It's been a while since I've written, so here's an oldie but a goodie:

Searching For Pratchett

"What are you doing here?" I would have asked her if I wasn't an empty shell of a man. "I thought you were in Los Angeles."

"I hate California," she would have said if she could spare a second from her busy day and condescend to exchange some banter with a faceless peon like myself. "I just had to come back to Boston."

"Welcome home!" I would have shouted were I not spineless like so many bacteria lurking in my refrigerator. I would have given her a hug and smiled to myself at the faint surge of sexual excitement I would have gotten by just feeling her perfect body pressed close to mine. But instead, I just tried to make myself look very, very small and unnoticeable as I perused the Science Fiction/Fantasy section for an unread Terry Pratchett novel.

She was sitting in one of the big comfy chairs sipping her grande skinny double caramel macchiato with extra foam and a dash of cinnamon powder (but no whipped cream) and reading an Ayn Rand novel, the title of which eludes me at the present moment. She looked in my general direction, and for a brief moment our eyes locked. I probably should have either gotten up and walked out of the store right then or sauntered over there and handed her the ring which I'd been keeping in my pocket since the last time we were together (May `98) and lived happily ever after. However, I am far too meek in thought and deed to propose to a girl I haven't seen in four years, and I hadn't found my Pratchett yet, so neither solution presented itself as workable. I was able to muster up the courage and effort required to bob my head to her nonchalantly and raise my eyebrows.

She arose from her chair and greeted me effusively, though without once using my first name. Even the hug was designed with malice aforethought to keep our bodies at a maximum distance. I was vaguely reminded of junior high school ice cream socials and slow dancing with Alexis Hooper on the gray-tiled floor of the Mary L. Chaulmers Memorial Gymnasium.

"How have you been?" she asked, completely unaware of what an answer to that question would entail.

"Horrible," I wanted to say. "Since you left me I've spent the last four years rebounding back and fourth between near suicidal depression, raging alcoholism, and blinding euphoria accompanied by fits of promiscuity and several caffiene binges. There hasn't been a day gone by where I haven't either wondered how much better my life would be had you stayed or wished to holy Hell that you could feel just one iota of the mockery my existence has become. I just hope, hope to God that you will either take me back right now or die a miserable death in the very near future. Is that too much to ask?" But instead I said,

"Fine, thanks. And you?" She should have held me and said that she'd missed me so much that it hurt her to breathe at night, and she needed me back more sorely than she needed sleep and oxygen combined.

"I've been great," she said. "You look so good! Have you lost weight?"

"Of course I lost weight," I didn't say. "That's what happens when you have a lump of blackened charcoal that used to be your heart lying on the floor of your stomach in a pool of bourbon whiskey, taking up all the space that should rightfully go to food and water. I couldn't eat; I couldn't sleep. So, I suppose I did shed a couple of pounds, but what's an eating disorder between old friends?"

This tangent aside, I did work up the guts to somehow ask her out to dinner. I'm not sure where my confidence came from, but I have a good feeling it was the adrenaline surging through my veins mixed with the combined effects of two cups of coffee, almost a whole pack of smokes, and a venti sized chai latte. My caffeinated courage ran out quickly, though, and utter terror forced me to post-script the request with a nervous just-as-friends.

"Can I bring a date?" she asked.

"Only if we can serve my heart up, Cajun-style on a platter made of treachery," I could have responded if I had thought of it at the time. I think we both would have laughed.

Dear Samantha,
A year and a half ago, you and I had our moment together. I thought that if I told you I loved you enough, you would say it back. You never did. I played myself.
Since then I've been out on several dates, met dozens of girls, eaten dinner in a thousand restaurants, and nobody can compare. Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard? There isn't anybody else who'll lay beside me on the grass and let me read aloud to her. There isn't a single person I can teach the mandolin to. My city has 2,000,000 college kids, more than half of them women, but there isn't anybody for me to argue about grammar with on the Esplenade.
The whole city has been a reminder of you. There are no places that are mine alone. One of our memories lies under every rock. Sam, I can't even go for a walk without knowing that you and I kissed on that corner or went shopping in that store. I have no place where I can hide.
So I went to New York. You were there too. Walking with one of my teachers in the Village, he asked, "Have you been around here before?" I looked and saw the park where you and I lit candles and made a picnic.
I don't know if the opportunity to be with you again will ever arise, and I don't know if I would act upon it anyway. I said I would always love you, and I just wanted you to know that I told the truth. That's all.
Love,
Charles

"Buy you a drink?"

"You talking to me?"

"Yeah."

"Good manners would require me to tell you that I have a husband."

"Understood. That said?"

"A beer would be fine."

"Barkeep! Two of your finest suds."

"So now what?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've bought me the drink, so you must want to sleep with me, right?"

"Eventually."

"I obviously find you attractive as well or I wouldn't have accepted the drink."

"Fair enough."

"But I'm married."

"And?"

"And it would be against both the laws of the land as well as my own personal moral code to continue playing this game with you."

