Happy Saint Gall Day!

I keep thinking about trying to breathe some life back into this thing, but I really can't settle on what I want to do with it.  I've spun around a half dozen topics in my day, from writing to sports to stories about my genitalia to the ancient world, with a healthy dose of science and religious history tossed in for good measure.  Do people still even read blogs?  I don't know.  I'm so out of the loop.

Yet, here I am, rolling back to one of those topics that I've embraced before.  I guess if it works (sort of), why mess with it, right?

So, today we gather to celebrate the life of a man named Gall.  Or Gallus or Gallen or something like that.  Gall was an Irishman born sometime in the middle of the sixth century (that's around 550 to you and me) and who fell in with a rowdy group of hooligans known as the "Gang of Twelve" or the "Twelve Companions", headed up by this cat named Saint Columbanus.  Columbanus (whose name means "the white dove") was famous for taking the Gospel from Ireland where it had settled in the aftermath of the fall of the Roman Empire and bringing it back to the Continent.  He, along with his twelve disciples, built several monasteries and churches in the Frankish kingdoms that existed across what is now France and Germany, Switzerland and Austria after Rome's power vacated the premises.

As an aside, I'm glad we've stopped giving people names that end in "anus".  Coriolanus, Columbanus, Uranus, Myanus...this is a trend that had to stop.  Thankfully, we as a people came to our senses.

Butt humor aside, Gall himself accompanied Columbanus up the Rhine river to the city of Bregenz, which is about as far west as you can go and still be in Austria.  There Gall fell ill (probably some sort of bladder ailment...okay, sorry, I'll stop) and Columbanus left to go to Italy to found more churches.  Gall asked him to wait up, but Columbanus said "LOL, no, F U sir" and left him to recover.  Gall never left the region.

He was nursed back to health at a place called Arbon in Switzerland, which is basically Bregenz's neighbor across the lake.  After feeling better, Gall decided to wander around in the woods there.  He lived the remainder of his life as a hermit in the region, hanging out in the forest.  The area, as mentioned earlier, was part of the Frankish kingdom, and when a young woman named Fridiburga, who just happened to be engaged to marry the Frankish king Sigebert II, started climbing the walls and spitting up pea soup, Gall was enlisted to drive the demons from her body.  Once that tiny issue was resolved, Sigebert was so happy that he was no longer going to stick his dick in crazy that he gifted a large swath of land to Gall in order to build a monastery.  Gall never got around to it, because he was busy wandering aimlessly through the woods.

One of those nights when Gall had set up camp in the woods and was having a bit of a fireside chat with his followers, the fire began to get low.  Perhaps his feet hurt or he was just so into the stories he was spinning about foiling the local demon population, but Gall decided that, rather than gather wood for the fire himself, he enlisted the aid of a bear to bring him the wood.  Gentle Ben's great, great, great-grandpappy offered no argument but instead showed up with logs thrown across his shoulder.  The fire was fed and the stories kept on spinning.  Despite the fact that Gall had a ready source of trees and a gigantic assistant who could easily bring him ever log he'd ever need, Gall did not get around to finishing (or starting) that church and monastery.  He ended up dying in Arbon in 646 at the ripe old age of nearly 100.  No mention of how the bear took it, although he was heard to chuff "The gall of some people..."


*crickets*

Eventually, a church was built in the area to honor the saint, and the region became known as Saint Gallen in his honor.  Thanks to his friendly forest helper, Saint Gall is symbolized by a bear (sometimes with a load of lumber thrown over a shoulder), but he is curiously the Patron Saint of geese, birds, poultry and...Sweden--a land which he never visited as far as I can tell.  He is also not a Patron of France, which was known as Gaul long before the Franks hung their name on it.  Geography fail.  Saint Gall is also the Patron Saint of shitty Chicago sports teams and insane, British survivalists.  For reasons that should be obvious, however, most of the sports teams from the Canton of Saint Gallen are known as the Bears, although the Stones also seems an apt moniker.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. CIV

August 23rd was not a good day in the history of the Roman Empire.

