Friends

He felt kind of awkward as he stood backstage waiting to accept the award. It was true that he had spent a lifetime striving for something such as this. And he felt a certain satisfaction at what he had achieved.

Still, he felt there was something missing, and he knew what it was. And even though he had taken everything life had offered, he couldn't help but wish there could be that one thing more; and he had felt something of that throughout virtually his whole life, and while it was true that it didn't cause him any real concern, nor had it for some time, he still felt a little tug of emptiness when it came into his thoughts. “Professor Billings?” a voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He turned and found himself confronted by one of the auditorium ushers.

“Yes,” he answered.

“They said you wanted to know if all your guests arrived,” the usher said.

“Yes,” he answered. “That's right.”

“All here but one,” said the usher. “I hope you weren't waiting for anyone special, because it doesn't look like they’re coming. We'll let you know, though, if you want.”

“It was no one,” he found himself answering. “It was no one,” he repeated the phrase, somehow seeking reassurance that there was some meaning to the words.

It just kind of came over him while he was in the twelfth grade. It was not a planned development, and it was certainly nothing he could control. It first happened while he was in biology class. An extraordinary sadness descended on him while they were dissecting frogs. He found himself looking into the frog’s entrails and wondering if frogs had any awareness of what might lay in store for them when they were first hatched in the pond. And he felt the sadness start to come over him. It was almost a remarkably embarrassing experience, because his dissecting partner was a girl he was trying to impress, but he managed to excuse himself and head for the washroom where he splashed water in his face and tried to regain his composure. By the time he returned, she had already dispassionately carved out the unhappy frog’s heart, and he found the sadness had passed.

Over the next few weeks, the feeling returned, and while it was only a couple of times the first week, it was a couple of times a day by the third week. He feared its coming, and got so he dreaded the start of each new day. He could not understand what was happening; what was causing him to come apart to the point where he could not control his emotions. He found himself spending time laying on his bed, staring into the Maple tree outside his window, and avoiding social contact, because that was where it was more likely to happen.

Finally, he could avoid it no longer, and he told his father about it. He was puzzled and couldn't figure out what could be wrong with his son. If it didn't make you vomit, or your glands swell, Dad was pretty well finished as the family's medicine man. That meant it was time for the doctor, and the embarrassment of having to tell him about the problem. Why had this had to happen to him, he thought. He told his Dad not to worry about the doctor for a while, it might clear up on its own.

But it didn't. In fact, the feelings became stronger and stronger and more and more frequent. One night, he just woke in the middle of the night and started to cry. He cried silently under his bed covers, so he wouldn't wake his brother, but he couldn't stop and he couldn't get back to sleep. In the morning, his father phoned the doctor.

“Gos,” said the doctor, in one of those kind of bassie voices that doctors are supposed to have. “Your father is kind of worried about you.”

“Well, I'm kind of concerned too,” Gos said. “It's been kind of scary.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “I'll bet it has. Now, you start at the beginning, and tell me what seems to be the problem.”

So, he started at the beginning, right back to when he had been cutting the guts out of that poor frog, and he tried to relate to the doctor exactly what had been happening to him. And it was almost as difficult in the telling as it had been in happening.

When he had finished, he sat back exhausted; or perhaps emotionally drained better described his mood.

“Well, Gos, you've been having quite a time of it,” the doctor understated. “Let me see if I can get this straight. You're having these feelings of uneasiness mostly in social settings. You've only had it that one time in biology class in school.”

“Yes,” answered Gos. “That's right,” he added, putting it in that context for himself for the first time.

“I think, Gos, that you're having something that many people your age get, but you're getting it a little worse,” the doctor said. “You're a bit nervous and anxious socially, and it's causing you some anxiety. It's the anxiety that makes you feel uncomfortable.

“Ten or fifteen years ago, you might have had a problem, but there have been advances made, and we can easily treat it,” the doctor continued. “Now, I'm going to prescribe some medication for you and it should fix you right up,” he said, reaching for his prescription pad and a pen. “If it doesn't, I want you to come back and see me right away. Understand?”

He nodded and stuffed the prescription into his shirt pocket, thanked the doctor, and was on his way. That had been easy, he thought.

He started taking the medication on the day after he saw the doctor, a Saturday, and things went smoothly until Wednesday, when he actually worked up the courage to go to the restaurant with the gang after school. It the first time in several weeks; since his feelings had started to overwhelm him.

He sat in the booth surrounded by his friends; people he had grown up with, with whom he had shared life. He watched, as was his habit, while they laughed and talked. He found himself drawing ever inward and felt a feeling of uncomfortableness starting to come over him. He tried to banish it from his mind, but the harder he tried, the more he found he was retreating into himself and the sadness was coming. He felt the tears coming, and he was trapped in the back of the booth and could not bring himself to excuse himself. He sat and was overcome by a profound sadness and he started to cry through eyes tightly closed to hold back the tears.

“Gos,” Sharon said. “What's the matter?” she asked, sympathetically, as a hush fell over the booth, then, it seemed, over the restaurant.

He made as if to go, and they parted for him, but in those couple of moments, as he sstruggled to make the door, his world came apart.

He told his parents that night that he could not return to school.

“I can't face them,” he said to his father, as he lay in a fetal position. “I just don't think II'll ever be able to face them.”

“You can't live the rest of your life up here” his father said. “We've got to find out what's wrong and try to get you some help.” He paused. “We’ll go back and see the doctor. He'll know what to do.”

“He didn't know what to do the first time,” Gos said.”

“Give him another chance,” his Dad said. “I'll phone him in the morning. In the meantime, though, you keep taking those pills he gave you and try to go to school tomorrow. If they're really your friends, they won't care what happened in the restaurant today.”

“Yea, I know,” said Gos. “I'll try. Thanks, Dad. I feel better.”

“You want to come down and have some supper now?” His father asked.

“Naw,” answered Gos. “I'm not really that hungry. If you don't mind, I think I'll just stay up here for a while. I'll come down later, okay?”

As Gos lay there, looking out into the Maple tree outside his window, he felt confusion. Why has this happened to me, he asked himself. Am I losing my mind? Why has this happened to me? The question kept looming in his mind. Then, slowly, gradually, from deep in one of those corners of his mind, the thought started to come; in the form of a question at first. Can I face life like this? He recoiled at the thought. But before he had completely managed to dispel it from his mind, it started to strengthen itself out and to answer itself. I can't face life like this, the thought came.

That night, as he lay in his bed, sleep would not come. At first, his mind was bombarded with thoughts about returning to school, and what he would have to face on that front. Then, he found himself starting to try to unravel what it was that was happening to him. What is wrong with me, the thought came again and again? Then, regardless what he was thinking about, sooner or later, came the thought that was no longer causing him uneasiness; but was starting to sweep across his mind and leave it with a certain tranquility. ‘I can't face life like this’, it came.

