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Then it happened as it always does. I'm always found out. I can't keep it a secret.That I'm too selfish, too greedy or too weak.Or maybe it's not things that I have in excess; maybe it's the stuff that I don't have in adequate measure. I'm not kind enough, not brave enough, not there enough.She asked me, "What do you expect of this?" and I didn't tell her, though I knew exactly what.I expect I'll make you happy for a while, then I won't be able to any more.

It was supposed to be a great weekend. One of those great weekends. My lover was coming over. We were going to have a great time. We would start by meeting at Garden City. Smile at each other from the distance. Soon we would be sitting very close together, closer than most people in public places sit. We would let our hands and fingers move over each others nape, knees, collars, waists, cheeks, with the same ease and familiarity with which they move over own own bodies. I would look at her as if she was the central point of all vision and she would look at me as if I was the only real thing in the mall and we would laugh and joke and laugh for hours. Then we would go home and walk around naked because we were not scared of arousing each other and when she would leave she would leave me happy but I would feel sad.

Sitting on a restaurant balcony, leaning back, wearing blue jeans, a button down shirt and a subdued manner while a pretty woman smiles and speaks and shines and glitters and tells me stories. The clouds are low and dark, threatening rain that will, it turns out, not fall until late in the night. The tea is tasteless. Four hours pass by. Somewhere a king is crowned, somewhere a hero slays a dragon, somewhere a deal is signed and billion dollars are made. The world is full of greater men and more momentous deeds but I think that life is contained in seconds, not in epochs. Somewhere a mountain is scaled. Here, here I made a pretty girl laugh.

This saxophone is made of miles of silver and each finger on each key touches the truth. His fingers dance over her keys like the crackle of electricity sparking over the eternal wires beneath the sublime, animating the ethereal under and around us. She speaks in riddles but just because we don't immediately understand does not mean she hasn't just said the names of each and every one of us and just because these stories have been told before, just because the same tale was told by Dizzy, by Ella, by Bird, by Miles, even by Kirk Whalum, doesn't mean that each time, each and every time, the tale was not freshly spun. The sound curls through the air towards us and cradles in our earlobes and, like a newborn child, declares this home and falls asleep.