by Sandra Beckmeier

Staring into the mirror, she winced at the thought of a spring and summer spent in retribution of ethereal love. Fate was calling to her in her sleep, maybe it was just the message, but not the warning. The mirror responded to her. "Sweet lady on the wall, don't worry about leaving it behind. Forget. Sharpen your tact, strengthen your wise, go to sleep and shut that eye."

Her interior was the garden and the best kept secret she only understood by sharing through the power of a pen. Yet, failing anyone she cared for was like failing herself with an angry veil. Her character matched in the bedroom of thought, but lost in the judgement of another heart.

She walked outside to her porch, a traditional way to digest an onslaught of too much thinking, or maybe not yet enough.

There was always something to spy on, however insignificant, to take her mind off of her mind. Especially in the parking lot across the street. She spotted a couple arguing under an unforgiving afternoon sun. A young man leaned against an old Cutlass, arms crossed in dignity, as if he truly believed in his stance of close-mindedness.

She watched his movements, sharp and repetitive. "I thought it was always that women are the ones to carry the chips." Obviously enraged by something distressing, she listened closely as he fired the words -- shots at his girlfriend, who was clearly less interested in his refusal.

"You don't care about me!" He screamed. "The minute I turned around you were talking to John, just like last week! You don't care about me! As a matter of fact you don't care about anyone but yourself! You are a bitch Lacy!"

The girl stood in silence for a moment collecting thought, obviously more tactful than her counterpart. "I was just asking him for his notes on the class. I am not a bitch! What is your problem?"

"Jealousy." What was more obvious was the level of intolerance -- too high with a countdown for rebuttal. Sure enough, but it was the girl who inexcuseably pushed him, and dropped the book in her hands at his feet. He stared at the ground, then followed her to her car, swiftly side-kicking the door as she unlocked it.

"Is that love?" she asked while looking at the sky.

The mysterious West Avenue biker passed by, donning his green felt hat whistling to her in usual fashion. He smiled and waved. "You got a basket!" she yelled while forming its shape with her hands through the air.

"Huh?" he mimicked, while stopping to hop down from his bike. He gently dropped it in her yard and climbed up the tiny staircase.

"Your basket," she pointed. "It's new."

"Yeah, pretty cool huh?"

"With a touch of sincerity even," she laughed noticing the small plastic flowers lining the bushel. "You know what is strange, somehow you always just seem to appear." Her eyes widened. "Maybe it's your hat," she said, touching a piece of it. "It's so bright it always catches my eye."

"Well you know in real life I'm a fairy," he suggested with matter-of-fact sanity.

"Is that right?" she asked, raising one brow.

"Yep."

"I don't believe in fairies," she said shaking her head. "I believe in angels."

"Fairies are much more reasonable than angels."

"I don't think so," she responded smiling. "Angels have purpose and carry meaningful messages. Fairies are just pixies steering other people in tiny circles, like a spinster."

"Well there are angels of DEATH, same 'mind' thing. What do they do to a traveller?" he asked. "But let's just say for the sake of fun this fairy is positive."

"Not a trickster or a siren?"

"No, with a message and everything -- just like an angel."

"Like what?" she asked, tasting sarcasm in his tone. "A line, or something truly thought provoking?"

He stopped for a moment, pursed his lips to the sky, while resting his hands on his hips, "I give," he sighed. "He who knows he has enough is rich."

"Poverty is my pride." she said in a self-satisfying rush of exaggeration.

"Okay," he smiled, pausing, "Excess and deficiency are equally at fault."

She cocked her head to the right, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

"What?!"

"Wait, I have another one," she said.

"Good, because I'm getting lost in your transaction."

"I can't believe you picked up on it in the first place. Let's see, that person who lives completely free of desires, without longing attains peace."

"Do that include...?"

"Keep going," she laughed.

"I can't now."

"Yes," she smiled. "you can."

"Okay, give me a sec. I can tell you're about to get really technical on me here, gotta find an escape. Let me think," he said. "She'll bark or she'll cry," he mumbled. "Here goes nothin' -- reestablishing meaning in a chaotic thought system is the way to heal it."

"You think so huh?" she asked. "Love means different things to different people, and urgency has no place in love."

"Yes, but we are all just dreamers in a world of dreams," he said, walking down the stairwell.

"And they are all different," she said kissing him with her eyes.

"I told you I was a fairy," he teased, tossing a leg over his bike.

"A pixie," she whispered.

"And I have an open mind."

"Then you are truly one with a sense of purpose."

"Not really, I just talk a good talk."

"You can't fake that," she said.

She watched him ride back the way he came. "I didn't even ask his real name. That was rude."

I have to check out of this hotel. The moon belongs in her place with the night, a true feeling of light. And the sun with its truest setting. The sun sets in the east, not the west. Love without trust is impossible. Attacking love will keep it hidden for it can only live in peace. With love inside, no one has any need except to extend it. Love without compassion is imagination. An intruder is not a lover but a thankless thief drawing water from an endless well. Those who let illusions be lifted from their minds are the world's saviors. Surely I am old enough to know that I hold my own key in grace. Someday I'll find a love all my own...