#10: a visit

As winter blended into spring, Jessica began to fade from my life, she and I having both parted ways from the Philosopher. The few times we did meet on our daily forays in the bustle of the bazaar, she would invite me to call on her.

"Perhaps you will play for me, as you once did before?"

"Perhaps." But I would never sit for her again.

Still, I could not avoid the way her proud face became withdrawn, as she and I would pass slowly by like forgotten friends. Isn't this the folly of life—the serious quality that keeps us from loving without question?

In faith, I ached to reach out and feel her hand on mine. But she and I would smile and pass, careful not to turn around.

Shortly before the coming of the Midsummer harvest, Jessica became one of the sponsors of the city festival, and being a great admirer of plays, she sought out all the writers of our generation, personally calling on each one—most were eager to oblige. She came to my door lastly.

I have always enjoyed the house gardens, and that was where she and I sat, thoughtfully picking through a vine of grapes.

"The Mene Luna ..."

I came to a start, and finished my last bite before saying, "That was for you."

She never looked more distant to me, as that day when I sat with her on the same bench, sampling those green vines. "Eurymachus."

"Yes, Jessica."

"I'll never forget it."

I thought to say something on her mural, but she rose and without looking back, asked if I would be attending the festival.

"Certainly. Good luck."

Thus, she arranged the folds of her toga and swept out of my court.

—Eurymachus, March 06, 2003