In a positive light, August 23rd was the day the Romans celebrated Vulcanalia, which honored the God Vulcan (associated with Hephaestus in Greek) because late August was the height of the hot and dry season.  Ask someone in the American west about fire risk or in the American Midwest about drought and you can understand why the Romans associated August with a deity who worked a forge and was generally symbolized by fire.  Though Vulcan was associated with Hephaestus, he was more of a fire god and was generally invoked--especially during this time of year--to prevent destructive fires from ruining crops, destroying forests and ravaging cities.

In the year 476, Rome was failing horribly.  On the throne was a sixteen-year-old boy who had been propped up by his father and seated as Emperor, an ineffectual lad named Romulus Augustulus (or just Romulus Augustus).  You might notice that his name is awfully precious:  Romulus being the twin brother who beat Remus over the head with a shovel and staked his claim as "founder" of Rome and Augustus (Augustulus means "least Augustus") being the first Emperor of Rome.  This kid was fated to do great things with a name like that!

Except, no.  Rome had already split at the time into East and West, the East thriving rather well in Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul.  The West had already seen the Franks, Vandals and various Goths sweep through and carve up large chunks of its territory for their petty kingdoms (all of this because they were running from the terror of the Huns, which forced all of the other "germanic" peoples west).  By the time Little Romulus' pappy had rebelled against the "rightful" western emperor--a bloke named Julius Nepos who fled to the East to save his skin--the Western Empire was in tatters.

Nepos was considered the proper Emperor by the rulers of the East--generals Zeno and Basiliscus who were fighting for the Eastern throne--but that didn't phase Little Romulus nor his father, Orestes.  However, neither Zeno nor Basiliscus were willing to commit any resources to ousting Romulus since they were busy fighting each other.  This left Nepos with no army to support his claim, and in Rome, when you had no army backing you, you really had no power.

Which is why the head of the foederati (soldiers who were not Roman citizens but who fought for Rome) decided to make his move.  Odoacer was a clever man and, seeing that the Eastern troops were busy, moved against the callow youth sitting on the Western throne.  His troops moved down into Italy and, as they began to capture more territory and exert more influence on the locals, his soldiers declared Odoacer Rex Italiae on August 23rd, 476.  This essentially sapped all of Romulus Augustulus' power as he no longer had the backing of any army, plus his now chief political rival did have troops willing to fight and die for him.

As the King of Italy, Odoacer moved to unite the disjointed bands of tribes living on the peninsula and, as a sign of his newfound power, began laying siege to the city of Ravenna.  Rome the city had been abandoned for some time by the rulers, who in stead had set up shop in Ravenna.  When the city fell, Romulus Augustulus was captured and the ruling power in the West all but collapsed.

At this same time Zeno was wrapping up conquest of the East.  After having fought a civil war in order to be named Emperor, Zeno was loathe to send troops into the West, especially not the save the hide of a child whom he did not particularly like, anyway.  With no army and no aid coming, Romulus Augustulus had no choice but to give up.

He did have one thing going for him:  youth and beauty.  Odoacer felt something akin to sorrow for the lad and must have liked his spunk enough because, rather than simply beheading him and being done with the whole ordeal, Odoacer allowed Romulus Augustulus to abdicate the throne.  As he did so, Romulus named Odoacer King of Italy.  Ever the polite politician, Odoacer allowed Romulus Augustulus to retire to the countryside with a hefty pension where Romulus Augustulus sort of...disappeared.  It's assumed that he lived at least another twenty five years or so since his name pops up on a legal document sometime around 500, but generally nothing else is ever heard from him since.  Hell, he could still be kicking around the hills of Campania for all we know.

The other thing that popped up on August 23rd--and this one is almost too coincidental to be anything other than ironic--is that Mount Vesuvius began its earthly rumbling and grumbling on August 23rd, 79 AD.  The people of Rome, who were in the midst of celebrating Vulcanalia to appease the god Vulcan who lived in a volcano (feel free to draw the connecting dots there) thought that Vulcan either wanted more lusty celebrations in his name or that he had decided to get in on the act himself.

