kentucky vintage '78.

She’s got a memory like a slow watermill. Hold, turn, spill. She keeps everything she needs for as long as she needs it, and then she lets go. Anything she forgets, she scoops back up again.

Abou’s emotions passed like the seconds of the shot clock. His parents said he could watch until 8:15, but they wound up watching well past 10 pm. The Lakers won in overtime, but it wasn’t a pretty win. Howard missed 12 free throws and Kobe shot a measly fifteen percent from the field. They all sat and cheered on the Lakers, like a family, as if nothing had really been said. Later, while the rain still struck the rooftop, hard, like the rhythms of the Sabar drum, Abou cried. It was soft enough so that his parents wouldn’t hear, but loud enough to cry out to his Grandpa Idrissa, who was many lands away.

And all of it asleep on a Saturday morning in the Haight, rustling through the paper at the Gold Cane Bar and pressing a can of Pabst to my head, still recovering from that cross-country flight. I got in late last night and we slept on the cold floor of her friend Cassie’s stout, angled apartment until Cassie left for work early in the morning, and we crept together, naked, into the warmth of the lone bed – hiding under a comforter, pulling it over our heads, leaving our dangling feet exposed but breathing each other’s warm breaths in our makeshift fort.

The front doors open again, and two more Elvises walk in – one’s a GI Elvis and the other one’s the Elvis I like, the one with the gold jacket. They both head back to the beer fridge, and keep the door open so the whole room gets some of the cold air.

Drizzle or downpour. Torrential showers or light dew. Bipolar weather conditions coinciding with their mood. But who could blame them for any hint of bitterness? They rode the crest of waves and were diminished directly to foam. They do their best to deal with unresolved feelings. On good days, raindrops trickle down upon skin like infant laughter. Goosebumps develop like a delightful Morse code reply.

The walk up to the restaurant is nice. A calm breeze blows small bits of trash up the street with us as we walk. Kids ride their bikes along the sidewalks and across the street, wending and looping like small human roller coasters.

The telephone poles looked like crucifixes. I had the time to contemplate them, and that was how silent it was. We all remained inside like the person on the radio demanded us to. We looked out the large window, having pushed aside displays of shelved books and tea sets to see the large, male tiger, his testicles hanging noticeably from his crotch.

When Simone first met Nigel, she said his fascination with chupacabras was cute and liked that he was so curious about such a mythical thing. But when Nigel made the chupacabra’s mating sound in bed, she rolled over and curled up underneath the covers, shivering like she had ants on her skin. Nigel tried to bring the mood back, saying it wasn’t creepy at all and completely natural.

He wants to say something, and then thinks about how odd or sad it is that this exact collection of individuals will never again be recreated in all of time and history and then he decides to ask her a question. He might not have much time—she is probably going to transfer to the express at 72nd—of course she is—faster. He slowly turns to look at her eyes, which are currently three inches below his own, focused on the yellowed pages.

There were ten dollar seats on the foul line near first base to watch the Fisher Cats play the Newark Bears at some car dealership’s branded stadium. It was actually impressive for a town that size. The concourses still had a new car smell, and the maintenance crew hadn’t given up on the painted concrete floors yet. I’d bought us all the essentials for enjoying a minor league baseball game; namely, about ten beers. This required going to four different stands, but it was worth it for sure.

Hadn’t she also thought she’d heard, as soon as she walked in the door: the shrill, high-pitched giggle of a girl upstairs, in his room? Grabbing his collar, she pulls him roughly to her, thrusting her face close to his, smelling for the strong, offensive odor of another woman clinging unpleasantly to his mouth.

The chum spread across the tranquil blue waters, slipping slowly away from the boat like a stain. Of course it would bring the sharks—we had already spotted three or four, closer to shore, and sharks were a “guarantee” on this tour. Captain Starkey had promised us first thing this morning: ‘You’ll see sharks, me buckos, or you can take me other eye from its socket.’

When the call comes, I am in the car, hundreds of miles from home. David Gray is playing on the radio, singing about love and loss, things I know about, things that are deep inside me. I turn the music down and look for a spot to pull over, knowing that I have to focus on what they will say. There is a small gravel area off the side of the road and the tiny rocks crunch under the wheels of my car as I slow to a stop.

My third-floor uncle had wired a ham radio into the main wing’s audio PA, making our hospital’s paging system “state-of-the-art.” Grandfather and appah had their radios mounted on filing cabinets, but it was really my grandmother and the nurses who had mastered the new technology: voices that would shoot static into the air and clip—louder than necessary; voices with a Taegu twang, a lazy drawl that lead patients one step closer to healing. I wondered why so many people were in such pain. I wanted to help.

I’m still vibrating and the cold only magnifies the erratic movement of my limbs but for a moment afterwards our eyes meet. Connect. I look past the kaleidoscope designs of them. Past the small flecks of hazel in his green eyes and I feel I can see his soul and I remember why I fell in love with him in the first place.