They have loved and lost each other for lifetimes. This time, can they escape fate?

Sylvia and Andrés are bound by a love that defies time, distance, and even death. From New York’s underground dance and poetry scenes to the beautiful emptiness of the New Mexican desert, the cliffs of Greece, and Berlin’s fevered Love Parade, their connection is electric, volatile, and inescapable. But love isn’t always freedom—it can be a prison, a curse, a story that must be lived again and again.

Andrés, haunted by memory, believes love can conquer all. Sylvia, fierce yet vulnerable, refuses to be claimed—except by the one who truly sees her. But fate isn’t just shaped by their choices. The Watchers keep them bound, pulling them back into the same cycle—because they must: an Eternal Return, all to answer one man’s prayer.

Longing, betrayal, destruction. Over and over again. But this time, Sylvia moves forward, unaware of the design that waits for her. If they want to break free, they must face the truth: are they trapped by fate, or is this the only path to each other?

Spanning continents and lifetimes, The Desert Road of Night—now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and most major retailers—is a sweeping story of devotion, trauma, and the inescapable pull of fate. It is a novel of obsession, cosmic reckoning, and the forces that shape our choices.

Get your copy today.

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Before I get to that moment where she would see the truth about Salvatore for herself, so much had happened in the in-between.

Despite knowing who Jim Jones was, Mariam failed to see the same qualities in Salvatore because of her blind spots. Before he came into her life, it was our routine that on the one day in the workweek I didn’t have class, I’d drive down to SoHo, meet up with her, and together we’d walk to a park along the Hudson River to people-watch while she did a lot of stream-of-consciousness talking.

I enjoyed so much how she’d talk so excitedly about things that were important to her, as though she’d never had that before—the unconditional ear of someone who was in love with her.

However, now that Salvatore was in the picture, whenever I would take her to the park, she would sit next to me in silence. And when I would try to prod her to talk about her day, she would give me one-word answers. It was as if, by that time of day, she’d already “blown her load” with someone else. Sure enough, the last time I walked her back to her job, Salvatore was there in her office, waiting to talk more “business.”

The same look she used to give me, she now gave to him. As they began talking, Mariam didn’t even realize I had said goodbye and was leaving. She was still talking to Salvatore about the Sacred Feminine.

We’re all human, and it’s natural to feel jealousy. And there I was, driving back to the Bronx, feeling angry and jealous over what my foolproof Gaydar told me was a gay man having the undivided attention of the older woman I foolishly loved. That night, I drove over to her place as I normally would, using the key she’d given me to her apartment, so we could spend some time together—and found Salvatore there. He was in the kitchen, pouring wine into two glasses from the bottle I later learned he had brought over to continue their conversation from earlier that day, while Mariam talked to him from her couch in the living room.

There was a heavy silence as the two stopped talking, Mariam looking at me as though I were suddenly a stranger with no permission to even use the key she’d given me.

Salvatore walked in from the kitchen, handing Mariam a glass, saying, “This is the Blood of Christ.”

Mariam said, “Amen,” before taking a big gulp, shattering the sobriety she fought hard to keep in place.

I was going to call her out, but Salvatore took that opportunity to call me out. He said, “Mariam told me how you mocked her for her enthusiasm for my ideas.”

“Mock?”

“Made fun of her, mistaking her enthusiasm for a ‘crush.’”

I looked at Mariam, who was doing her best to avoid eye contact with me, and said, “This is what did it? Knocking you off the wagon? Not your colleagues calling you names to your face for dating someone as young as me? Not the hit you took to your reputation for wanting to stay with me? No... it was this clown with his magic words.”

"This clown respects her enthusiasm. And this is just my opinion—nothing she may have shared with me in confidence—but maybe you should’ve never involved yourself with her, knowing the potential backlash to her reputation and career."

I lost my “frame”1 there because I began trying to justify myself to him, saying how it was her who first seduced me, using her money to take me out to these fancy places, having me eat really good food when, at that time in my life, I’d been surviving on spam and rice with ketchup. Then throwing it back at me that I shouldn’t worry about the age gap, that a proper gentleman would know to return the favor.

“Get out!” Mariam yelled.

I looked at Salvatore, who then said with a smirk, “If you’re the proper gentleman she says you are, then you’d know this is the moment you’d surrender your key and leave.”