And party hardy he did, too.  A day later, August 24th, 79 AD, Vesuvius erupted, destroying Pompeii and Herculaneum as it did so.  Noble, fat Pliny the Elder watched the whole thing and then died while trying to save people from the eruption.  If you want more story on that, feel free to read about it here.

I can't help but think that, during the orgy of wine and ass-sex that would have gone on in the depths of Vulcanalia, the forbidding orange glow of the volcano lighting the night, someone would have had some misgivings about the fiery mountain rumbling away in the background.  Pompeii was, at the time, the Roman equivalent of Las Vegas:  a place for the rich to go to fuck and party it up without guilt.  The brothels of Pompeii were some of the best-known in the Empire, and Pompeii was also one of the chief ports for the Italian peninsula, bringing in drink, whores and other narcotics from around the known world.  Despite all this, you'd think that someone would have looked up while they were plowing one of the choicest lupae (the Romans had lots of words for whore; "she-wolf" was one of them), seen the ominous fires of Vesuvius and thought to themselves, "that isn't right."

Or perhaps they'd turn to her and ask:

Sicut calidum est, neque hic est?

Pronounced:  "See-coot cah-lee-doom est, nay-kway hic est?"

Extremely hot translation in the hovertext

Fortunately for us in this part of the country, things haven't been as hot as it has been over the other parts of the summer.  In fact, they are forecasting that the Carolinas will be colder and snowier (dare to dream, fellaz) over the coming months.  I'm giddy with anticipation.  

Not so for other parts of the country, including the rain-starved midwest and the western regions which are mostly ablaze.  Take heart in one thing, friends, at least it's a dry heat.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol CIII

We've celebrated a lot of things around here on Fridays.  For instance, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, various and sundry minor Roman holidays.  Lief Ericson Day.  Even the Ides of March.  Plus various birthdays:  mine, Hugh Hefner's and Elvis.  I think we should combine a couple of special days and throw them all together here.  What say you?  Good.  Let's go.

Today is Friday, of course, but it's also Friday the Thirteenth!  Gasp and swoon.  It's also July 13th.  The significance?  Traditionally, it's been accepted that July 13th was the birth date of one Gaius Iulius Caesar, that wee little man that brought most of the world around the Mediterranean into Roman control.

Let's start with the dispelling of rumors, shall we?

Caesar was not cut from his mother's womb.  Gaius was a popular Roman name and Iulius was his family's name, tracing their ancestry back to Aeneas (one of the founders of Rome) who was the son of Venus.  Handsome.  The name "Caesar" reflects, maybe, one of his ancestors being born by caesarean, but it could also refer to the thick head of hair that the babies were born with, their blue-grey eyes or maybe that someone down the line had slain an elephant in battle.  For reference, Julius' father was named Gaius Julius Caesar (the Elder) and his father was named Gaius Julius Caesar (the really elder), so the Caesar part had been around the family for a long time.

Ceasar also did not utter his famous words "vini, vidi, vici" upon conquest of the Gauls.  The area around the Black Sea, a place known in Roman times as "Pontus", had been a troubling spot for a while.  Previously, a man named Mithridates (read about him here) had vexed Roman dictator Pompey, who also happened to be one of Caesar's main political enemies.  It took a while for Pompey to deal with Mithridates--he was really charismatic, ambitious, owned a brilliant strategic mind, and was fucking insanely paranoid--so when Caesar arrived to put down a different rebellion, he did not mess around.  Pretty much as soon as Caesar arrived in Pontus from Egypt--where he was diddling a certain Egyptian woman--the uprising was over.  Caesar's report of "I came, I saw, I was victorious" was mostly a school yard taunt at Pompey's inability to take care of that shit effectively.