Finally, long after the moon had arced through the big Maple, and passed to the other side of the house, he fell into a kind of semi sleep. He continued to feel as if he could sense what was happening outside his mind and in the world of reality, but at the same time his mind was dominated by dreams; dreams rich in texture, filled with luxuriant colours, and oddly shaped beings who loomed out at him from inside his mind. And his mind was completely quiet.

In the morning, when he heard his mother's voice calling him for breakfast, he felt drained, both emotionally and physically. He fought to return to the world of reality, but the half-sleep tried to linger and to hold him a while longer.

He forced his eyes open, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, assuming a sitting position. He found himself staring blankly at the blueness of the painted wall, and studying the shape of a hole in the plaster; following the outline of its jagged edge with his mind. Although he felt himself awake, he could not force himself fully back into the reality of the situation. It was like the night, where he had sensed reality and experienced the dreams, only now he was sensing the dreams and experiencing the reality. But he was confined in both worlds, and unable to place himself in one or the other. Both represented his reality.

He drifted into the bathroom, and splashed water in his face. He stepped back and regarded himself in the mirror, but he was only able to see blankness, and found his senses overwhelmed by the sound of the water splashing into the sink and down the drain. He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. What…. is…. happening…… to…. me?

As he sat in the huge plushness of the chair, he found his gaze transfixed on a rather large mole on the psychiatrist's cheek. How does he shave, Gos wondered. and just when he felt on the verge of asking, the man's incredibly monotonous voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Really, Gos,” he was saying, “what's happening to you happens to most teenagers; only in your case, it seems to be a little more severe.”

Where have I heard this shit before, thought Gos.

“I believe your doctor was on the right track when he prescribed that medication for you,” the doctor was saying, “but I think you just need to come here and talk to me a few times and I'll help you understand what's bothering you. That, in combination with the proper dosage of medication, should have you back and behaving normally in no time at all.”

Gos’ mind was back on the mole.

“Do you understand, Gos?” asked the doctor, a little louder than he had been talking, bringing Gos back to reality.

“Do you understand?” he repeated.

“Yea,” said Gos. “Sorry.” he said, apologizing for not paying attention. “Anything that you think will help. I'm pretty confused. The pills didn't seem to be working - I can't manage like this. I just want to feel better, like my friends.”

“Don't worry. We'll work on things. You'll be fine, once we get to the heart of the problem; and we'll do that in due time,” the doctor said reassuringly.

There was what could have been considered a pregnant pause, before a new chapter in Gos’ life started to unfold; the world of psychiatry.

“Were you best breast fed by your mother?” the doctor inquired.

“Pardon?” was all Gos could manage.

‘I asked you if you were breast fed by your mother,” the doctor repeated.

“It's never really came up in the conversation,” Gos answered, as the mole again came into focus, “but I could ask if you want,” he continued.

“No. It's alright,” the doctor said. “We can find that out later.”

And so it started. Gos sat through a relentless round of questioning about his recollections from the womb, his first images of his father, whether he could ever remember he and his father taking a pee together when he was small. All very important stuff, he thought.

He attended three more sessions with the good doctor, before he finally figured psychiatrists out. They never thought you meant what you said. You had to be constantly on your guard so as not to be tricked into revealing something hidden deep inside; something the good doctor could twist and turn in his mind, until he had twisted and turned it into a completely different something.

Meanwhile, back on the other side of life, at school and in his social life, he lived a kind of half-life, avoiding real social contact, except when it chanced upon him by accident. He found he was alright with one or two close friends, or in class, but beyond that, life was devoid of pleasure because of the fear of another ‘anxiety’ attack, as the good doctor had labeled the intense feelings that came over him. He had had it explained to him that if the attacks went unchecked by medication, they could lower him into depression, and that was what had happened. He would not soon forget the eerie dreamlike reality he had existed in as the depression had placed him in its grasp and threatened to squeeze the life out of him.

He kept his visits to the psychiatrist a deep, dark secret, because he was unsure how others would react. He had never heard of anyone visiting a’ head doctor' in the small town where he lived. In rural Ontario, people went blindly about their business. If life got to be too much for them, they headed for the beverage room until it became more tolerable. Once, he had even heard his mother and father making hushed comment about a guy who lived in ‘Slabtown’, the other side of the tracks, hanging himself in his attic. But, while he appreciated that many of the rich and famous had analysts, and they were really just psychiatrists, he had never heard a real, actual person admit they had been to see a psychiatrist. So, he rather assumed that if you were just an ordinary soul, you didn't tell other folks that you might have a “loose screw”, or that you were under psychiatric care.

One day, as he stood waiting for a class, a girl came to stand in his line of vision. His eyes met hers, and he felt a kind of lightheaded sensation for a split second, before he looked away in embarrassment. Much to his surprise, when he again looked toward the girl, she again met his gaze, and this time they stood locked in eye contact for a brief while, as he found himself unable to break away. Only the opening of the classroom door broke the contact and brought him back to the physical reality of the moment.

A couple of days later, as he was hanging out in the after school hangout, waiting for a friend, the girl again surprised him, this time by slipping into the booth across from him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he answered, fumbling awkwardly to move his books out from in front of her.

“I'm Cathy. I'm in your English class,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “I remember. I've seen you.”

And he had seen her, but until the other day, and again today, he had not seen her in quite this light.

“I’m Gos,” he said.

“Yea, I know,” she said.

There was a pause in the conversation. Gos wondered if there was a point to this. Maybe there was a point and he was supposed to see it. In any case, she had to break the silence.

“I like the things you had to say in class about the Catcher in the Rye,” she finally said. “You seem to be able to get so into it.”

“I thought it was a great book,” he said, not mentioning that he was probably one of the few people in class who had actually read the book, and only then because of his lack of social life.

“I liked it too,” she said, “but I have to admit I really didn't understand what it was all about until you started explaining it in class.”

“Well, remember, it was only my way of looking at it, and like Mr. Bowles said, there are always lots of ways to look at books and other art. Different people see different things in stuff like books.”

“Yea, I know,” she said, “but sometimes it just makes sense to look at a book in one way or another, and that was the way I felt when you explained Catcher in the Rye.”

“Well, like I said, I thought it was a great book,” he replied.

There was another pause in the conversation and he realized that he had felt fairly comfortable talking to her; and that he hadn't felt an overwhelming urge to head for the hills the instant she had sat down.

In fact, Gos was starting to see a point to this whole event. I think she likes me, he thought. He searched for some way to follow up on his thought.

“Cathy, he blurted somewhat awkwardly. “Would you like to go to the coffee house with me on Friday night?” He added hurriedly.

“Sure,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Sure,” she repeated.

They sat looking at each other for a couple of more minutes, then he felt an urge to forget about waiting for his friend, and to get going.

“Hey,” he said, feigning a look at his watch, “I've got to get going.” He started to collect his books and get up from the booth.

“So,” he said, as he started to head for the door, “I'll see you here about 7:30 on Friday.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure,” she repeated.

And he was gone.

