Restate my assumptions: 1. Mathematics is the language of nature. 2. Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. 3. If you graph these numbers, patterns emerge. Therefore: There are patterns everywhere in nature.

Pop.

It wasn’t audible. More of a feeling. Maybe I did “hear” something, but it was only me. Inside my head.

Just a pop. Followed by relief. Instant relief.

The headache which had plagued me for days. Weeks. Months. Was gone. Obliterated.

A euphoric wave washed over my head. I liken it to being anointed, yet I only know what I’ve read about that. No actual experience. No frame of reference.

That damned headache had become part of my identity. Did it worry me? Yeah, sure. Was I curious about what might be going on in there? Was I having a stroke? An aneurysm? Those kill people, right?

Yes, I was curious, but not enough to go to the doctor. This pissed her off to no end. She doesn’t want to be left alone.

My head feels lighter, somehow. It’s actually hard to describe the sensation. Warm. Wet. Maybe orgasmic.

But wait. Something is missing…

Running through a quick system check. Memory is fine. I can see. Smell. Feel. Hear. Taste.

Four plus four. Eight.

Next level. Close your eyes. How many yellow objects are in the room? Seventeen.

Next level. What is a 27% tip on a $63.41 tab?

Nothing. Nothing comes up. Total darkness. A lapse, if you will.

Panic swells down below. I’ve always been able to see math. Perform it in my head.

My grandmother noticed it when I was in grade school… “How much tip should I leave?” She trusted me… even when I started inflating tips. After all, the service was stellar, she deserves more than fifteen percent.

I recall the Aronovsky film π. No spoilers here, beyond the lead’s debilitating headaches. Is this my fate? Or was it?

Are they gone now? Along with my natural mathematic ability?

I can still quote this movie. Yet intermediate (and beyond) math is just… gone.

Am I still “smart?” Can I survive like this? Adapt? Will it return?

A friend was taking medicine for her bipolar disorder. It caused blindness.

Albeit, temporary—her vision returned after she switched medication.

This. This is why I don’t know what is going on inside my head. The once noble practice of healing has been corrupted by pharmacom and money. There’s no money in cures. Only maintenance.

She loves the accommodations in the local hospitals. The attention. The care. Since spending so much time with her, I have spent more time in hospitals in the last two years than my several decades prior—combined!

Yes, I believe the people at that level truly care. They want their patients to feel better. Yet, if the “higher-ups” aren’t promoting more natural lifestyle changes and holistic healing first… before pumping us full of chemicals or cutting us open? The art of healing is lost. Sold.

Maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe the “pop” was bad. It certainly scared me at the time.

However, I am still here. This incident happened seven months ago. For the most part, my mathematic abilities have returned. So have the headaches.

My memory may be beginning a descent… all the more reason to write and see what I can produce. We’ll revisit that in a few months—with increased awareness of forgetfulness.

Again, maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe, one day, she’ll convince me.

“What is that smell?”

I closed my eyes and sniffed. It was drifting over from the next table.

Unmistakeable.

Pipe smoke.

Not something one smells often in this day and age.

The fragrance whisked me back to high school. My first girlfriend… and all of the pleasures and pains that surrounded her. Mostly pleasures.

Drive-in movies. The lake shore. Releasing the parking brake, accidentally, and nearly losing the car. The bridge. Those eyes. Those… eyes.

Her sister… another story for another time.

And her father. You see, her dad smoked a pipe.

If pipe tobacco tastes as good as it smells, I can see how one might get hooked. Why, oh why, did they never make cigarettes smell/taste like this?

Maybe they did. I don’t know.

I opened my eyes… gazing into those beautiful, brown eyes. Inquisitive. Studying me from across the table. Filled with love and admiration.

And I smiled. With a subtle craving for tobacco. I may take up the habit.

They’re getting worse. Significantly worse.

I’m aging. Getting older. I hadn’t given it much thought. Pain is part of it, right?

It wasn’t until I was talking to my father about nothing a couple of weeks ago that it occurred to me. He mentioned casually that on the bad days, he takes a couple of Aleve to get through.

Two Aleve? On the “bad” days?