Lastly, Caesar was not the first Emperor.  At least not this Caesar.  That would be his nephew and adopted heir, Octavian who later became Augustus Caesar (and who is not a very good leader in Civilization IV, at least not in the early part where you have to fight everyone to survive).  He did set himself up to be Dictator for Life, however.  Despite the Republic still chugging along, whenever there was a crisis, political and military leaders could set aside the rule of the Senate and make themselves the Dictator, who then guided the Roman people/lands/government/military through whatever terrible thing was happening.

One interesting thing was that, after his conquest of Gaul, Caesar became more popular with the soldiers he commanded than with the rulers of the Senate--for good reason:  he was powerful and powerfully charismatic, but even better, he had the backing of one of the best fighting forces on Earth.  Caesar was warned to leave his army in the field and return to Rome.  Instead, he crossed the Rubicon (a river demarcating the boundaries of Italy at the time) with a single legion, and Civil War erupted.  When Caesar emerged victorious, he then declared that he was Dictator for Life...which he was, until March 15th, 44 BC.  That's, of course, the date when Brutus, Cassius and company decided they would try to re-establish the rule of the Republic by ending Caesar.  Unfortunately for their plans, they sparked a series of Civil Wars in which Augustus emerged as the winner and was then seated upon the throne as the first emperor.

Now, here's an interesting notion.  It's been kicked around for a while that Caesar's death on the floor of the theatre of the Curia of Pompey was not as clear cut as some would have us think.  Several people, who were not part of the conspiracy to kill Caesar, were aware of the plot, including Marcus Antonius (not the singer) who was one of Caesar's triumvirate (rule by three men).  Anthony then tried to warn Caesar, but Julius sort of...ignored him.  Caesar then went into the place where the Senate was meeting and was stabbed those infamous 23 times (though only one was deep enough to kill him).

Apparently, Caesar's health was beginning to fail--and he knew it.  While his body was beginning to decline, his mind was not; he knew that, if he were to seat himself upon a throne, he would not last long, either by being too weak to control the power or by being too sick to survive.  With that in mind, he willingly walked into the place where the Senate was meeting, knowing that he was about to be murdered.  This would go along with the notion that Caesar did not fight back much and so willingly gave up when he saw Brutus among the conspirators/assassins.

That all makes for a rather grim story to tell, especially on someone's birthday.  In lieu of the grisly--albeit, potentially altruistic--outcome, let's just get to the Latin translation, shall we?

Dies meus natalis est.  Iacite mihi dona.

Pronounced "Dee-ace may-oose nah-tah-leese est.  Ee-yah-kee-tay mee-hee doh-nah."

View the hovertext for the translation presently.

Et non obliviscere femellas.

Pronounced:  "Et noan oh-blee-wee-scare-aye fay-may-lahs.

Youthful translation in the hovertext.

As with most historical figures (for reference, see Christ, Jesus), there is some debate as to when the actual date of Caesar's birth was.  July 13th has been the traditional date for, well, a really long time.  We know that he was born somewhere near the middle of the month of July--hence the name of the month.  His heir, Augustus, gave us the name for "August".  Clever, no?  Despite there being debate and some confusion as to the date of Caesar's birth, we'll go ahead and recognize the 13th as his birthday.  If April 23rd can still be Shakespeare's birthday, then the 13th of July can belong to Caesar!

A note on the translation (aside from the caveat that I'm still learning and might not have the word order and the declensions perfectly correct...I couldn't decide on whether we should "shower him with presents" or "shower the presents upon him"), I used the term femella for "women".  It is, roughly, the word that the Romans would use for young women, as opposed to puella, which means girl, or femina which means "wife" or "woman".  I figured Caesar was probably a lech and would have approved of the younger stock.

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: The Watermelon's Revenge

Remember this little feature?  Of course you do.  I get on here, blow my own scientifically-laced trumpet, and then you tell me how much more fun I would have made your science class if I was your teacher.  We all laugh, I get a swollen head (not that one...unless YOU'RE making the comment...you know who you are...), and then we move on to bigger and better things:  namely, for you, life.  For me?  Booze.