He found himself thinking with apprehension about the meeting Friday. But, when he felt a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach, he remembered the feeling of comfortableness he had felt when he was with her. He hadn't felt anxious when he was with her, and that had given him the courage to ask her for what amounted to a date. And he had not been even close to a date since he had started having the problem. Despite the fact he felt uncertainty, he forced his emotions in line, and struggled to think positively about the impending event.

And he found that he managed to think positively about it. As a matter of fact, and much to his surprise, he actually found himself looking forward to it. There was no question that the anxiety continued to come, and that he found himself constantly on guard against it, but he continued to feel that he could contain it, and keep it somehow controlled. By Friday afternoon, he had almost started to think of himself as normal again, now that he had a real date. Still, he didn't spread it around, because if a lot of the other guys knew, they would just put unnecessary pressure on the whole affair, or so he thought. So, he had just quietly mentioned the coffeehouse rendezvous to his parents as they sat watching television the night before.

“That's nice,” his mother had commented.

“Good for you,” added his Dad, just as Maxwell Smart answered his shoe phone.

When he arrived at the after-school hang out at about twenty after seven on Friday evening, the place was deserted. You just didn't go to end after-school hang out on Friday evening. On Friday evening, you went to either the arena or the coffee house, and that was exactly why he told Cathy that he would meet her here. They had smiled and exchanged polite hellos in English class for the past couple of days, but there had been no conversation beyond that, and he wanted a little time to become re-acquainted, or perhaps even acquainted, before plunging into the social outing that lay ahead.

He stood outside the restaurant instead of bothering to go in. For the first time in the last couple of days, he was feeling real nervousness and anxiety, and was wondering if he would be able to control it, while at the same time struggling with a profound feeling that he could not; that there was a chance he might come unravelled at this apparently critical juncture in his young life. It had started as a somewhat gentle gnawing in the pit of his stomach while he had been passing a razor over his sparse growth, and had grown in intensity to now, when it had reached the point where a part of him seemed to want to remove itself from the situation. He tried flooding his mind with thoughts of the girl, he had seemed to feel comfortable with her image since their meeting the other day, but even that did not have the desired effect, and he found himself swallowing frequently, as if trying to force the feelings back deep inside him where they could do no harm.

Then, she came.

“Hi, Gos,” she said cheerfully. “Hope I'm not late.”

“You're right on time,” he said, trying to sound equally cheerful.

“I was shopping with my Mom, and she got talking to somebody,” she said. “You know how it is?”

“Yea,” he answered.

“Want to go in, or head right to the coffee house?” she asked.

“It's up to you,” he said.

She paused for a moment, as if thinking over her options.

“Let's go in here,” she said, surprising him a bit. “There's plenty of time to go to the coffee house.”

“Yea, great,” he said, following her through the door.

The anxiety had started to subside the instant she had arrived on the scene, and now, as he followed her to a booth in the restaurant, he was feeling much more sure of himself. He was extremely glad she had opted to start the evening out in the deserted restaurant, instead of the coffee house. This would give him time to adjust to her, so, hopefully, he could at least feel comfortable with her, if not with the entire situation.

They ordered cherry cokes and sat in a kind of an awkward silence as they waited for them to come. Gos wasn't sure if it was his play or not. He wasn't even really sure if there was a play to make.

“I don't see you out too much anymore,” she said, solving his momentary dilemma, but causing another.

“I don't get out much,” he said in obvious understatement, as he searched about for what he could tell her.

“I do a lot of reading,” he finally blurted into the pocket of silence that had followed his previous remark.

“I can tell,” she said. “Whenever you talk about anything in class, you always sound like you've actually read it. Most of the guys are always faking.”

“Actually, I think most of them have read the classic comic book,” he said, surprising himself with his bit of wry humor.

She laughed. “You're funny,” she said.

“I like to read,” he said. “Most of the guys I know, and some of the girls,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her, “think there's something wrong with reading and liking it.”

“Hey, I like to read,” she said, defending herself.

“I'm not saying you don't,” he said.

There was a pause while the waitress put their drinks on the table.

“And what do you read?” he asked, after sampling the coke.

“I like science fiction and fantasy,” she answered. “I hate that crap we have to read in school.”

“Some of it’s alright,” he responded. “But I know what you mean,” he said, “some of it's not the greatest stuff.”

There was a bit of a pause, while they both sipped on their cokes, and he found himself thinking that the anxiety had gone, or rather had merely been forgotten.

“I read some science fiction,” he said, interrupting the pause. “I just finished a series about a counter-earth.”

“Really,” she said. “The Gor series by John Norman?” She asked.

“Yea. You know it?” He countered her question with one of his own.

“I've heard of it, but I heard it was one of those women-as-slaves books, so I've sort of avoided it,” she answered.

“I guess you could say that,” he admitted. “But I hope you won't think any less of me because I told you I read it.”

“Hey, it's not really that I'm condemning that kind of writing, but I just don't get into it myself,” she said.

There was a pause, and he felt kind of self-conscious and incredibly stupid for mentioning that he had read something of which she obviously disapproved. He was almost afraid to speak, for fear he would commit some other gaffe, again before even realizing he was doing it.

But, he battled the self-consciousness into some faraway corner of his mind, and pressed on.

“So, what are you reading now?” he asked.

“I've just started a trilogy called Lord of the Rings,” she answered. “I'm about halfway into the first book and it's the greatest thing I think I've ever read,” she bubbled enthusiastically. “You wouldn't believe it. If you like goblins and trolls and stuff like that, you'd love it.”

“Hey, I'm into that,” he said. “I like reading about stuff like that.”

And they sat and sipped on their cokes.

“Let's not go to the coffee house?” she suddenly suggested.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“What would you like to do?” she asked, turning the question around on itself.

He thought.

“There's not much to do around here. The arena for roller skating or the coffee house. Or, we could go for a walk down in the park by the river.”

He surprised even himself with his suggestions.

She thought.

“I like the sound of the river thing,” she finally said. “I'm not really in the mood for all the gang at the coffeehouse. Maybe we could just walk down by the river and talk.”

“I'd like that,” he said, and he knew that he would.

And that's what they did. And it had been a long time since he had felt so very comfortable doing anything of a social nature, let alone something that was as completely social as this. But that was all they did was walk along the river and talk. And Gos wasn't sure whether there was something else he was supposed to be doing or not. He certainly felt himself attracted to this girl, he'd had a hard-on back in the restaurant booth, and had felt a certain amount of embarrassment because of it, but he somehow felt he'd be taking advantage of her if he attempted a sexual advance, and he did not want to give the impression of trespassing on her, and to possibly interfere with what had been a near perfect evening of quiet conversation and a companionship that he had needed, even if he had not realized it.

So, he made no advance. They talked and he watched her smile in the moonlight, and he continued to feel an increasing closeness to her.

And when he walked her to her door, when it was near the time when she had to be home, he wasn't sure whether he should make a move or not.

She turned, when they reached the door.

“It was great tonight,” she said, taking his hand. “You don't know how great it is to go out with somebody and not have them try to undress you in the first half hour. You're a gentleman and a scholar,” she gave a little mock curtsey.