He didn’t need to tell me twice. I placed her key on the coffee table, next to her empty glass, and left. I thought what had gone down between all of us got me off the hook from Salvatore’s vision, which was set to come to fruition the weekend after our breakup, but no. Mariam called me the next day, and at first, I thought she was calling to try to fix things between us, but no. It was to remind me of the contract I had signed shortly after first meeting Salvatore.

“If you’re a real man, you’d honor your obligations.”

I didn’t want to—what were Salvatore and Mariam’s bosses going to do, sue a broke college student?—but I did it anyway because I felt a sudden shame for even entertaining the idea of not working for free. That, and also, my father reminding me that at the end of the day, if I enjoyed doing what I did (which, at the time, was DJing), I should follow through because it was in my interest to do what made me happy first.

I took that to heart.

When I signed the contract, Mariam had given me a packet containing all the information I’d need to do my thing at what had been promoted throughout the city as The Communion. Where I needed to go that night. My place in the lineup of DJs.

I was the second of three, playing out my role to take the crowd—who would no doubt be high on acid and ecstasy by then—build up their already euphoric mood, priming them before turning it over to the main draw, the superstar with top billing. His job was to drive the dance floor with even harder, pulsating sounds, pushing them into a frenzy before bringing them in for a landing, which usually came around five in the morning.

Because of my placement in the lineup, pride compelled me to do my absolute best.

Then came the night. The packet stated I was to dress in something resembling a Catholic school uniform, which was stupid to ask of me. The way things were in New York back then, whenever I played out, I always dressed in a black shirt and jeans, which amplified my physical size. It was a signal to others—usually drunk or high and prone to starting fights—not to try me. That I would fuck them up.

Before our breakup, whenever I dressed like that while out and about with Mariam, she’d say, “You look like a thug—the best kind of arm candy a gal like me could have for walking around the city.”

I brought some arm candy of my own: another ex-girlfriend, Veronica. She had broken up with me for being consistently broke, but once she saw I had someone like Mariam in my life, she suddenly became interested in fixing things between us.

There would be no fixing.

She had moved on after I refused to break up with Mariam, and she had since found a new boyfriend. But we did have intense sexual chemistry, which she told me she missed. And as long as I could be discreet about it, now that Mariam was out of the picture, we could start having sex again—no strings attached.

Which was all I wanted.

Especially after trying to cope with my broken heart, I no longer wanted to feel.

Anyway, back to that night. Since I told Veronica about the theme for The Communion, when I went to pick her up at her apartment building in the Castle Hill section of the Bronx, she rushed out wearing the Catholic school uniform she used to wear in high school. She jumped into the front seat of my car and yelled at me to floor it.

“I’ve got eyes on me—just go!”

And I did.

After driving like “Mad Max” on the Cross Bronx Expressway and the Henry Hudson Parkway, we made it on time to the warehouse on Manhattan’s west side, where The Communion was going down.

In the days leading up to the event, the promoters bombarded every spot devoted to fashion, music, and art—every space tied to club culture.

It showed. A long line of people stretched down towards 12th Avenue, waiting to get in.

The bouncers unlocked the velvet rope for us and let us pass. I towed my box of vinyl, which I planned on “spinning” during my set, as Veronica followed me down several long hallways and through various doors. We ended up in a boiler room doubling as a makeshift green room for the “talent” and their hangers-on, attaching themselves like suckerfish to sharks.

Salvatore, the king shark, whose only talent appeared to be making bullshit sound beautiful, walked into the room with his own suckerfish—young men dressed like boys, hovering close and looking high. Salvatore approached Mariam, giving her a quick pat for a hug, before looking past her to a Calvin Klein model, whose muscular physique in tighty-whities—plastered on billboards all over the city—had drawn widespread attention, and went over to him.

Mariam stared at Salvatore, who was fawning over the model like a teenage boy meeting their centerfold crush, and said, “I see how it is, okay…”

It looked like she was about to march over to Salvatore to set things straight, but one of her co-workers stopped her to say the first DJ was about to wrap up his set. Mariam looked around, spotted me, and walked over to tell me—glancing up and down at Veronica before saying, “You brought a little girl with you.”

“Why not? Don’t forget, I was your little boy.”