Anyway, remember that fantastic little featurette I brought you a while ago where some cat filled a bottle with liquid nitrogen and then shoved that mother up into a watermelon?  Comedy quickly ensued?  Surely you remember it!  If not, here's the link for a refresher course.

Caught up?  Better?  Let's go.

So long, watermelon; we barely knew ye.  Except that there are thousands of your brethren lying in fields all over the country, just waiting to have all sorts of disturbing escapades involving detonations and swiftly expanding pockets of gas.  Or perhaps other fates await you.  We shall see, won't we?

That brings us to this week's episode--as if these things have been episodic...you can't go several years between installments and keep it a series, right?  What the hell kind of person would do that?

Point taken.

I stumbled upon this video yesterday and, well, I'll admit...I have no idea what's going on here.  What is their motivation?  I can't read or understand Japanese, but my main guess is that their motivation is that they are "guys" and the watermelon was just sitting there begging to be wrapped in rubber bands.  And, oh, the results are magnificent.



Oh, thank you, internet.  Only here could I see a watermelon wrapped in rubber bands give a money shot to a bunch of bored--yet creative--kids.  Awesome.  It's kind of like the watermelon, accepting its fate, decided to exact one last bit of revenge on the way out.  I hear that stuff burns--even coming from a watermelon!

There's not much science-y going on here.  The combined pressure of the 500 rubber bands wanting to get back to their non-stretched forms was greater than what the cellulose of the watermelon's rind could withstand.  With the inelastic fruit rind quickly collapsing, all that pulp on the inside needs to go somewhere.  And go it does!  Boom.  Fruit salad for everyone!

Well, except for you, Sisyphus-cat.  You keep rolling that bitch up the hill.

The Photograph - Part Eleven

Well...remember when I said I would try to get everything put together and published before I left for vacation?  Clearly, I failed.  I even thought I could get it done before the Fourth of July and...well, failure on that one, too.

But, here I am putting the last installment in place.  Overall, I'm pretty happy with the story.  I'm sure it could have been improved here or there along the way.  However, the person for whom I was writing this has been pretty happy with the tale.  I hope the last part is as well-received and the previous ten pieces.

Speaking of the previous ten pieces...in case you missed them, here are the links to the rest of the story: Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

Grab yourself a cup of coffee and a bagel and enjoy.  Thanks again for reading!!!

---

A steady orange light pressed in around the edges of the curtains hanging heavy and black against the windows; from under the door, a yellow, illuminated bar glowed against the dark slab of the door.  As people would pass up and down the hall, the light would flicker and change.  A strange, otherworldly luminescence glowed from the face of the clock that was pointed toward the bed.  Everything else was dark.

Enough light filtered into the room that I could see the sweeping, smooth arc of Tori's hip, her thigh thrown over mine, her body pressed next to mine almost exactly as it had so often so many years ago.  I watched as her side rose and fell in an even, orderly pattern.  Her presence was reassuring, and for the first time in recent memory, I felt content.

Even though I knew it was wrong, I knew it was a selfish act, I had made love to Tori.  Years of heartache and longing and emotion poured out through my actions, and when we were finished the first time I collapsed next to her, swimming in a sea of memories.  After a brief rest, we were in each other's arms again, our bodies still aching for one another.  Spent, we collapsed to the bed, but soon she was pressed against my side, her arm draped across my chest, her legs wrapped around mine.  She dozed.  I savored the time spent with the woman I loved.

Though I knew that a series of stupid actions had led me here, I did not regret it.  Not now, not that I had Tori in my arms, in my bed, simply with me again.  I knew that it was all an illusion, that she would wake and I would have to return her to Drew.  I'm sure I would get pummeled again.  Truthfully, I did not blame him.  I would do the same thing in his situation.  I might not regret what I did, but I knew that I should have handled myself differently.  I would have to pay the price later.

