"The reconstruction of memories invokes possibility." Slavery left a wake of 12 million empty spots, walls long crumbled, a people surviving on the waters, dance that celebrates narrow victory over the white savages raping a beautiful continent. Narrow victory, survival is. How important is this memory, this unspoken tale which begs for voice? Is this truly a living wound which we must attend to by tearing open the opaque scabs of forgetfulness, applying a healing salve which may burn a cleansing flame so hot we cannot see, only feel ripping through tortured bodies, a nightmarish dance whose rhythm is endless and unforgiving?

There are blue flies in the bathroom, I am sure they have stolen from a streetcar named desire and are hiding there. No one will think to look for them here. They flinch but do not budge when the points of water that explode from the larger drops cascading and crashing down from above bead up on their wings. When they have had enough, they politely move up the grey tile only to find rest once again. They are actually grey themselves, tiny oval bodies with translucent wings folding out like stubby paper airplanes, but when I see them I can only think of describing them as blue. Blue, yes, they are blue, and they can only think of sleep. Perhaps they were once people who worked very hard in past lives and never were able to rest before the wheel of rebirth completed its cycle. Whether or not this is the case, it seems that they maintain a tranquility which I do not observe among many people in this world. And then I see their remains, brutally smashed against the dull tile, smeared, the ounce of lifeblood that ran through that tiny figure smudged sacrilegiously amidst evidence of cruel dismemberment. And those still living take there rest mere inches away. Why did you erase this meaningless, harmless, insignificant, unworthy, life? Though the blue flies say nothing, somehow, they are a comfort to me. Perhaps they are little spirits which find rest in the corporeal world, or enter into the souls of small beings in practice for something larger. I imagine tails of flashing sparks whip through the dampness in their wakes.

How quickly feelings may change. And yet, love is unmistakeable, its absence equally so. I really had fun on Saturday, my first real date. Ay Jy is cute, quiet in a way which does not remind me of quiet, but of patience or amusement. Yes, that is it, she is amused by what she sees and smiles easily. Her hair preserves well that mushroom shape, dipping slightly as she looks down and bites into a raspberry jam filled donut held with both hands. She says she is having trouble expressing her thoughts recently, that the words just don't seem to come to mind when she wants them to. Is this because of me?

I think I am beginning to understand what the world is like for people who resort to dating because they have not fallen in love. It is a healthy and growing rapport that we share, but I cannot help but feel that it is somehow unreal, that it is fed by curiousity more than by passion. We begin with a mutual trial, we submit our papers to each other for evaluation, we attend our hearings, present our cases, formulate our verdicts, and eventually, declare them to each other. Calculation, summary. But it is nice. To visit someone and notice that moment of bated breath - oh, it's you. And when we danced, we put our hands together, and our fingers wove together, tightly. There is nothing more sensual than this perfect fit, nothing speaks more of need or possession, fingers wrapped, locked, fused, inside of one another. In the name of dance we joined hands and we stepped closer than we probably will again, for a long time. Lights flashing, pounding music, two people in harmony because they are connected, they have filled in the empty spaces, or else the spaces have somehow escaped, and now they sway slowly, twice as slowly as they should, savoring slowness of shifting left, then right, wait left, pause right, until the music fades, and in the silence they are left in the music of their own movement, and hate to stop.

Then we bought donuts. Then we made tea, and using teeth to keep the leaves from rolling into our mouths we had a late night snack. It reminded me of freshman days, where long nights spent in conversation were the only important memories. Photos were shown, histories were delved. I found myself thinking about asking her to stay for the night. Perhaps I wasn't thinking straight, I don't even know now what that might have meant. Well, I trust myself, I would have been very good, no funny business, just fun, me on the floor, her on the bed, gazing at the ceiling and falling asleep mid-sentence. Both dropping off, waking up to each other on a bright Sun day. I should have walked her home. The Confucian thing to do, the way I see it now, and I regret not having done it. I guess I can be a hopeless romantic even when I'm not trying. Or maybe I'm not, it's just one of those occasional seizures of pride that makes me think I could make any woman happy, and therefore should set my standards accordingly. What do I know? Well, then we hugged. "Can I get a hug?" I asked. And that closeness was so, so good, and it lasted longer than I had hoped. There was feeling in that embrace, perhaps recalled emotions. The end of a perfect date. Flawless, I am almost inclined simply to polish it in memory and do everything possible to avoid chipping it, scratching it or letting it get dusty. But that would be ridiculous. As I said, I am curious. And it is nice.

Nice...

I know you will understand my innocence, that we are bound by a tacit agreement to freedom, free of the bonds of expectation, yet carrying the full weight of love and promise. The contradictions of waiting do not seem to me so hard to understand.