It looked as though that comment punched Mariam in the gut, the way she winced.

“I don’t have time for this. You’re up. Let’s go.”

Mariam led me out of the boiler room, down another long hallway, and through a metal door that opened at the corner of the crowded dance floor. The first DJ, who had been playing from a slightly elevated booth, saw me and began wrapping up his set. As I performed the ritual all DJs must perform—the changing of the guard—Mariam was looking my date up and down while Veronica stared at her with Charles Manson eyes and a wicked smile.

Once I had assumed my place behind the decks, Mariam broke eye contact with Veronica and turned back to me.

“As much as I’d like to socialize, I’m here to work, but we need to talk later.”

Mariam marched off in a huff, pushing her way through the Train Spotters—club kids who obsessively hovered by DJ booths in hopes of getting the names of songs being played, most of which were not easily available.

The memory of what happened next hurts me to this day. It's the reason I can’t stand people who, when you first meet them, tell you how awesome they think you are—trying to enter your spirit so they can rip you apart from the inside out.

Here’s the next part:

Want more? My Instagram isn’t where I write, but it’s where I share the images, music, and moments that shape the stories I tell. If you’re into the culture, the vibe, and the history behind these worlds, follow me @viktor.e.mares.

Also, my novel The Desert Road of Night, which explores many of the themes in my short stories, poems, and personal essays like this one, is available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and most major retailers.

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Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement.

— Albert Camus

It’s what kicked off the idea for the stories that eventually became my novel The Desert Road of Night, wondering what had happened to the young woman in her relationship to leave her crying, begging, and pleading with whoever was on the phone with her not to leave her behind.

I had been waiting alongside her for the announcement that flight attendants were now boarding business class. I’ll never forget how, after the call, she looked at me, her face red and her eyes puffy. I shared with her a lyric from a favorite song1 of mine at the time:

Her eyes smiled for a moment before she buried her face in her hands and began to cry again.

Many hours later, I arrived at my hotel room in Berlin, and just as I was getting ready for work, I tuned in to a music channel and saw that same young woman singing with desperation about love and devotion in a video on Viva TV.

It made sense that she sang that way. The video must’ve been made recently, with her channeling the same pain that made her sound, during that phone call in the Lufthansa terminal at JFK Airport, as though her life was falling apart, and all she could do was watch.

Whenever I see her on TV now—a multi-platinum recording artist2 whose public persona balances strength with vulnerability—I smile. All the pain she must’ve felt in the aftermath of what appeared to be an epic breakup, she channeled into her art and became successful because of it.

We’ve all been in that spot where we want to give up, where we want to die, but we keep it moving. We keep going.

We move on.

I hope you’re able to see yourself in this quick story.

Whatever you’re going through, that young lady and I are your sign to move on.

Everything will be alright.

My novel The Desert Road of Night, which explores many of the themes in my short stories, poems, and personal essays like this one, is available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and most major retailers.

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So many years ago, when I was young and impressionable—and also a gigantic douche and meathead—I had a girlfriend who was in recovery. She also loved to party, and if that meant tying herself to me at the gigs I used to play out as a DJ back in the day—to give her plausible deniability for being in spaces where she could be tempted—then that’s what she was gonna do.

It didn’t matter that partying was also part of Mariam’s job. As an assistant to the owners of several large nightclubs in the city, she had all the access she needed to place herself in situations where she could be tempted. But to do so without someone like me was extremely dangerous for her. She still needed the high that came from dancing while being surrounded by exploding lights and booming sounds, which, if she were alone, would lead to the need to go higher.

It was also through her job that she heard of an ex-Catholic priest who had been excommunicated for his “radical” belief: that women’s spirituality was as important and equal to that of men, and therefore, women should also be priests.

His so-called radicalism led one of those old bishops in Rome to push a button on him, just like a capo in a crime family would on someone who had to “go.” Now that he was no longer a priest and out on his ass, Mariam said Salvatore (his name) had been hitting the pavement, showing up at every nightclub and underground spot in the city, preaching his belief about the Sacred Feminine to anyone willing to listen. And that the raves that were going down back in the day were like mass—a celebration of a Cosmic Christ.