Hell, I can’t even function without taking 800mg of ibuprofen AND 1000mg of acetaminophen first thing in the morning. And again after lunch. And one more time early evening.

So, I guess they’re pretty bad.

I wonder what’s going on in there? Not enough to get it checked out, mind you. If life is a hotel room, I’m ready to move on.

No, it’s more of a curiosity. Is this how I’ll go? A brain tumor gradually crushing my feeble mind and taking away one sense at a time? My eyes pointing in slightly different directions? That tremor I can’t seem to control while helping her put on her necklace? Is this milk okay? Am I stumbling more often than I used to? And since when am I entirely unable to “get it up?”

Lord, all I ask is don’t make it slow. Nor painful.

Perhaps it’s not a tumor. Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance. Attached to poor diet and a general apathy towards living and life.

It could be something else. As a seventies child, I liken my memory to a cassette tape being used to load those ancient computer programs. Having to scrub the tape back and forth, shedding magnetic particles and corrupting the data each time—sometimes losing large swaths of knowledge. “Memory.”

Is this what dementia is like? Alzheimer’s? A lobotomy?

Many days—not all, but many—there is a dull pain underneath those over-the-counter medications. Just waiting for them to wear off. To flare up. Not unusually in situations where I forgot to preemptively take the next dose and find myself nearly taken to the ground by the sharp pain that slides in behind the eye. Like an ice pick.

Shit, are my eyes even pointing the same direction still? Damn. I thought I’d made that up.

Sunday morning, she held my face while my head was resting in her lap. Looking into my eyes, around my face. Telling me that she likes the way I look, yet I could use a little botox. Here. And here.

I’m just grateful I can still see her. Appreciate her beauty. Beauty she doesn’t see. Her face is slightly asymmetrical. Acne was cruel to her as a teen. And she has an ever-so-slight overbite. Yet, I think she’s beautiful.

She doesn’t come around as often as she used to. She’s disappointed that I haven’t gone to get my head examined. Yeah, we fight about that one.

Plus, it seems when she comes over, we typically get loaded. Alcohol. Drugs. Bathroom cleaners. Whatever we can find, really. Next thing you know, we’ve spent three days in bed with no pants on.

And I’ve barely gotten it up during those three days. Sadly, I wasn’t making that one up. No wonder she hasn’t come around. Maybe someone else is satisfying her.

She’s still in her twenties. Albeit, late twenties. Her good options are dwindling. Her poor options will always orbit her. No one will ever love her like I do—yet that’s not enough.

No, I don’t know why she ever loved me.

She’s still here though. Less so than she used to be, but she always finds her way back.

I wonder what she will do when I’m gone?

I’ve got regrets... but I don’t regret a single day I spent with you.

Wait. I regret one. The one that changed the course of the entire relationship. The one you could never let go of. The one day/morning/moment I can never take back.

You wanted it to work. We both did.

I frustrated you. In that critical first moment. And I broke your heart. And our relationship...

[ more.. ]

“Can you tell me why you like me so much?”

The question she asked was sincere. She’s looking up at me, with those deep brown eyes... yearning for an answer. I don’t have one.

Does it matter why, my love? Is it not enough that we are here, right now, in this moment? What purpose will it serve feeding your ego at this moment.

Yet it does matter. She’s visibly getting angry. She’s been hurt before. She wants to know that this is real. That it will last. That I’m the one.

Yes, this is real. No, it will not last. No, I’m no one.

I am only here to remind you how to love. How to feel again.

They say everything happens for a reason. I disagree. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t believe everything happens for a reason we are humanly aware of.

I can’t tell you why I “like you so much.” I am still trying to figure that out.

Yet I do. Like you. I like this moment. I love providing you glimpses of safety and security. I love being inside you. I love your touch. Your smell. Your taste.

I sense that you want me to tell you that this is permanent. Nothing is permanent, my love. Forever doesn’t exist for people like us. We are here now. Can’t we enjoy the now? Without clouding it with the fear of the future? Because it is fear. You’re already dreading the thought of being without me.

Let’s enjoy this moment now. So what if I can’t tell you why.

“Come. Shower with me.”

Love is giving someone the power to destroy you and trusting they won’t use it.

