" the night that never happened - a story "

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when i first saw her, she was sitting in one of those beautifully plain, orchid-colored, faux-velvet den-chairs; her long legs folded over one another like two freshly baked loaves of bread.

i passed her on my way to the safe counter, with it's delectably ornate desserts displayed with a special care to color and lighting. she smelled the way the earth smells after the passing of a torrid monsoon; an overswept lush clean that resembles the way people would smell if they washed their bodies raw with the galaxy.

she was reading a copy of "not only black and white" magazine, carefully taking in the photographic panels before casually flipping through the leafy tome. i ordered a tall hazelnut steamer because it was 2am, and it seemed like the right thing to do.

i was just about to nestle into the thickness of my new david sedaris novel when i heard a lovingly raspy voice say, "hey...i don't think you remember me, but aren't you that guy that sold buttons at that thing?" i looked up and my body turned inside out.

"yes, yes i am," i replied like a complete doof. she sat down next to me on the oblong couch and told me that her name was martina. she whispered in my captivating ears that she wanted to buy some more buttons, but could never find me after the last comic con ended. i fainted on the inside and died a tiny death.

i told her that i had a machine at my house that could make any button she wanted.

we stole away into the night with our reading paraphanellia tucked under our collective arms. we went up into my cluttered studio and made a makeshift bedding on the floor near the heater.

the hours languidly flowed by with half-spoken sentences and hot toddies. we told each other secrets using only our eyes, and passed the night away exploring the landscape of each others' bodies. she said to me that she always knew that we would find each other, and that when the moment arose, she couldn't help herself but to take the risk of the moment. i told her, "some people wait their whole lives to be found."

in the morning we made blueberry pancakes in our underwear and took some self-portraits with my raggedy holga. she sang me a song on a broken ukelele and i fell in love with her by the silent bowl of my porcelain tub. we kissed a new-lover's kiss good-bye and she descended lengths of the staircase as she walked out of the door; her smile mirroring mine in perfect parallel reflections, which glowed inside long after her departure.

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