Hearing someone who had been a priest reaffirm what Mariam always felt was wrong about religion and spirituality, and confirm what she believed was true—that dance was prayer—turned her into one of his biggest advocates. I mean, she wouldn’t shut up about him, going as far as insisting that I meet him. I finally did, at the Limelight—a nightclub, funnily enough, located within the walls of an Episcopalian church that had been deconsecrated sometime in the early 1970s—where now everything that could go down for sex, drugs, and music did. After pushing our way through the sweaty throng of people—losing their minds as they danced—we entered a part of the club playing ambient music and found him.

It struck me as odd that this man, in his sixties, was surrounded by an entourage of young men, all dressed like kids in their long striped shirts and baggy pants, with pacifiers dangling from their necks. Mariam, whose situational awareness for bullshit was most times a million times better than mine, didn’t seem to have the same impression about Salvatore. She rushed up to him as he stood from his lounge seat to receive and embrace her. The way he held her for several long, lingering seconds reminded me of a Jim Jones type embracing a follower—paternal, maternal, and creepy all at once. But because she was much older than me—by a lot—and I was young and impressionable, I trusted her reactions more than I trusted my impressions and followed her lead.

We sat down, and Mariam and Salvatore got down to business. The more he talked about his vision of throwing raves where DJs would play music to conjure a sense of spirit and of God for everyone—while his gaze sometimes drifted away toward the male strippers dancing naked behind us, their bodies painted gold like the statue of Prometheus at Rockefeller Center—the more I saw that he wasn’t as sincere as Mariam had thought. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on what it was about that gaze—that, as he talked, his affect in describing what he claimed were passionate beliefs shifted to an almost monotone, disaffected tone, like that of a computer-generated voice trying to simulate emotions.

Because the drug use and marijuana smoke around us had reached a level that I knew would threaten Mariam’s sobriety, it was time for me to do what she had asked me to do when we first started dating. I stood up while he rambled on about how the first rave was documented in the Old Testament—when David danced with “all his might” before the Ark of God in 2 Samuel 6—and said the phrase she’d established with me in our power dynamic as one of our safe words when we were out clubbing: “I gotta take a shit, and I don’t wanna do that here, so let’s go.” (She found it funny for me to say something like that openly, in front of people.)

Anyway, she pulled me to sit back down next to her, repeating the phrase she had established to let me know she was fine, “Well, I don’t need to go,” and then returned her focus to Salvatore, who was laughing at the both of us.

“It pleases me to see a couple so open and honest about what makes us human.” He leaned in closer to lock eyes with Mariam, who appeared to have become enchanted by him and his soft way of talking. “It’s also human to feel the natural urge to dance, to touch upon the spark every living being carries in their heart, to make it burn brighter. Only through this would we feel ourselves seen by God, which is why I had proposed to your bosses a collaboration where we would have a night devoted to making our vision come alive, playing music that would help everyone in the dance feel like King David, passionately worshiping God.”

Mariam snapped her fingers, saying, “Yes, yes, yes—preach! This is why I wanted you to meet my boyfriend. He’s a DJ—a real good one, at that. Maybe he could do a set.”

Salvatore looked at me, his squinting eyes sizing me up as though I were a potential kink in his overall plan. I had no idea what that plan was at the time, but I’m sure he could see through my eyes what I thought of him—that he came off as no different from the hustlers I’d grown up with: talking fast with their woo-woo words that sounded pretty but masked the ugly reality of the big ask that was part of their grift, their long con.

Salvatore broke eye contact, shifting his focus back to Mariam and saying, with a forced smile, “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Do you have anyone else in mind?” Mariam asked.

“A few others—”

“Like who?”

“Like I said, a few others.”

“Have you heard them play out?”

“I’ve heard their mixtapes.”

“You’ve not heard his, and you should know that my bosses—the men whose clubs and money you want to use, whose money you want to spend to test out your ideas—trust my judgment. After all, I’ve been working with them for years, and my boyfriend has played at some of their smaller spots before and has proven not only capable of pulling in the kind of crowd you’d want at an event like yours, but he’s also proven he can keep them coming back. So, if you want your first night to go well, consider my boyfriend; otherwise, something may happen where they might ask you to front the costs of your ideas or not let you use any of their spaces at all.”