I have been thinking a lot about life and love lately—in the shadow of so much death. I suppose we each handle death in our own ways. I suppose.

And I’ve been getting to know someone. She’s an incredible young woman. Beautiful and vibrant. Curious and sensitive. At the risk of sounding cliché, I can see the future in her eyes.

Those deep, beautiful brown eyes.

The speed with which we went from strangers to intimate was breathtaking, yet organic. It’s like we’ve always known each other, yet each yearns to learn more.

But she’s afraid. Of the cascade of emotions. And this is what breaks my heart.

We’re taught that emotions are weakness. We’re taught that we can think ourselves out of crisis.

This society has created a lot of people out there who are not capable of true love, which ruins the field for those of us who are capable of nothing else.

So, she has found someone who loves her and will take care of her. And she has withdrawn. If this is the end of the affair, I will be sad, yet without regret. She knows who I am. We are no longer strangers.

In the shadow of death, however, I fear losing her… and all of my loved ones. Losing contact.

At any moment, my light could go out. Or hers. Flame extinguished. And if we’re out of touch, how would the other know?

Imagine, the horror of discovering the one person you had to build up the courage to join, the one you want to pursue your fantasies and desires with... only to find he or she passed away a few weeks ago. Isn’t it better to experience waves of the good feelings over the bad?

We’re all going to burn out. All of us. Death is not a trend, it’s a part of life. We need to stop losing our valuable time thinking about what could happen and risk a little heartbreak. The love we gain is worth it, and we deserve to feel loved. Wanted. Desired.

Discovered today this li’l nugget written August 29 of last year.

I emerge from the kitchen and round the corner, heading toward the bar. That’s when I see him.

Standing there, alone. Looking cool, with his long, curly hair, brown leather jacket, and perfectly coiffed eyebrows. He spends more time getting ready than most women I know—and I look homeless.

And his precisely groomed handlebar mustache. Seriously, who does that? Yet, it works on him.

His back’s to me. He’s slowly spinning, taking in every corner of the room. Owning it.

Yet, suddenly, all I can see is her. Rising up above me like an angel. Arching her back as she raises her glorious tits off my chest, beads of sweat glistening. Then she comes back to me. I’m instantly lost inside those hazel eyes.

Our mouths meet, hungry! We devour each other as I pull her close. My God, she’s incredible. I want this woman.

The memory of last night is fresh, as I return to the present, Jesse still turning, still scanning the room, still standing next to the bar. My bar. Our eyes finally meet. Does he know?

I swallow. Hard. A beat passes. Two.

I begin my approach as he takes his first step towards me. Shit.

I still don’t know if he knows. Fucker.

My mind is racing. Do I even have a defense?

“Here are the facts your honor. The defendant left the bar with his girlfriend at 7:23 pm. At 3:17 am, he called her cell phone as he got off work. The conversation was brief, and at that time she stated she would be home by four.”

She was. I made sure of that. I was two blocks away from her place when she texted, confirming she’d arrived safely. Followed by a shower selfie. It’s still in my phone.

Somehow, I’m still maintaining my cool as I near Jesse. Does he know? Anything? Everything?

“Jesse, how’s it going?” I ask, betraying nothing.

His congenial smile returns as he extends his hand. The man has a good, firm handshake.

“Great! Lydia wanted dinner, and suggested here. It’s one of her favorites, yet it’s been a while.”

“So, she’s here?”

At that moment, as if on cue, she appears behind him, returning from the washroom—a vision in a small, slinky black dress. She locks those beautiful eyes on mine as she approaches Jesse from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist.

My lord. Why am I a better second boyfriend than a first? I feel a slight twinge of longing. For a moment, I’d love to be sitting across from her. I’d love to have this woman in my life.

Yet, I don’t. Jesse’s girl. Fuck. How cliché.

“I have the perfect spot. A corner, window seat, with a view overlooking the city. Right this way…”

I lead them to a secluded booth in the corner of the restaurant. My section. Why do I do this to myself?

As she slides into the booth, I am not seeing the beautiful dress at all. She’s still nude. Glistening. Shit, I can still taste her.

And she is smiling at me. Genuinely.