“It was a pleasure,” he said, bowing low.

Then, he turned and walked off into the night. He felt a type of calm satisfaction and wondered if there could somehow be more.

They became friends, fast friends, and he discovered that only through her did it seem possible for him to control the anxiety and to again live, at least in a social setting. He felt at ease with her and sought to be with her. Together, they started to explore life and to find their way through it. And what had seemed a bleak and grey landscape turned technicolor for Gos, as feelings and thoughts he had not felt before began to stir in him.

But it was as purely platonic as there could be. Even though there had been opportunity aplenty, Gos had not been able to approach her in a sexual manner. They would walk and talk for hours, but he did not even take her hand, even though he sometimes thought he could feel a type of energy exchanging between them as they walked. He was attracted to her, there was no question of that, but it was as if he could not, or would not, risk what he already had, despite the fact he knew there was a possibility of much, much more. She had brought him to life, and she seemed satisfied with the arrangement, so he allowed it only to happen, and did not force the issue, and waited patiently to see what would happen.

It was during this period of intense friendship that she made a simple suggestion. It came as they talked about the feelings of anxiety that had come to haunt his life and the periods of depression he continued to encounter as made his way from childhood to adulthood. When he was alone with her, he felt safety from them, and she even seemed able to protect him to some degree, when she persuaded him to venture out beyond their own little world. But life remained a somewhat difficult and troublesome place, except when he was with only her.

“I wish I could get you to go out more,” she said one day, as they were braving a cold winter's night to share some companionship.

“You know what always happens,” he answered, alluding to the anxiety that had made a habit of engulfing him.

“Yea, but there's got to be some reason for what happens to you,” she said. “And I've been thinking about it.”

“Have you now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And don't get that ‘leave me alone with my problem’ look,” she chastised… “you're miserable about it. And I can't believe the doctors can't do something about it.”

“Hey, calm down,” he said. “We've been through this all before. If I knew the answer, I’d do something about it.”

He pulled his coat collar up a little higher to shield him a little better from the wind.

“I think it's got something to do with you being a sensitive guy,” she said.

“You think I'm a sensitive guy?” he asked, in a kind of joking manner.

“I not only think you're a sensitive guy, I know it,” she said. “Every time you get up in English class to talk about something, you give yourself away. You just see things differently from other people. You can understand better what the writer is trying to say. The rest of us struggled to find all these hidden themes and stuff, and you just know what they are.”

“And that makes me a sensitive guy?” He asked, interested to hear what she would say.

“Yea,” She responded. “You feel what other people don't.”

“I guess that's my bad luck,” he said.

“What would make you say that? she asked.

“Well, look at me,” he answered. “I'm a goddamned hermit. I can't go out in public without coming unglued. If it wasn't for you, I would barely ever talk to a soul,” he said, looking over at her to see if she would sense what he was trying to tell her.

“Yea,” she said, continuing the psychoanalysis, “but that's because you've no way to let out all that extra feeling. You've got to find like an outlet for it. It's all bottled up inside you and that's what causes the problem, I think,” the last bit showed a sudden intrusion of uncertainty into her line of reasoning.

“But, listen,” she said, “what do I know? I'm sorry. I know you don't like to talk about this stuff and I should respect that. And like I said: What do I know?”

“No,” he said, “I'm interested in what you think. Maybe I don't like to talk about it, but sometimes I think I need to talk to someone about it; somebody besides those damned shrinks.” He showed irritation when he added the last bit.

They walked along, their boots crunching on the fresh snow, and they were quiet with their thoughts.

“So,” he finally said, breaking the momentary silence, “what do you think I should do?”

“I think you've got to find some type of outlet for all those feelings you've got inside of you,” she said. “I think if you could get them out of you, that it would help.”

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he paused for long enough to kick a frozen lump of snow about twenty feet down the road, then he chased after it, giving it another kick that turned it to snowdust. He jogged back to her side, puffing heavily and breathing the frozen air deep into his lungs.

“And,” he said between gasps, “what would you suggest?”

“You should take up painting or something like that,” she said, picking up right where she had left off.

“I can't paint,” he lamented. “I'm the most unartistic person I know. I always failed colouring in public school because I couldn't stay inside the lines.”

“You're a smart guy and you've got feelings, and that tells me you've got a lot of creativity,” she said. “You're so great at English, maybe you should take up writing.”

She seemed to add it almost as an afterthought, and it had an innocent enough sound to it. As a matter of fact, he had always had immense admiration for the writers of the day, and found he easily lost himself in the world of books.

“What could I write?” He asked kind of half sarcastically.

“You should try putting what you feel down on paper,” she said. “Try to make people see things the way you see them. I think you've got such a neat way of looking at things, and such a great sense of humour; I think other people would find that interesting too.”

“Maybe,” he said somewhat reflectively. “Maybe,” he repeated softly.

That night, as he lay on his bed just sort of staring off into space, and in the considerable afterglow of her presence, found himself thinking about what she had said. But what would I write about, he found himself thinking. But, even as he was thinking, he also climbed out of bed, and found himself a pen and paper, settled in in front of the old orange crate beside his bed, and poised himself to write. And so it began.

And so it continued. His life continued as a kind of shadowy-grey, except on those occasions when he was alone with her, but it took on a somewhat different hue with the writing. Somehow, as she had suggested, it seemed to give him an outlet for the anxiety he felt. Even though all he was really doing was keeping a diary, and not writing the stuff of great literature, he felt somehow contented when he finished his musings each night and replaced his pen back into the primitive pen and paper holder he had manufactured in woodshop, and which now grace the top of the orange crate that had become his desk.

She had suggested he write what he felt, and that was what he did, but after he finished the writing each night, he placed it back in the bottom drawer of his dresser, under his summer things, and well out of the view of another human. These were his private meanderings, and he could not bring himself to share them with anyone; even Cathy when she asked. And he started to become most comfortable when he was in the writing, where the world outside could not get at him, and where the next thing he would commit to paper was predictable, and the only thing irrational was of his own doing.

But something else continued to occupy his mind, and he found it creeping into the writing until it was doing so to the near exclusion of everything else. And that was the relationship with the girl. Because it sort of had to be called a relationship. They were, after all, spending considerable time together, and tongues were starting to wag, as the saying goes. Although they talked about nearly everything within imagination, the topic of themselves was strangely avoided and always absent from the conversation. He thought he knew how he felt about her, but he could not bring himself to tell her. And so he waited. And he wondered. He wondered if he should continue to wait, or if there was something that should be done; and whether he was the person who should be doing it. For a while he was content, and didn't really mind the waiting, he felt concern that there was an expectation to the situation and that what was expected involved him.

Sometime later, as he was standing in the change room after gym preparing for the daily embarrassment of undressing in a room full of relative strangers, the guy at the next locker over made an innocent enough remark.

“So, you getting’ much off old Cathy, Gos, old buddy?” he asked.