Salvatore laughed. “One of the positives I’ve taken away from having been excommunicated is that the experience has forced me to learn how to be a better reader and listener. Not of books or of what’s being said, but rather of people and of what they are not saying.”

“Reading between the lines,” Mariam said.

“Exactly.”

“I consider myself an expert on that.”

“Is that so? How’s this, then: since your bosses are fronting the cost, I’m afraid I don’t have any say in their budget.”

“My boyfriend will do it for free,” Mariam said.

“I will?” I said.

“Yeah, sure—it’ll be another line you can add to the résumé of places you’ve played out at. Besides, money is not that big of a deal for you anyway; I pay your way everywhere we go.”

“That’s because I do what I do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mariam looked back at Salvatore and said, “Now that that’s settled, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get out of here—go home and also take a shit.”

I know it sounds crass, but that phrase was specifically set up to convey her urge for drugs, which, to her, was as base as answering nature’s call. She rarely said it to begin with, so hearing her say it—and feeling the urgency in how hard she was pulling me by the arm, dragging me through the throng of people dancing in the main room, away from Salvatore and his circle of club kids blowing smoke from blunts that reeked like they’d been laced with angel dust—left me as terrified as she looked once we were outside.

She was breathing hard, as if she’d just escaped a burning building, her wide eyes expressing relief at having made it out.

“I know you said what you said, but I didn’t want to go, not before making the deal, hooking you up,” Mariam said.

“But I didn’t ask you to,” I said.

“But I wanted to,” she said.

“Not if you’re gonna end up like this.”

Mariam sighed. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean I’m not always like this. I hide it until I can’t.”

“Why don’t you just stop coming to places like this? In fact, why don’t you quit?”

“What good would that do? It’s all the same—whether I’m at my brother’s house watching him drink, or we go out to eat and there’s a bar there, or I get up to go to the bathroom and see some chick bent over a sink doing coke—there’s no escape. This is the world I have to live in.”

We moved on with our night, walking back to where I’d parked my car by the Flatiron Building. We got in and drove out to Coney Island in Brooklyn, where we both goofed around on the beach before stripping naked and running into the dark waters. That’s when we found out just how stupid it was to think we could have sex in the ocean. So, we got back in my car and drove away, up to the Riverdale section of the Bronx, where we holed up in her apartment for the weekend—binge-watching kung fu movies, gorging on Chinese takeout, and having cool, deep conversations in between our “scenes” before finally parting ways on Monday.

Mariam took the train to work in Soho, where the club owners’ offices were located. I drove toward Fordham University, where I was studying at the time. That’s how I met her—she was an adjunct professor teaching Introduction to Journalism, a position she was forced to quit because of her relationship with me, which she refused to end.

And I refused to stop teasing her. Case in point: throughout the week, whenever I came over to her apartment—I lived nearby in Kingsbridge—instead of telling me about her day or talking about her work, she talked about Salvatore. She’d go on and on about him and his ideas, about how progressive he was, so much so that I started busting her chops, joking about the crush she had on him.

And she took me seriously, denying it with such passion, like she was trying to deny it to herself.

After I made her face go red from how hard she was blushing, I told her, “It’s okay… I have my crushes too—but you better watch yourself with Jim Jones, or else you’ll be drinking the Kool-Aid.”

“Who’s Jim Jones?”

Mariam knew damn well who he was, but she was trying to trigger the pedantic side of me I had at the time—the side that would forget that, before her troubles with addiction, Mariam had been a journalist. She’d graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, and was among the first in San Francisco to cover what the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention were calling, at the time, “gay pneumonia.”

To see all the deaths and the callous way officials and people, in general, were approaching this health crisis brought on by AIDS destabilized her. With the deaths of so many of her friends—friends who simply wanted to love who they wanted to love—there was no escape from the crisis of faith she began to experience.

At first, she took refuge in the bottle, then in drugs, then in all the unprotected sex she was having, using it as a passive-aggressive way to try and kill herself. It wasn’t until she had a vision of the Virgin Mary saying to her, “You are meant to be here,” that Mariam cleaned herself up.

Taking adjunct and office assistant jobs instead of going back to journalism—reporting on the way people had been dying in the grisliest way from AIDS—was her way of making sure she lived up to that vision. Becoming the party girl, which to her was the ultimate affirmation of life, countered any urge she still had to kill herself because there was no more illusion that she lived in a world of God.