As Jesse sits, her focus shifts to him. I present the menus under the candlelight. Their hands meet on the table. A beautiful couple.

“Enjoy your dinner,” I tell them as I turn to walk away.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, barely a whisper.

“… For everything.”

I awoke with a start. Someone was banging on the door. Hard.

“Jesus,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”

The clock on the nightstand confirmed it was just after three in the morning.

The banging persisted. Whoever it is, they want in.

I slide out from the warm covers and reach for a pair of jeans. Boxers. Anything. I fumble for the light switch before cracking open the door to peer outside. “Shit,” I think to myself. “I know these guys.”

Larry and his father push their way in.

“Where is she?” Larry demands.

“Where is who?”

“Don’t be a jackass. We know she’s been sneaking out at night. Her friend, Misty, suggested we check here.

“You’ve got quite a reputation in town,” Larry’s father accused.

“I’m sorry, sir. If you’re talking about Elsie, she did meet me several hours ago at the Century Club,” I replied, surprisingly calmly. “But we didn’t leave together.”

My composure was solid. I’d been expecting this confrontation. Elsie is an incredible girl, beautiful, witty and a sensational body. Yet, she’s also a nineteen-year-old Jehovah Witness girl. What’s a 22-year-old guy to do?

“She’s not here,” I finished. “Go ahead and look around.”

Larry is still visibly filled with rage, but I’ve denied him the satisfaction of venting it on me. His father looks resigned. Age and experience, I suppose.

I wouldn’t know. My veins are still pulsing from the intrusion. Yet somehow, I’ve never been so calm when confronted. I’m sizing them up. I’m twice Larry’s size, and his dad is... old. But, two against one? I’m not confident this will end in my favor if it escalates.

They both wander around the apartment. Larry peeks into the bedroom, but doesn’t go in.

“Larry, we’ve been looking for a while. Maybe we missed her, and she’s home now,” Larry’s father offered.

“Maybe.” Larry’s not convinced.

His dad turned to me, “Look here, you little shit, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but if you ARE seeing my daughter, that ends now. Got it?”

I’ve been confronted like this before. I have to suppress my usual “shit-eating” grin, so I look down. “Yes sir,” I say.

“Good,” Larry says. “If we have to come back here...”

“Got it,” I said, not letting him finish. Now, I’m annoyed. It’s late. Irritation has replaced my tiredness. Who knows if I’ll be able to get back to sleep?

“She’s too good for you,” Larry’s father finishes.

“She is,” I agree. “And she’s not here. And I have to work in the morning, so I think you should leave.” My temper slipped a notch.

After one more cursory glance around the apartment, they both move towards the door. Slowly.

“You’re not to see her again. Remember that,” Larry said as I closed the door behind them.

As I slid the deadbolt, the adrenaline begins to subside.

Damn, there was nearly a fight. In my own place.

Damn.

There’s movement. From the shadows next to the bedroom window, she emerges, wrapped in a bedsheet. My god, she’s so beautiful.

“Elsie, honey,” I start. “We need to talk...”

This morning, as you’re lying next to me, you look at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes and ask, “Do you fantasize about me?”

And I’m dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t.

I cherish this moment—feeling the warmth and softness of your naked body next to mine. The sensations are incredible. I feel alive, and I hope you do too. Your flushed cheeks indicate you do.

And the memories of what we did last night… and again, twice, this morning are as fresh as the morning dew.

I enjoy you immensely. You are lovely. You know how bodies were designed to slide together. You understand pleasure—and how to deliver (and receive) it.

Yet, fantasize? No. There’s nothing there.

Wait. That’s not exactly true. Plenty of my fantasies are truly a vast void. But there is one. There is one girl I fantasize about.

An incredible, tall, brown-eyed beauty. She’s the one I imagine walking hand-in-hand along the beach with. And curled up next to me in bed in the Marriott in Chicago. And exploring Ibiza. And sharing a bottle of wine with at an outdoor café in Bucharest.

Her. Not you.

Do I fantasize about you?

No, I don’t. And I don’t know how to answer your question. Without a lie. You don’t deserve a lie. Yet, you don’t deserve to be hurt either.