Gos wasn't sure what to say. If he admitted that he was getting nothing out of old Cathy but a little friendly companionship, he'd get laughed out of the place, and was quite likely to be tagged as a queer, which is what they probably called guys who spent a lot of time with a woman and only talked to her. On the other hand, if he told some wild story about his sex life, the truth would surely come back to haunt him. So, he did the only thing he could think of doing; he just sort of lied.

“I'm doing alright,” he said, rather quietly.

“I'll bet you are,” the guy said, and the guy two lockers over made an indecent action with his hands. “I never noticed before,” continued the first guy, “but she's got quite a set of knockers.”

“They are great,” Gos said with some embarrassment, as he hurriedly shed his gym suit and started to get dressed, so he could escape from what he considered an unwanted and somewhat vulgar intrusion into his personal life.

“Well, Gos,” said the guy, “I never thought you had it in you. You're so damn quiet, but I guess it's like they say it’s always the quiet ones, eh?”

“Yea,” answered Gos, as he pulled up his fly and finished buttoning his shirt, “I guess I'm just one of those quiet ones alright.” He stuffed his shirt-tail into his pants.

“Well, I've got to be going. I'm going to be late for class,” he said, as he hurried through the door and terminated the conversation.

But it got him thinking. And it made him wonder about the waiting.

Later that day, as he and Cathy sat in the restaurant after school, sipping on cherry cokes and sharing a bag of chips, for the first time since he had known her, he felt an uncomfortableness between them. He found their conversation filled with seemingly awkward pauses; spaces he felt an urgency to somehow occupy, but which he found he couldn't.

“What's wrong, Gos?” she finally asked, shattering his belief that the awkwardness had been his alone and had been outwardly imperceptible. “You don't seem to be yourself.”

“I'm alright,” he answered, and for the first time he felt he had not been truthful to her, and that he was somehow keeping something from her.

There was another of those awkward pauses, before she spoke.

“You don't seem okay,” she said. “You seem anxious, or something, and I can't remember seeing that in you like this before.”

“I guess I've just got some things on my mind,” he said, coming closer to the truth.

“And you don't want to talk about it?” she asked.

“it's something I think I'm just going to have to sort out by myself,” he answered. He paused. “It's nothing major. It's just something stupid.”

He looked up and their eyes met and he could almost feel the hurt in her eyes at having been rebuffed.

He wanted to tell her, but he couldn't. He felt he should reach out and take her hand in a way he hadn't before, and that he should ask her what she wanted, if this was enough, or if there was a feeling that there should be more; the kind of feeling he had; and the kind of feeling others seemed to have. But the words would not come. Instead, they lingered in him and would not come to the surface.

And they sat sipping their cherry cokes surrounded by the quiet awkwardness that had grown around them; or rather that he had allowed to grow around them.

Then, they said a quiet goodbye and slipped off toward supper in their respective homes.

Gos stayed up late into the night that night. As he sat on the corner of his bed, poised over his makeshift desk, the words poured from deep inside him and onto the paper. What he could not tell her, the feelings he was unable to share with her, the type of feelings he held for her, the way she made him feel. All of these things spilled out of him. And he learned as he wrote, and as he explored the feelings, that she had come to mean more to him then he had suspected. That the feelings of comfortableness and peace that he had first enjoyed her company for had perhaps been replaced by something else; something that wanted more than quiet conversation.

And that night, after he had slipped the sheets of simple prose into his bottom drawer, to a place where it would remain only his, and would be safe from others, he dreamed. And in his dreams, he saw only himself, standing alone in blackness. And there seemed nothing more to his world than himself, and a kind of void, where there were no others. But he knew, as he watched the dream, and himself in it, that he was afraid; afraid that he was looking at himself in life.

A couple of days later, when he walked into the school cafeteria for a spare, he saw her sitting in the corner talking to another guy. He had seen her in a similar circumstance many times before, but this time, he felt something move inside him, and he found himself turn and leave, rather than going over to sit down.

That night, when he phoned to see if she wanted to get together, her Mom said she was out with a friend. He felt profound disappointment come over him, that she should not be there when he wanted her to be. And he also felt an emptiness and an aloneness that he somehow felt could only be filled by one person, and it was she, and she was not there. And that brought despair.

The next day, he caught up to her at her locker before classes started.

“I called you last night,” he said.

“I was out with someone,” she said, and he thought he sensed awkwardness coming from her.

There was one of those awkward pauses.

“Can we get together tonight?” he asked.

She avoided making eye contact with him, throughout another pause in the conversation.

“I can't,” she finally managed. “I'm going out with someone.”

He almost asked who, but then realized that would only cause further embarrassment and awkwardness. Suddenly, he knew it didn't matter who. The mere fact that it was “someone” was sufficient.

“Alright,” he said, and he turned to leave.

“Gos,” she said, and he turned to face her.

“Yea.”

“I still want us to be friends,” she said.

“I'd like that,” he answered.

And he turned to go. And it was the last time they said more than a polite hello to each other as they passed each other in the halls of school, or saw each other in the after-school hang out, or shared an English class. Once, he asked her how it was going, but he knew he didn't want to hear the answer, because he was afraid of what it would be.

And he guessed they were friends.

Grocery shopping was one of Gos’ favorite activities. He liked to lean down over the grocery cart, and guide it through the aisles and around various obstacles with his elbows. He always felt right at home, as he glided through the supermarket, merrily filling his cart.

This week, though, he had waited to shop until just before closing on Saturday, and the place was teeming with people, all of whom had put off the weekly shopping until it was either shop or starve.

He was standing in the produce section, absent-mindedly waiting for a middle-aged housewife with curlers in her hair to stop feeling up the grapefruit and move her cart, so he could get his through, when he thought he caught a glimpse of her. He managed to rustle his cart through the mini traffic jam created by the prodding housewife, and set off in the direction he thought he had seen her go.

He caught up to her in the deli line. And by that time, and even from the back, he knew it was her.

She was intent on making her selection from the deli and didn't see him approach.

“Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” he asked, as he pulled his cart alongside hers.

She turned to face him, and he felt a rush of emotion rise in him.

“Gos,” she said, kind of asking for confirmation.

“Right,” he said. “I guess I'm aging well,” he added.

“You are indeed,” she said. “You look great.”

“You look alright yourself,” he replied. “It's nice to see you again, Cathy.”

And so he found her, standing in the deli line, waiting to get some cooked ham. It had been twenty years since he had last seen her, at their high school commencement, before they both set out into the world to see what it held in store for them, and to see how they would fare in life's travels. Still, even after all this time, and even after the way they had parted, he felt a specialness between them, as they stood in the deli line at the supermarket. And he found himself reminded of the way she had come to him in his dreams periodically throughout his adult life, and how he had continued to feel her presence in his mind sometimes even as he had gone about his daily tasks, and of the fondness with which he had always regarded her.

“How are you?” she asked, reaching out and putting her hand on his, as it rested on the grocery cart handle. She asked the question with a tone of sincerity and a tone that made him feel she was really glad they had chanced upon one another.