And yes, Mariam was that much older than me to have had a beat in San Francisco in the early 1980s. But looking back on my precious time with her, I see she was teaching me about power—how so much of it stems from softness, from vulnerability. She showed this through action rather than words (because real power never has to proclaim itself), and her guidance made me a better man—a capable Dom in my later years.

In her own later years, she would tell me she knew what we had was impossible, given the age difference, but that being able to feel in control for once in her life, dictating the terms and the pace of our relationship—like a Domme—was the final step in her recovery. Because of that, I was the one who made her whole again and worth walking away from a bullshit job at Fordham University.

It was important for me to share that background information because, in mentioning Jim Jones—even though I’d said it in a joking way—I was serious. I knew Mariam’s urge to believe in something was more intense than her urge for drugs, and with the way she talked about Salvatore after that first meeting, I could see this urge morphing into a primal need not only to reclaim her faith but to resurrect the woman she once was before she lost her religion. Hearing someone from the priestly class speak on what had always troubled her about her faith—the way it regarded and treated women, the way it focused more on dogma than on people—she said Salvatore also had made her feel seen and validated.

It was not in me to take that feeling away from her, nor was it my place. Instead, I continued listening to her, knowing a moment would come in the near future when she would see the truth about Salvatore for herself—and that moment came weeks later.

Here’s the next part:

Want more? My Instagram isn’t where I write, but it’s where I share the images, music, and moments that shape the stories I tell. If you’re into the culture, the vibe, and the history behind these worlds, follow me @viktor.e.mares.

Also, my novel The Desert Road of Night, which explores many of the themes in my short stories, poems, and personal essays like this one, is available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and most major retailers.

Subscribe now

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Nu Disco & Soul: The Night Behind Last Dance

After releasing my short story Last Dance in February 2024, I crafted this DJ set featuring Nu Disco and Soul tracks that resonated during the night inspiring the narrative. Each song holds significance, echoing the emotions and atmosphere of that experience.

This mix blends deep disco, soulful house, and downtempo grooves—the kind of tracks that hit deeper than the dance floor. It’s a soundtrack built from the memory of intimacy, tension, and the aftermath of that night.

Tracklist & Insights:

6th Borough Project – Just A Memory

A deep, groovy track that encapsulates the fleeting moments of that night, mirroring the story’s theme of ephemeral connections.

Davis – You’re My Everything

Smooth and soulful, this song underscores the intense emotions and desires that permeated the evening.

Fred Everything ft. Vanessa Baker – Friday (Crazy P Remix)

An upbeat rhythm capturing the anticipation and excitement that Fridays bring—much like the pivotal moments leading up to the events in Last Dance.

The Juan Maclean – A Simple Design (Purple Disco Machine Remix)

This remix blends intricate beats with melodic undertones, reflecting the complex yet straightforward decisions faced that night.

Crazy P – Witch Doctor (Karma of Dove Remix)

A hypnotic tune that mirrors the enchanting and almost mystical vibe of the evening’s encounters.

Escort – Animal Nature

Energetic and raw, this track delves into the primal instincts and unfiltered emotions experienced.

Fred Everything – Don’t Nobody (Hot Toddy Remix)

A sultry beat emphasizing the secrecy and intimate moments shared away from prying eyes.

Purple Disco Machine – Emotion

True to its name, this track evokes deep feelings, resonating with the highs and lows of that unforgettable night.

Purple Disco Machine – Up and Down

Capturing the rollercoaster of emotions and events, this song mirrors the unpredictable nature of the story’s progression.

Marvin Gaye – I Want You (Last Dance Extension)

A timeless classic that perfectly encapsulates longing and desire, serving as the ideal conclusion to this musical journey.

For visuals and moments that shape my storytelling, follow me on Instagram: @viktor.e.mares.

Explore deeper themes in my novel, The Desert Road of Night, which has a chapter called Elysium that’s based on Last Dance—available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and most major retailers.

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I bumped into my ex-girlfriend, Céline, as I was leaving a restaurant with a woman I had met through a dating app. My date had spent the entire evening talking about herself and how amazing an artist she was, even saying at one point, “Not that you’d get it immediately—most people don’t—but you need a high IQ to grasp the genius that is my art.”

