Walking in from work, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to see no one and do nothing. I almost looked forward to it but this is what I came to:

“…so, ya know, if you wanna do something tonight give me a call. Alright? Ok, bye.” Familiar voice. I pressed the square blue button that represented the memory recall on the answering machine and all of a sudden, I had to remind myself to breathe. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but in a way, it kind of was. When one is unmarried, every eligible partner has a harsh judgmental light thrust upon them. She was a faint memory but she lingered like the smell of coffee brewing. Even if one didn’t like coffee, the smell was infectious. It made one want to be in a Yuban commercial. I wanted to be in a Yuban commercial. With her. It was at this time I was relieved to know certain technologies that allowed one to read another’s mind had yet to be invented. I dialed.

“Hey, is Lily there?”

“Hey, what’s going on?” She sounded happy. I was happy.

“Not much. I just got off work. What about you?”

“I just got back from shopping.”

“Oh yeah, what did you buy?” Act interested, like you care…

“I just bought this dress I really like, it’s cute with yellow flowers—”

“Man, I think I’ll have to see it on you.” There I was again, being brave and indifferent to rejection in its most sexual form. This was a good sign.

“Yeah, you think you’ll be that lucky?” There she was again, almost flirting with me.

“Yeah, I do. Tonight, in fact, whaddya say?”

“I can’t. My boyfriend’s back in town.” WHAT?! “Hey, I’m just kidding, I thought I’d give you a little shit.”

“Well, is it cool if I bring my girlfriend too,” I said, not letting her know she had gotten me good.

“Sure, is she cute?” “Yeah, if you can look past the scar that runs from her left eye to her neck. She’s got a great personality, though.” This was the kind of stupid conversation people have after having sex. I’d love to have this conversation again horizontally.

“Chris, that’s terrible.”

“I know.”

“Well, where do you wanna eat?”

“Well, two choices. We can go out or I can cook for you. Are you vegetarian?”

“No,” she said, sounding puzzled.

“Great, I could cook you the infamous golden chicken cutlets, or—”

“You really can cook, eh?” she asked, disbelieving. This girl seems to be impressed by the right things. We were going to have a good time.

“Sure, anytime, anything,” I said. Somewhere a 900 number was flashing on the screen.

“I’ll make you a deal. Let’s go out to eat tonight, my treat. And when slash if we have a good time, I’ll let you cook for me. What do you think?” This was girl was strong; she made me weak.

“Your treat, huh,” I asked. I couldn’t believe it.

“Yep.”

“Well, only under one condition.”

“What’s that,” she asked, sounding surprised a guy would be imposing conditions upon her.

“Just as long as you don’t expect anything at the end of the date,” I joked.

“Ok, she said, chuckling. “Deal.”

“Great, when are you picking me up?”

“What?”

“And you better open the door for me, too.”

“Ok, ok,. I’ll pick you up. Sheesh.”

“Alright. Um, I’ll be ready about…um, let’s say 8:30?”

* * * * *

There were only the sounds of breathing life. Not the breath of the living but Life breathing. There were people walking, jogging, rollerblading, with and without dogs or babies in strollers. There was an all-blue sky and the fake lake directly in front of me appeared real. There was a little girl running with her new puppy a little closer to the water than mom would’ve liked. There were ducks on the other side feverishly omnivorous as they ate bread tossed out by a small boy and his father. People stretched and sat, enjoying a late Spring evening as Peace was sitting somewhere in the breeze.

I was one of the sitting, having just run around Santa Margarita Lake twice. I almost always normally went with Jim but I had called him just after talking to Lily and he wasn’t there. I wanted to get some exercise before I went out. Exercise makes a person feel complete, or lets their full expressive self release like steam through a manhole. I was so calm I almost needed commotion to break me from the spell. I got it.

Way down to the left, a kid was reeling in a fish. There is almost nothing as real as catching a fish. It is the struggle between two different creatures; one seeking for the rush, the sheer adrenaline that the other provided. One hardly ever thought that catching a fish meant that a metal pronged hook was jammed up into the its mouth. If any human ever went through that experience fishing would probably be banned unless it was for food.

As humans, we believe in excess. We are so worried about what we’re going to get out of life that we often take more than we want. It doesn’t make sense but that’s how it works, kind of like the Electoral College. Fortunately I was sitting in the shadow of a tree. In newer planned communities such as Rancho Santa Margarita there were hardly ever trees that provided true shade. That could be one reason I sat under this tree. Then, someone sat down at a bench right next to me and although he was neither offensive nor smelly, I felt the mood I was in needed more space and so I moved. In a world with more than six billion people, there is enough earth for everyone, but we cramp ourselves into certain, ideal areas. That was why I moved. There were more benches about eighty yards down to my left and they were empty. The shade was not as complete but there are trade-offs in every deal.