“I'm fine,” he answered, fully aware that he was smiling broadly, and unable to hide his own delight at having made such a discovery in the grocery market late on a Saturday afternoon.

Just then, a rather burly washerwoman sort of a person, angrily cleared her throat from behind them, making them realize they had bottlenecked the deli section and created a chaos of carts.

“Want to catch a coffee, when you're done?” He suddenly asked, seizing an opportunity to get them out of the dilemma, while at the same time hoping he could manage to continue the encounter.

“Yea,” she said, smiling, “I'd like that. That would be great.”

“I'll meet you outside the store, inside the mall,” he said, starting to try to untangle his cart from those of the impatient knot of shoppers that now surrounded him. “there's a coffee shop over on the other side,” he added.

“Yea,” she said, and he could feel a warmness to her reply.

Before she returned her attention to the deli counter, she turned again to face him, and smiled. And he felt himself wrapped in her, and he almost felt himself reach across between the grocery carts to touch her. Then, he turned and made his way toward the checkout. Then, he went to wait, and he waited with a type of giddy apprehension at the prospect of again sharing her time.

Finally, she came.

And they headed for the coffee shop.

He sat across from her, and regarded her while they waited for their coffee. He was aware that sentiment might be clouding his vision, but to him she appeared as she always had.

“It's nice to see you,” she said, initiating the conversation, “but I have to admit I wasn't expecting to run into you while I was doing my grocery shopping.”

“I'm just afraid to ask how many other times we've been in that grocery store at the same time and missed each other,” Gos replied. “I've been shopping there for years.”

“This is my first trip,” she said. “I just moved here about a week ago.”

“That's a relief,” Gos said. “I was afraid I'd been walking right by you, and I knew I couldn't have done that.”

There was a pause while the waitress brought their coffee.

“So,” he said, “How’s is your life going?”

“That's quite a question,” she answered.

“Yea, I know,” he said. “I've always wanted to ask someone that particular question, and you're my first period”

She laughed lightly.

“I don't know where to begin,” she said. “Maybe you should start.”

“Hey, I asked first,” he insisted.

“Yea, I guess you did,” she admitted.

And she told him the story of the past twenty years, in a kind of magazine article kind of way, and he listened intently, and found himself surprised, not that she had become a school teacher, and was now teaching high school English, but that she had never married, and had only recently ended the only long term relationship she had been in since leaving high school. It had been the breakup of the relationship that had prompted her to leave the city where she lived to move here, in a type of search for the proverbial “fresh start.” And here she was.

And then it was his turn. And he told her the story of his past twenty years, and of how he now taught English at the university, adding quickly that they were in the same profession, and of how he had never married, and had always lived alone in a solitar fashion and pursued an academic life. And that he had published several short stories and a couple of obscure novels.

“I'm glad you're still writing,” she said, interrupting the flow of the oral recap of his life. “You never let me read your stuff back in high school, but I always knew it would be good.”

“I said I'd had a few things published, but that does not a good writer make,” he said. “My stories haven't gotten the greatest reviews, and my books didn't sell too well. At first, I was glad that I'd gotten something published, but I guess the thrill has sort of worn off. I guess I got kind of conceited and arrogant and thought I was writing great literature, even if it was science fiction. Isaac Asimov I'm not.”

“I'm sure you're a great writer,” she said reassuringly. “You probably just haven't found your niche yet.”

“Yea, maybe,” he said, “Maybe.”

They sat quietly for a moment or two.

“I'm surprised you're not married,” he said, surprising himself with the statement, and with the fact that he would so casually direct the conversation toward the area he felt least comfortable talking about, but focused most of his inward attention on.

“And what about you?” she asked, turning his question around and re-directing it.

“Hey,” he answered, “you know me,” and he looked into her eyes and knew that she did know him.

“Yea,” she said, looking at him over the top of her coffee cup, “I do know you.”

They sought and continued to exchange polite chatter for some time longer, but they avoided any further personal comment, and instead talked over the state of the economy, the sad state of the television in this day and age, and the current government and its taxation policies. He found himself satisfied, and somehow glad, that she had developed the attitudes she had, and that, as had been the case all those years earlier, they still shared common ground on many topics, and were able to easily converse with a certain comfortableness and familiarity.

Finally, there was no avoiding the fact they could remain in the coffee shop, drinking coffee and renewing acquaintances, for only a limited amount of time. It was she, as he had known it would be, who said she had to be going. But he secured her address and telephone number before she went.

“Don't forget to call, Gos,” were her last words, as she headed in the opposite direction in the mall.

And he knew he wouldn't.

As a matter of fact, he had to fight back an urge to call her again that night. And when he did first call her, after what he thought was a polite and acceptable length of time, and not one that made him appear over-anxious, and impatient to renew a relationship, which was exactly what he was, they agreed to have dinner.

And after he had made that first call, and they had shared dinner, and had a seemingly wonderful time, it seemed only natural that he should continue to call, and that she should also call him. And that's what happened. And they began to share each other's company on an increasing basis. And he found it exhilarating to be in her presence, and the more he was in it, the more he wanted to be in it. And she seemed the same.

But he lived with fear that she did not feel the same, and that somehow, he was leading with his emotions, and that there might be a price to pay. For nearly twenty years, he had lived relatively alone, he had not even bothered to clutter up his life with any real friends, but that had been mainly because he had found few people who interested him to the extent where he would want to spend time with them. But he certainly felt differently about her and found himself hoping he would be in her company as frequently as possible. Although she seemed anxious to spend time with him, and seemed to enjoy his company, he kept reminding himself that she had only just moved here from somewhere else and knew few other people besides him. Even now, on the rare occasions when she attended some school function that he knew about, he felt a little uneasiness, that could perhaps be interpreted as fear; the fear that she would again find him to be not enough, as she had before, and that she would meet someone else, and he would be without her.

He had never been bothered by his solitary existence. It had always seemed natural and comfortable to him. He was able to live as he wanted, to do what he wanted, to do it when he wanted, and with whoever he wanted. After watching colleagues struggle with their matrimonial ties, as if they held them securely in an onerous and abhorrent place, he had come to believe he was not so badly off, and that he could be living in a more difficult predicament.

But she seemed to have changed that. Where before, he had been content to settle in with a good book, and to lose himself in the plot that unfolded on its pages, he now found himself filled with restlessness and the desire for companionship. At first, when he discovered this new desire, he had taken to calling her, but then checked himself, afraid that perhaps she would tire of him, or that he would become a nuisance. So, he did something completely out of character; he started to frequent a little bar in his neighborhood. And on the occasion he did, he rarely spoke, other than to order a drink for company; instead, he sat by himself, but somehow content that others were about.

Still, it seemed they continued to spend more time getting to know each other again, and the more he renewed her acquaintance, the more comfortable he felt around her, and the more some haunting old questions started to find their way in among his other thoughts. Should I do more? Or does she expect more? Or am I compelled to do more?