Céline gave my date a once-over before shooting me that look that said, Really? You’ve become that guy?

Before I could respond—ready to remind her of our age difference, Céline being older than me—my date started gushing, telling her how much she was a fan of her “art.”

Céline just rolled her eyes and said, “It’s poetry, not art, but thanks anyway.”

Her mood shifted. The reserved demeanor most introverts exhibit gave way to that of a Brat, demanding that I ditch the Square—my date—and come with her instead.

Without giving Céline’s demand a second thought, I dropped the demeanor I had adopted since I was last with her—the one that had made me a decent father and a barely tolerable husband to my now ex-wife—and became the man who welcomed the brattiness of his Sub.

With as little consideration as my date had given our waitress—horrible—I grabbed Céline’s hand and led her from the restaurant doorway, down the dark streets, leaving my date behind.

At first, Céline and I said nothing.

Her hand shook in mine. It felt like she was fighting the pull of relapse with every step. Our walk seemed aimless—wandering the back streets of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District—until I realized where we had stopped: in front of what used to be a BDSM club. The place where we started our dynamic. It had since closed, the entrance now leading into a boutique hotel built upon the foundation of the old building.

By now, the initial flash of Brat energy Céline had given me was gone. Her shoulders were hunched—not just from the cold of that January night but from the gamble she was taking in making herself vulnerable to me again. But the way she squeezed my hand as she led me told me everything. She wanted a return to us—the way we were—with me as the Dom who would become her mission commander anytime she needed to be launched into that beautiful, ecstatic “Space” that almost every Sub strives to enter when they find that one Dom who gets it. The one who understands, at a visceral level, that submission is a gift that, once given, can never be taken back—because of the addiction that would arise in his Sub for him, for the transcendent as experienced through his body.

She pushed her shoulders back, lifted her head, and looked at me directly.

I led her into the hotel.

In the past, we used to go down an elevator that would open into a labyrinth filled with lovers moaning in the shadows. This time, we went up, toward the loud music blaring from the top floors.

Once there, the elevator doors opened. Céline and I stepped out with the crowd of young men and women packed in with us. We followed them onto the jam-packed dance floor and found ourselves in the middle of it. The arms and backs of others dancing around us pressed against our bodies, pushing Céline and me closer.

In the dance, we stared deeply into each other’s eyes. We brought our faces as close as we could without kissing, our lips lingering. Her eyes pulsed. Her arms wrapped over my shoulders as though she were hanging on to life. My hands lay flat against the small of her back, her heartbeat pulsing hard enough that I could feel it through her leather jacket and my peacoat.

It was then that I realized what it meant to be lost in time—what had felt like a minute in her arms had turned out to be an hour. We would have remained lost if not for her wincing and saying, “Nature calls.”

After asking around for the bathroom and finding out it was on a floor below ours, we decided to take the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. In the stairwell, we passed murals of dominatrixes and cherubs.

We entered a crowded foyer filled with furnishings designed for aesthetics rather than function. Céline excused herself and went to the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to do the same.

Once done, we met back in the foyer. We looked at each other, then at the men roaming the room in packs, their scheming obvious in their eyes. The women huddled together in their own groups for mutual safety.

One of those young women, who had been watching us, broke away from her group and approached Céline.

“I know you… You were on TV.”

Céline chuckled. “Not anymore.”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“Only if you tell me my name. Do you know it, or are you asking because I was on TV?”

The young woman’s expression shifted from star-struck curiosity to confusion. “I don’t know your name—just give it to me.”

“Fine, you can have my autograph. Do you have something I can write on?”

The young woman pulled a napkin from her purse and handed it to Céline.

She scribbled on it before handing it back. The young woman looked at the signature and said, “You’re not ‘The Rock.’”

“How do you know that if you don’t know my name?”

“’Cause The Rock is a seven-foot dude, and you’re a tiny old bitch trying to fuck with me.”

“Next time, know who you’re talking to before interrupting them and asking for a favor.”

The young woman’s body language suggested she was about to throw a drunken punch. I led Céline out of the foyer before a fight—one I realized at that moment she was too old to handle—could break out.