Sliding my hand down Tori's back, I felt her muscles spasm involuntarily beneath my fingertips.  I cupped her ass, giving it a soft squeeze before leaning over and kissing her forehead.  The movement was enough to rouse her.  She lifted her head from my shoulder and blinked, the light pressing in around the vinyl curtains over the window reflected in her eyes.

"I need to get you back," I said softly.

"What time is it?" she asked, sitting up and stretching.  I stared longingly at her breasts as she shifted and moved and they with her.  I desperately wanted to reach out and take her once more, but instead I rolled over to the side of the bed and sat up.

"It's about two thirty," I said over my shoulder before rising and turning on a light.  Our clothes were thrown randomly around the room, but I soon had enough of them together that I could dress.  Tori was still sitting on the bed adjusting her clothing as I finally buckled my belt and looked at her.

"You always were faster than me," she said, teasing me with a smile as she did so.

"Not tonight," I shot back, grinning.

"No, well, it's...been a while," she said, looking away.  I knew her well enough to know that I should not pursue the subject.  I silently turned and began putting my wallet and keys back in my pocket.  I found my phone and sat on the other side of the bed, looking to see if anyone had called.

"Sometimes," Tori said, softly, her voice so light I almost did not hear her.  "There were nights when I would close my eyes and pretend it was you still."  I did not say anything, but let I let her talk.  "Only when it was dark, because I didn't want Drew to know I was doing it.  One night I think I might have sighed your name during sex."  Again, she was quiet for a few moments.  "We haven't been intimate much since then.  It's probably why he flew into a rage when he found me looking you up on the internet."

"I'm...I'm sorry, Tori," I said, turning to look over my shoulder at her.  I had no idea what else I could say.

"I'm not."  She smiled wickedly.  "You were good those nights."

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, and I looked away.  When she laughed, I felt myself smile.  "You always could make me blush," I said, laughing as I looked back at her.

"You always could make me cum," she smiled, her eyes inviting me to throw her onto the mattress once more.  I felt the blush grow more serious; my cheeks must have been scarlet by now.  Looking at the clock, I decided against her invitation, no matter how much I would regret it later.  I knew she had to get home.

"I wish I could stay here with you all night," I admitted.  For a moment, I could not find any words that could relate to the emotions swirling within my head.  Tori looked at me expectantly, almost eagerly.  Her eyes sparkled.  After staring into them, losing myself in them, I looked away.

"I'm sorry, Tori," I murmured, "I should not have brought you here."

I did not see her rise from the bed or hear her, but suddenly she was in front of me, half-dressed.  She took both of my hands in hers.  "Don't be," she said softly.  "It was consensual...about as consensual as it can get."  She looked up at me, the emerald glint of her eyes augmented with tears that stood unshed.  "It's been a while since anyone has made me feel like that."  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, softly, lovingly, familiarly.  It was an action that she had done hundreds of times a decade and a half earlier.  Worries about getting her home or about the future melted away; the sense of contentment returned.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She squeezed my fingers in hers.  "Wanted," she said softly, looking at my neck, my shoulders, my chest--anywhere but my eyes.  "Loved."

"I do l--"

"I know."  She said.  With another squeeze, she was off, gathering the remainder of her clothes and pulling them on.  A few moments later, she was stepping into her shoes.  With nothing more than a silent cue, we left.  As we walked down the hallway, her fingers intertwined with mine and she leaned against my arm as we walked.  By the time we were in the parking lot and walking toward my car, we were separated, once again two friends who had spent the evening catching up and not secret lovers rekindling a forbidden flame between the sheets of a nearby hotel.

Silence reigned in the car as we drove back.  Halfway to her house, she reached forward and pulled the photograph from the dashboard where I slid it when we drove to the diner.  For a few moments, she stared at it, a smile gradually spreading across her face.

"God, we were so young then," she said, the edge of a laugh shading her words.

"Our lives and the world lay at our feet," I said.

"It seems a lifetime ago."

"It was."