And he guessed that sooner or later there would have to be some personal discussion. But he knew that it would be she who would precipitate it, and it came as little surprise that the topic finally came up, after they had drank a bottle of wine, and while they were playing Scrabble on her living room rug.

“It's been great getting to see you again, Gos,” she said, when they were taking a wine break between words. “I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't come along in that supermarket.”

He wasn't sure how to respond.

“I'm just glad I ran into you,” he said, a little hesitantly. “I've liked spending time with you, too.”

“Well, Gos, you were a great friend to me back in high school, and you've been such a good friend again now,” she said. “I can talk to you like I've never being able to talk to anyone. They can say all they want about girl-talk, but just give me old Gos any day of the week.”

He wasn't sure what to say.

“Really, Gos, I'm not sure what it is, but I've always felt like you were a close friend,” she continued. “Remember back in school. I used to tell you stuff I'd never have told anyone. And you were the same.” She paused to take a sip of wine. “We just seem to be on the same wavelength or something. And it's so great to be able to have that kind of relationship with a man.”

Now he really didn't know what to say. But he knew he felt a certain embarrassment, and he wasn't sure why. He couldn't deny that he had been hoping there could be more, and now, inwardly, he felt crushed, as well as embarrassed.

He looked over toward her, as she sat on the rug with her legs folded up under her, and he thought how radiant she looked and how much she had meant to him through two periods of his life. And how much she meant to him at this very moment in his life. But he could not bring himself to confront her; to tell her that he somehow wanted more than he had. He could sense the thoughts forming in the back of his mind, but he could not bring the words to the surface. He could not jeopardize what there already was, for what there might be.

“Hey,” he said, tipping his wine glass in her direction, “if I can be of service.”

“Oh, Gos,” she said, reaching over an running her fingers lightly through his hair. “You're great.”

He felt himself blush, but that was the only outward expression of what he felt. He smiled and he blushed, but he did not speak.

He did not speak, as she moved to his side of the Scrabble board, and they started to intertwine on the rug. He closed his eyes tightly, and hoped he had entered a zone of timelessness from which there was no escape. He felt himself coming closer to her, and they kissed. And for an instant, if only an instant, he felt himself fulfilled, and a surge of warmth held him secure.

Then, it was over, and she pulled back slightly. He opened his eyes and saw there were tears on her cheeks.

“What's wrong?” he asked, extending a finger and gently catching one as it slid down her face.

“I'm sorry, Gos,” she said softly, “but I just don't think I can. I'm not sure why, but I just don't think I can. I'm sorry if I was coming onto you.” She looked away from him.

He also started to withdraw himself from the physical encounter, pulling himself back to avoid further emotional hurt; because that's what had happened. The instant she had pulled away, he had felt something had been taken from him, or rather that he had lost something, and there would not be another chance to recover it.

“I'm not sure I understand,” were the words he managed to stammer.

“I'm just not sure I'm ready for another relationship yet,” she said, “and I'm afraid if I get involved with you, things might end up out of control.”

“I'm not sure what you mean by that,” he countered. “Maybe it would be alright if things did go out of control.”

“Gos, I think you're a great friend, and I respect and value that friendship,” she answered. “I'm not sure where I would have been over the last few months if it hadn't been for you. I mean that,” she said, emphasizing the last phrase and adding more sincerity to her voice. “But I'm not sure I want to get into anything more.” She paused. “Can you understand that?”

He wanted to scream” No!” at the top of his lungs, but he knew from the sound of her voice that there was little point in bothering to discuss the issue further. He felt a certain disappointment, but, really, was surprised that it wasn't a deeper feeling, considering his feelings for her had spanned two decades. While she had said she respected and valued the friendship they'd had, he could also lay claim to those sentiments, and he found that he would not risk, or could not risk, that special relationship. He found that when push came to shove, he wouldn't attempt to impose his feelings on her, or even to make her aware of the full scope of them, instead choosing to quietly withdraw his emotions and return them to a place where he now felt they should have stayed.

“Yea,” he found himself answering, “I think I do,” he said, adding a slight smile, intended to say he meant it.

She smiled back in a way that brought that richness and warmth to what he had been feeling.

“I'm glad,” she said.

But he wasn't sure that he did understand.

So, he guessed they were friends.

They continued to share each other's company, but there was a subtle change in the chemistry after the Scrabble game. He tried not to pay any attention to it, but it had occurred and there was no escaping that it affected the way he interacted with her, and he thought she with him. There seemed to be longer, and somewhat awkward, silences over those late night coffees, after they had taken in a movie, or some other such social event.

She stayed for only a year. It seems she found a department head’s job some distance away, and had decided it was the best thing for her career. So, she had decided she could endure another move.

He felt a sense of loss as he helped her get her apartment in order just before the move, but did his best not to show it. He smiled in what he thought was a brave manner, as she gave him a little kiss on the cheek, got in her car, and drove out of his life, the second time she had passed that way.

They corresponded for some time. He even went for a visit, and they had a pleasant time. But he knew it was time to quietly excuse himself from her reality, after she mentioned a guy called Dave one night when they were talking on the phone.

She sent him a Christmas card that year, and he hurriedly returned the favor.

But, much as he had after she had first passed through his life, he found himself continually confronted by her, or at least her image, after this passage. He would often find himself thinking idly of her, and wondering what she was doing, as he prepared the following day’s lecture, or tried to work on the halting prose of his next mediocre novel - and she continued to visit him in his dreams. And as often as she came, he wondered what it was about her that held her in his consciousness. He could not understand the closeness he felt toward her, even though it was not apparent that she felt it toward him, or that she ever had. And yet even though there appeared to be no bond between them, he continued to feel a special attachment, and, in fact, relished the feeling, and waited for its next coming.

One night, some years later, as he lay sleeping, and perhaps hoping for a familiar dream, she came again. Again he could see her image existing placidly within him, watching him, always surrounded by an angelic aura, and with a special softness, and richness of texture that threatened reality.

This time, as he dreamed and saw her image, it changed, and rather than seeing only her, alone inside his sleeping mind, he started to see her walking in a winter's scene. Gentle snow fell around her, and slightly obscured his vision of her, and any trace of any background but the whiteness. Then, he felt himself come alive within the dream, so that he was no longer watching her as an outsider, but had become part of the winter dreamscape, lost in a snowy wonderland. But he stood alone in the snow, because although she had precipitated the dream sequence, and although he sensed that she was still a part of it, he could no longer see her image, but only the dim outline of another, walking against the white winter wind and into the snow. He tried to force himself, or rather his dream self, to draw closer to the outline of the image, but found that while he possessed the ability to sense himself within the dream, he did not have the ability to control his self within it. So he slept, and dreamed, and inside the dream, he waited for her to draw closer.

And she came, sliding effortlessly through the whiteness that surrounded them, but she came only close enough so he could be sure that it was her, then she stopped and stood, and seemed to observe him as he stood, barely out of arm’s reach, and waited. The fur from the hood of her parka encircled her face, framing a vision of soft beauty on the winter’s white canvas.

