Dubious Moves

The ice cubes in the glass rattled as he drained the last of the clear liquid with a grimace. I politely raised my own glass as he stood up, though it just contained water. "Vodka, life", he said, and smiled as he left. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation", I said automatically to his back. Another flight took off from the airport nearby, the gleaming metal tube with brightly lit window slits booming unnervingly close. And suddenly the sentence and the noise took me back a long time ago.

It was in a coffee shop in that city near the airport, bright lights and Paul Mauriat playing unobtrusively to the gentle clink of silver on china. We both knew that goodbyes were impending, and that what we'd shared was but a piece of time stolen from our respective worlds. Goodbyes should be brief, you said, and we both smiled at the reference. As always when under stress, I hummed softly. "I'm the truth you'll never know, I'm the place you'll never go". You joined in, "I'm the song you'll never hear, I'm the course you'll never steer". A few of the sparse 3 AM crowd looked incuriously at the two of us, and you smiled "But I thought you were more of a vodka man". I grinned. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation".

That was the city where I once enveloped you in my arms. This is the city where I open my arms wide and wider, wider to encompass your presence in my world.

That was the city where we walked on the roads late at night, laughing as we tried to hold hands and yet jump across the puddles. This is the city where I walk into potholes uncaring, lost in your thoughts.

That was the city where the roar of the early morning locals and the newspaper vans belted out an aubade before the sun's accusing rays sought proof of our hidden tryst. This is the city where the moon casts merciful shadows on the emptiness everywhere.

That was the city where I once sang to you dreadfully out of tune, and this is the city where music brings you to life.

That was the city where you once spoke at such length that you complained your throat was sore. This is the city where your silence is the subtext of every conversation I hold.

That was the city where your gossamer fingers once soothed me. This is the city where the liquid caress of your memory startles me as I drift into sleep.

That was the city where I once traced songs of love across your back. This is the city where I paint landscapes of my solitude in the inky blackness of the night.

That was the city where hope once fluttered like a page in the breeze settling down. This is the city where I crumple pages full of writing.

That was the city where we were lovers.

This is the city where I fell in love.

One city a figment of imagination that has never quite faded, and the other a reality that has never completely dawned.