have to say." He watched her.

"Yes," she said, hoping that would be enough.

"Victoria," Warren said and she caved.

"Yes Warren, ever since that day we met I’ve been changed. It’s weird, I broke up with, with, what’s his Roger and I totally focused on me. I don’t know, but you got through to me on some level that is still untouched by anyone else."

And no, it’s not like I’ve thought about you everyday but you have become this huge pivot in my life, ya know?" She wanted him to know badly.

"Yeah," he said.

"And," she said, breathing deeply for what was about to say, "the magazine is doing so well that we’re going to have editors and small offices set up in New York, Chicago and LA. And I’ve worked my ass of to get that LA position."

"You’re moving to LA?" he asked. This was all too much for him but he played it off.

"Yep, but I-I, I don’t know," she said. Victoria stood up and walked to the refrigerator in only her underwear. It wasn’t fair of her but it helped persuade him.

"Victoria, will you grab me one too?"

She bent over to grab another Corona.

Warren said, "Victoria, I got two things to say. First, I don’t want this held between us." He held the blue check in his hands.

"Okay."

"And second, would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow night? In San Francisco?" He smiled at her. "I seem to have come into a little money I wanna get rid of."

She went over to the bed quickly, spilling one of the beers on the wooden floor as she laid down next to him. "Carpe diem," she said smiling, "carpe diem."