The late afternoon was passing well. The sun was the only thing that truly changed. Everything else merely adjusted to the brightness. Ninety-three million miles away and it’s what dictates our lives. Talk about a tweaked existence. Sure the people had changed but the activities hadn’t. There were different people roller blading, a different boy was fishing but I was still the same, more or less. My farmer’s tan had become less defined but everything else was the same. I hadn’t come out to this lake and spent part of the day like this before; I was just now noticing it’s worth. There was an actual sense of community here. This was what I had looked for in Flagstaff but never really found. Sure, my friends and I had our own world and that was great but it was different here. Here was a bunch of people who didn’t know each other but they were in the same place. What had brought all of us together was the lake; no one cared if it was fake. Even the ducks didn’t seem to care.

It was just about time to go. The sun was making its last hoorah but the final death scene, the climax if you will, was on its way. I wasn’t ready to leave because I would’ve gone home and gotten ready for the big date, all the while being ready an hour early. There may not be a greater mental injustice. No, I would wait until 30 minutes before we were supposed to go out and then hop in the shower. I took one last look at the fake lake, it inhabitants and its worshippers and walked back to the car, refreshed and feeling real.

On the road next to the backside of the lake was a small field filled with orange poppies. They were in full bloom, a floral sunset of an ocean. I could hear a softball game off in the distance but the poppies made such sweet noise. They were natural, from the womb of nature and could not be competed with. I pulled over to the side, mesmerized. I absent mindedly walked across the street. As I got closer to the orange fauna, I was overcome with happiness. A mother and her son on a tricycle mosied along the asphalt path that bordered one edge of the field. I could see a dirt path that continued after the asphalt stopped. There were so many bright flowers it was visibly brighter. I squinted a little as I knelt down and gazed at the poppies, I felt compelled to pick some. Picking flowers is one of those romantic activities of life, one that seemed much more prevalent before the advent of television. I pictured men at the turn of the century, with their women dressed in their fluffy dresses. Bicycles, the kind where the front wheel was much bigger than the back could be seen rolling along the dirt path that lay quietly in front of me. The romanticized vision in my head could be better described by Jane Austen, but alas, she was not around. She was signing autographs and tanning in Boca Raton, or some place like that. Like a colorful bird fancy-free, flying fast and forgetful, Lily came floating into my mind. With her as a motivation, I began picking the orange poppies. It was not exactly a manly mission but when motivated by the curves of a woman, who would dare make fun?

I grabbed more than I needed in case some didn’t make the journey. They were beautiful. She was beautiful. I hoped I would remember to say something to that effect when I saw her in an hour. Maybe I should write it down (I don’t think so, George McFly).

I got home and before I could set them in some water to keep them living, my mom popped her head in the kitchen. “Who are those for?” In her own loving way, she was nosy. I couldn’t blame her in good conscience but somehow did quite often. I was in her house and she was entitled but it still seemed like an infringement on my privacy; but, if she didn’t ask I would have been offended or hurt.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “I have a date tonight,” I confessed.

“With who,” she asked. I almost saw her ears perk up. It was terrible.

“You don’t know her,” I said quickly. I didn’t know why but I always became defensive when topics like this came up. It just drove me crazy. “Arggghhh,” popped into my mind. When one pried, the other was more apt to close up. Like a clam, but verbally. It was nature, I guess. I had the psychology but I couldn’t explain human nature, only human weather forecasts. Very different.

“Well, who is she?”

“I just met her the other day. She seems really nice. I think you’d like her.” It was easier to talk once the cat was out of the bag.

“Chris, I’d like anyone you choose to go out with. Unless they hurt my babeeeee,” she said, smiling widely while she squealed the word ‘baby’. Oh brother. My mom had a habit of treating me like I was 10 years old. It did nothing to help me grow up. It’s a fine line, I assure you.

As soon as I could, I bailed and went upstairs. I had time and so I put some music on. Music is mood. It can alter a regular mood to one of sexiness or one of get-the-hell-out if it’s the end of a party. I used to fantasize, scholastically (if that’s possible), about music therapy. When I had worked in a psychiatric ward for a semester, I had even tried to implement it. I had brought my congas in and let the “clients” play them. I also brought different types of music in hopes of creating an ambiance. Jazz, soul, blues, and even one of my nature cd’s, one where frogs spoke to each other over water. I would say it went over well, if you knew these “clients.” If you had walked in, you’d have judged my performance based on their enthusiasm and asked me to consider Hotel Restaurant as a new major. The ‘clients’ were catatonic mostly, depressed to such a state they didn’t give a damn. For their whole lives, some of them. It was very disheartening, which is why I put Otis Redding in as I was preparing my outfit. Yes, guys prepare too. Not like it’s our first or last date however.