She placed the photograph back on the dashboard as I pulled onto her long, silent street.  The light of her porch still glowed, though where it had once been a welcoming beacon it now seemed like a glowing, angry eye watching the street and waiting.

I pulled up in front of her house; most of the lights inside were still lit.  The shadowy silhouette of her husband stood near the front windows and then stalked away.  For a second or two, I watched him pacing inside the house.

"Oh, Robbie," Tori sighed, dragging me back to the present.  As I looked over at her, features cast in a mixture of bronze and shadow, I tried to replay every moment of the past few hours over in my mind.  I never wanted to forget this night; it might be the last time I ever saw her.

My lips moved, half spasmodically as I searched for words to share with her.  Finding none, I looked down at the steering wheel and sighed.  I tried to hide the gesture with a laugh, though it was not very convincing. 

"What are you going to do next?" she asked, reaching over and gripping the back of my hand where it rested on the gear shift. 

"Well, the clinical trial doesn't start until August, so I have some time," I said, staring through the windshield but seeing nothing.  "I was thinking about heading out west.  I've never seen the Pacific.  I've seen the first sunrise.  I was thinking about seeing the last sunset."  I turned to look at her.  Tears ran down her face, their trails shimmering in the dim light.

"Oh, Robbie," she said again, and leaned over and hugged me.

Whatever reserves I had finally crumbled.  Tears flowed unabated down my face.  I sobbed into the top of her head, holding onto her.  At that moment, she was my strength, my everything.  I wanted desperately to ask her--to beg her--to come with me.  It was selfish, I knew, but I wanted nothing more than to spend whatever time I had left with her.  Instead, I held my tongue and simply cried while I held onto her.  For a few moments, we simply sat together, crying.  Finally, I loosened my grip on her and she sat back in the passenger seat.

"Whatever you do," she said, "please don't forget about me.  Call me.  Write me.  Email.  Text.  I don't care."  Another big, fat tear rolled down her cheek; instinctively I reached over and wiped it away.  Despite everything that had happened, everything we had done, the touch of my thumb against the apple of her cheek was still electric.  My insides lurched as we connected once more, one final time.

"I won't ever forget you, Tori," I said, mustering a smile.

"I know.  Just...let me know how you are."

"I will."

For another few seconds we sat together.  There was nothing to say.  There was everything to say.

"I had better go."  Her voice was soft, barely a whisper.

"I know."  I sighed again.  "Thank you, Tori."

"For what?"  Her eyebrows arched together, questioning me as much as her words.

"Everything."

"Thank you.  For everything."

She opened the door and turned to get out of the car.  She hesitated before standing, then turned to look at me over her shoulder.

"I love you, Robbie."

"I love you, too.  I always have.  I always will."

Another tear ran down her face.  This time she wiped it away herself.  "That means everything to me."  Standing, she got out of the car and closed the door.  The finality of the act crushed me.  I wanted to run after her, to gather her up in my arms for one more embrace, to steal one more kiss from her.  I wanted to beg her to come with me, even for a few weeks, a few days.  Even a few more hours.

I watched until she got to the porch.  Drew was standing at the door when she opened it and I watched her walk out of my life once more as the door was shut.  The light winked out a moment later.

"Good-bye, Tori," I said softly and started the car.  I checked, knowing that there would be no one on the street as I pulled into it.  The length of the avenue was dark as I slowly picked my way down toward the end where a pair of glowing red orbs awaited me.  Driving as slowly as I could, I tried to linger as near her as I possibly could.  Finally, I came to the intersection and stared at the red lights above me.

There was a flicker in my rearview mirror and a pair of car lights slowly came down the street.  It was the first time I had seen any other cars on this road.  I watched as they slowly approached my car, daring to dream for only a second that I knew who was driving the car.

The light switched to green and I turned left, following a sign pointing me toward the interstate.  The reflection of the photograph on the windshield came with me, dancing once again beneath the orange glow of the sodium lamps lining the street.

Behind me, a pair of white, glowing lights followed...