"But you accepted the drink. You're sipping as we speak. Either you would be happy to make a cuckold of your husband for reasons unbeknownst to me, or you accepted the beer as part of some sick power game."

"Are those the only two possibilities?"

"Certainly. Either you are striking out against your husband, in which case I am merely a pawn in your master plan, or you are being a cocktease, in which case I wasted four bucks on that beer."

"What if there was a third choice?"

"Such as?"

"Such as, I am physically attracted to you as I've said before, and I enjoy your company. Such as, I've been wowed by your good looks and literally forgotten about my husband. Such as, I love my husband, but he is bad in bed, and I am forced to satisfy my needs elsewhere. Such as, my husband and I have an open relationship. Such as, you fulfill some girlhood fantasy of mine, and I feel that it is worth my husbands wrath to achieve that dream."

"Are any of those the case?"

"Perhaps. Probably not."

"What is the case?"

"That's for you to find out."

"I dislike this game."

"Then let us play a new one. Got any threes?"

"Go fish. Got any sevens?"

"Go fish. Ummm, two words...first word...sounds like 'vroom'...sounds like 'car'...sounds like 'truck'!"

"Right hand green."

"'Potent Potables' for $500."

"I'd like to buy an E."

"Red rover, red rover send... you didn't tell me your name."

"Charles. And you are...?"

"Meredith."

"A beautiful name. Another beer?"

"Let's stop for one on the way to your house."

"I live in an apartment."

"Fine then, your apartment."

"Actually, it's kind of small."

"That's okay."

"It's a closet in my mom's apartment."

"Walk-in?"

"..."

"Find then. Let's pick up some beer on the way to the closet at your mom's place."

"Score!"

He stood on a pedestal in the square. Marc the angel loomed overhead, his golden mane haloed by the setting sun behind him. I watched as Maggie placed a quarter in the receptacle. Marc bent down and whispered something in her ear. She smiled bigger than I'd ever seen before in all our years together. Inspired, I dug in my pockets for loose change.

He bent down, and when he smiled at me a warmth entered me, that same feeling I used to get drinking hot cocoa with Saba in his apartment on a cold afternoon. His mouth drew close to my ear.

"I know what you've been looking for," he whispered, his words clear and crisp above the cars and people. "End your search." I felt a tear slide down my cheek.

"What is it?" I begged. "What do I need to be complete?" I watched his gaze shift to the girl at my side. Maggie, resplendant in her evening gown, was still grinning broadly. I finally understood.

"What did he tell you?" she asked me later on. "The angel, I mean."

"He told me I could stop searching," I said.

"That's funny," Maggie said.

"Why?"

"Because," Maggie said. "He told me I'd been found."

"You know what we need to do, dude?"

"What?"

"We've got to get us a couple of girlfriends."

"A couple? I don't think I could handle more than one."

"I mean one for each of us."

"Oh."

"I mean, c'mon. We are two very good looking guys."

"We are?"

"Sure. We're a couple of bucking, young stallions just reaching our prime."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's a metaphor."

"No, dude. That was a simile."

"What?"

"You said 'we're a couple of stallions'. That is a simile. It would only be a metaphor if you said 'we're like a couple of stallions."

"I think you're missing the point."

"Of course, you could say 'we are to women as stallions are to fillies.' That would be an analogy."

"What if I said 'we are a couple of stallion-esque men'? What would that be?"

"That wouldn't be anything. It's rubbish."

"Oh."

"But you were right about the girlfriend thing. I'm ****ing horny."

"Yeah, me too. I need to get laid."

"Seriously, dude. I would love to grab some ***** and **** her ****ing **** until she can't swallow."

"Uh, dude. You're making me a little uncomfortable."

"Sorry. It's just that lately my ****s have been a fiery inferno of passion."

"That was a simile!"

"Yay!"

I sat across the table from her and feebly tried to start a conversation. "How was your weekend?"

"Fine."

"Anything cool happen?"

"Not really."

"No?"

"I went to a movie with my mom." She had told me that already. She had seen The Hours, a thrilling glimpse at lives of women who read Virgina Woolf novels.

"What do you think of the stir-fry? I usually use rice, but I think the noodles are nice."

"Yeah, it's good."

At that point, my tooth broke-not my real tooth, but a cap broke. "Fuck," I said. "There was a bone in my chicken."

"I hate chicken bones."

"Man, my tooth just broke. That sucks."

"Yeah, my friend had braces for two years. When they took them off, they found out she'd been allergic to the adhesive all along. They had to pull all her teeth and give her fake ones."

"Like dentures? Or were they implanted into her gums?"

"Implanted."

"Oh. Let's watch the movie." We walked over to the couch to watch Bridget Jones' Diary, a bad movie. I tried to break the tension by laughing at the funny parts, but the opportunity did not arise.

"I have to take my drivers' liscence exam," she said as the movie ended. "And it's an hour drive home." I walked her out to the car in my bare feet, gave her a kiss goodbye and watched her drive away.