The sheer white curtains run from ceiling to baseboard. From time to time, they billow out silently across the hardwood floor. The sound of a drop from the bathtub tap is clear. I have awakened. It's late afternoon. Andrea isn't here. I am still. We are always together. I don't know where she has gone. I am alone. In this ancient apartment, silence defines you. Our ancestors, the people who filled in Boston's Back Bay and who built this house on it, their quiet lives still echo in these halls. And so do ours. We echo still. The front door opens and I hear footfalls against the floor. Andrea's hand is on my head. I put my arms around her waist and lean my head against her. I can smell the grocery store across the street in her clothes, so I don't ask. I'm glad she's back. I hold her tightly. She knows. We are on the subway. Her head is on my shoulder and my head is on hers. We are holding hands, but we don't speak. The mainstream people ignore us. New Englanders can be so polite when they don't otherwise know how to react. It's that not-knowing that connects us to them. They wear ties, but somehow they are "our" people. Andrea and I are reading foreign magazines in Harvard Square. One day there will be only telephones, and babies, and mortgage payments. There will be appointments and deadlines. We will have "discussions." Maybe one day we will be looking into each other's eyes and a big truck will hit us. Maybe it will be the day before graduation and we shan't have missed a day of this, and we shall experience nothing other. Maybe one day I will wake up and realise this was just a dream of an earlier time; it had already passed. I will be a thousand miles away from this place, with no Andrea and no home. Just pain. Maybe... We are walking on Beacon street. The light from the street lamps sparkle on the fluttering leaves. It's dark and cool. Andrea's hand is warm in mine. Tonight, we are silent and happy. And we echo still.

4 AM 22 Sept. 1998      San Diego, CA