Still, he could not come to her, and she would not come to him, so they stood and each regarded the other. He felt he wanted to communicate with her image; to ask her why it was she came, and while she was denied to him in reality, she seemed always to be a part of his mind, and his thoughts.

But the snow fell heavier still, and the wind started to blow in fierce gusts, so that the dream became only his consciousness, alone and lost in the whiteness.

Then, he forgot, and drifted on the sea of sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, he was pleased that the dream accompanied him to the reality of the day. As he sat eating his Raisin bran, in the silence of his apartment, he felt her presence within his thoughts, but it did not cause him bother, as it had on some other occasions, when he had been left with a wanting and desire. Instead, it seemed to give his mind an envelope of peace and warmth, and to make his thoughts float serenely within, and he found himself smiling contentedly between mouthfuls of cereal.

After finishing breakfast, he phoned the university and told his secretary that he wouldn't be able to make it for classes that day. He didn't really give a reason; he wasn't sure he could have; not one that would have much meaning for another.

After he got off the phone, he walked to the extra bedroom, which served as his den, and where his great oak desk an antiquated typewriter were located. He fed a sheet of paper into the aged machine, and sat quietly for a few moments in front of its keys. Many times he had done this since that night so long before when he had hunched over the orange crate in his bedroom; when he had written those first few tentative lines, when he had poured his emotional self out onto paper, and when he had finally found himself during his teenage life. But, today, there was a difference to it. He could not understand why, but he felt a desire to re-create his feelings for her; to again pour out his emotional self onto paper, only this time to try to bring her along; to try to sustain the image of the dream outside his mind.

And so he wrote.

And so it began again.

And so he guessed they were still friends.

# # # #

And so he had really begun his writing career. and it had blossomed, to the point where he had given up his teaching job and concentrated only on it. And honours and awards and accolades had all come his way. As had wealth and fame.

He had not seen her again in his life's journey. He continued to dream of her and to think of her, and to wonder how she fared, and whether she had found the happiness she sought, and whether she had found companionship, or lived life alone, as he had. He thought only fond thoughts about her, and wondered if she ever thought of him.

Now, he had won the highest honour a writer of prose could win. It was a crowning achievement for a life spent writing and pouring out emotion onto paper, and using that emotion to make others laugh and cry and feel. But he knew that somehow it was her that had shown him how it was and how to do it.

So, when he was notified that he had won the award, and when the man came with the official letter, and his twenty passes to the award ceremony, he had known that he wanted her to have one of them. He felt that she should somehow share in his moment of accomplishment.

He had no idea what had become of her in life, so he hired a private detective to locate her; to see if she had even managed to survive the rigours of life and reach retirement, as he had.

The detective found her quickly, but on instruction did not reveal himself to her, and only deposited the invitation to the ceremony in her mailbox, while she was out walking.

And, now, Gos waited backstage. But she did not come.

And, finally, the moment was at hand.

On stage, the master of ceremonies was saying many kind things about him by way of introduction, and he poised himself for his entrance. But he found his mind clouded with a memory of a friend; someone who had been lost those many years ago, and had been maintained only through his mind and in his writing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of the master of ceremonies, “I give you Dr. Gos Billings.”

Gos walked out onto the stage and into the brilliance of the spotlighting, toward the podium, as music from a movie whose screenplay he had written, echoed through the hall.

He accepted the award, and faced a standing ovation. Then, the houselights dimmed and he found himself looking out into the rows of contemporaries and well-wishers. He took the podium squarely in his hands, as he prepared to speak; to say thanks for his career. He had rehearsed the speech many times.

Then, just as he was about to speak, someone slipped a note in front of him and disappeared again off stage.

He unfolded it.

“She's here,” was all it said.

He felt a rush of warmth and contentment come over him. Thoughts of her flooded his mind. But there was the speech.

“It's a great honour for me to be here tonight,” he started in somewhat halting fashion. “When I was a young man, I wasn't sure I could become anything….. but I suppose many of us are like that…..”

He had rehearsed the speech many times, but it would not come.

“I'm supposed to stand up here and thank people,” he said instead. “And I guess I could do that….. I could thank my parents for bringing me into the world and making me the type of person I am. Because that obviously had something to do with why I write the way I do. And I could thank all my various colleagues for their input over the years, because they have helped, and I can't deny that. And I could say thanks to this publisher or that editor for their valuable help over the years.” He paused. “I guess I want to say thanks to all of those people, and I do.”

“There is someone else who has shared a part of my life, and who deserves some credit for this,” he said, holding out the award in his hand. “She likely doesn't even know what she has done, or why she is here tonight. Once, though, she taught me to use my emotions to create and to take advantage of a natural talent that lay hidden inside of me. And if you think I write good, passable prose, it is because of my ability to make you, the readers, somehow able to feel the same emotion I feel when I write. Somehow, she had given me the peace of mind needed to keep my emotions in check, so I could control them and give them life on paper, instead of them controlling me, like they did before she came into my life.

He paused.

“Anyway,” he said, “I want to say a special thanks to a special lady and thank her for being a friend; no more, no less. There was a time when I wanted so much more, or I thought there was so much more, but how could there be? For some reason I could not begin to explain, or even understand, why this lady became a part of me many years ago, became a type of soul mate to my emotions, and I will be forever thankful that she came into my life, even for only brief periods.”

He felt emotion well up inside of him and threatened to overflow into his outer world.

“I've got to go,” he said, rather abruptly. “Thanks,” was all he added, as he held the award aloft once more, and headed out away from the public glare.

He walked hurriedly to the tiny area that had served as his dressing room earlier before the show. He instructed the young girl outside the door that he did not want to be disturbed. And he went in to be with his thoughts.

He waited until he heard the noise in the hallway out-side the room die down; until he imagined he had waited everyone out, and there would be no one to bother him.

He had known she would be out there, probably wondering why he had not even come to say hello; why he had made such a speech, then fled and hidden himself.

But, for some reason, he knew it was her that he avoided, and could not bring himself to face. He had so badly wanted her to come and now that he had said what he had said, he felt he had somehow shattered the mysterious relationship he had had with her for all these years, and indeed throughout his life.

As he exited the auditorium through a side door, he was greeted by a gust of icy, winter wind and snow. He paused after he had stepped out of the door and looked up through winter's whiteness toward the street beyond.

And he saw an image of someone, standing, and waiting. And even though the gusting snow obscured the image, he knew it was her just as it had been in the dream. This time, however, it was reality where the image existed, he walked toward it.

“Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” she asked.

“Yea, I think so,” he answered. “But you'll have to help me out,” he added, pretending not to know her.

They stood and regarded each other, and even through the snowy cold, he felt a warmth between them.

“Want to grab a coffee?” she asked.

“Yea, maybe,” he answered.

“Maybe we could get together for a game of Scrabble,” she said.

“Yea,” he answered, “maybe.”

And he guessed they were friends.