A nice warm shower, a shave and I was feeling good. I was nearly humming the whole time while I was getting ready. Man, what was gonna happen? After I had that thought about 40 times, I decided I had no way of knowing. It was right at that moment there was knock at the door. It was 8:24. Hmmmm….interesting.

With the moon behind her, her face was partially eclipsed but the eyes shone, not with a specific emotion but they were alive; I felt like living. “Hi, how’s it going?”

“Good, how are you?”

“Great. You look wonderful.” It was just the right word. She lowered her eyes, appropriately bashful.

“Oh well, uh, thanks. Uh, so do you.”.

“Oh God, I hope not,” I said, facetiously fidgeting with my hair in the mirror that waited by the door. It waited while so many faces looked in it but never once took it anywhere. She laughed.

“What?”

“You promised you wouldn’t think tonight.” She giggled. I realized I’d been had. Something I did to others all the time. I had almost forgotten the flowers. They lay dying but in an orange bloom on the stairs out of Lily’s sight.

“I’ll try,” I began, “but no promises. We surely can’t have you do all of the thinking.”

“Hey,” she retorted.

“Uph,” I stopped her. “Not another word ‘till we get out of here. Oh, and these are for you.” I handed her the flowers and her face lit up. And with that, I took her arm and we metaphorically skipped down the stairs. Love’s distant cousin Excitement hovered about, swarming over our heads. We didn’t notice; somehow Time had left as if the baby sitter when the parents came home. We were not alone.

On this night, Lily and I were two simultaneous shooting stars, singing sweetly into the darkness. It was pure. There were lulls in conversations occasionally, and jokes that sometimes missed but those were isolated. For the most part, we just enjoyed company. Sometimes there was laughter. At other times, serious moments with four eyes arm wrestling, pinging and ponging back and forth. At least three times th mood was considered a moment exalted enough for a soft, candlelit kiss. The lips would be so responsive; just knowing that made postponing the kiss that much better.

As promised, she paid the bill; I felt like the girl. I tried to pay but she refused me. I bought us a couple of drinks and we snuck them out of the bar and onto the dark beach. The sky was black, cold, but far from lonely.

I put my arm around her and felt like I was in the sixth grade again. We stared straight ahead into the black breaking waves. They broke with the rhythm of a sleeping man. So subtle but definite, a gentle giant was sleeping at our feet.

We could have exhausted a conversation about trivial things but we both seemed to know that it could be saved for later dates. It was much easier to be relaxed on a date if one knew more were on the way. Otis Redding would have been the perfect music to be playing but the moment could not have been better. When it came time to leave--or rather the moment had delicately faded--we walked hand in hand towards the street, towards civilization, towards the eventual sick sunlight of dead, dreaming eyes. Drunk young adults left the bars in rock star fashion, stumbling surreally on the same street we were walking. They yelled obscenities to each other that were modern-day good-byes and they made their way to adjacent parking lots. We were of the same species but it felt as if we were now outside of the bubble. I speak for myself, however. I have no idea if she had experienced the same night; well, I have some idea…

We pulled up to my house much more quickly than I had hoped. This night should never end and in my memory never would. I leaned over to kiss her but for some unknown reason, I contented myself to her soft cheek. She grabbed the back of my head to reciprocate in the female language. I told her I had had a great time and that I would call. I meant it. She said she looked forward to my call. I hope she did. I opened the door and as I was getting ready to get out, she touched my shoulder and handed me something. I had no idea what it was. She told me to read it when I got inside and then she drove off.. Worthy of a 1940’s movie, I later thought. That was after I ran up to my room and opened the piece of paper like a child opens their first piece of candy on Halloween. It was infectious. It was on yellow legal paper and it was in the same color ink as her number had been. It was a poem or at least words scrawled in a poetic format.

Then scrawled quickly underneath:

Chris-

For some reason I just knew we were going to have a good time. That’s why I made this for you. If we didn’t have fun, I was just gonna throw it away. Call me about the 2nd interlude. Lily

The way she wrote her name spoke of the kind of a free conscience that most people did not have. Whatever she hid was out in the open.