As we headed back upstairs, I became lost in my feelings. I had met Céline when she was thirty, and I was barely in my twenties. Time is cruel. I could never unsee the beauty that had made me fall in love with her so hard. But when that young woman called her old, and she flinched at the pain of those words, I caught a glimpse of reality—how haggard and gaunt she looked now, being over fifty. Yet somehow, this glimpse made Céline that much more beautiful to me.

In that moment, she suddenly signified just how fragile all life is, and as our days dwindle, Céline and I move closer and closer to death.

Headlong into oblivion.

The realization of how precious her being alive was to me started coming through as a hunger—a desire to experience as much of Céline as I could before our end came. There was no better way to express that hunger and desire than to grab Céline’s hand and, once we were back upstairs, lead her out to the open-air patio—to the railing overlooking the streets below—just so I could tell her she was more beautiful now than ever.

It seemed to surprise her.

“Really? I don’t feel it,” she said.

“You are,” I replied.

“You’re just saying that because you have a thing for women who look like bag ladies.”

“Take the compliment.”

“Alright... only because it’s coming from you; I know you’re not bullshitting me, trying to pick me up.”

“That’s because you’re already mine.”

She seemed taken aback by my statement.

“Is that what you think?” she asked.

“It’s what I know,” I said.

A moment of stillness settled between us in her silence. We looked around at the groups and couples milling about the rooftop patio, their silhouettes making them appear like shadows.

The tension I felt from her hand in mine tightened.

She looked at me with questioning eyes. “Are you still with ‘what’s her name?’”

“You caught me on a date,” I replied.

“You, of all people, should know that doesn’t mean anything. You were with ‘what’s her name’ when we had our ‘Round Two.’ Look at how that turned out.”

I sighed. “I’m still with her—”

“Of course.”

“But I’m not with her. We’re divorced... but something happened, and we had to put aside our hard feelings to deal with an illness. My daughter’s freaking out that her mother could die. I moved back in for her sake. I need my daughter to focus—she’s in her final year of high school. She’ll be off to college soon, and I’ll be free again.”

Céline became silent again. It was like she was trying to figure out whether she should stay or walk away because of the choice I made—to take that quality she loved about me, being the nurturing “Big,” and apply it to my conventional life. I was trying to do the right thing, not think about myself, because I needed my ex-wife to recover. She needed to survive because she’s the mother of my daughter. She needs to be healthy for our child, and despite the bad blood, I will always love her, too.

If it was my nature to be this way, I needed to remind Céline of hers.

“Do you still have a roster?”

She chuckled. “I’ve never had a roster.”

“Bullshit. You’ve always had someone hanging around you—in the shadows—like they were the backup, waiting to be promoted.”

“Jesus… You’ve become more cynical.”

“No... I’ve become more realistic. I always assume anyone beautiful will have someone in their life. Beautiful people are never single.”

“But I am single. I was with someone—a sweet guy—but that was also his problem: he was too sweet, too forgiving, too much in my face, up my ass, always asking what he could do to make me happy.”

“You don’t want to be happy.”

“Not in the way Squares think happiness is. And my ex is a Square. He has no clue how to be with me. How it’s sometimes good to have conflict—not be such a fucking pussy.”

Céline paused. “I had told him the story about how I tried running you over with your car.”

I laughed because that was a memory I treasured.

A few years after our first breakup, Céline and I had a chance encounter similar to the one that led us to the hotel, which kicked off the Round Two phase of our relationship. Despite knowing I was in another relationship, Céline wanted something—anything romantic—with me, so long as she felt like she was returning to the one person she trusted to send her to Space without fear of injury.

But just as Round Two had begun, it ended.

In the middle of the night, I made it clear I needed to leave her apartment and go home. I had plans the next day with my daughter and her mother, a woman I met shortly after our first breakup—whose name Céline still couldn’t say aloud.

Céline followed me outside, and after yelling at me in just a bra and panties, she made it clear I wasn’t going anywhere because she had the keys to my car. As we wrestled in the street next to it, she grabbed me by the balls and twisted just enough that I backed off. She raced over to the driver’s door, opened it, got in, and tried to run me over.

Despite her trying to kill me, I needed to get my keys back. So, I went back to her apartment. Céline and I ended up having the most intense, most passionate sex we’d ever had, leaving us trembling, legs shaking, and me finally understanding the true source of genuine desire: it always comes at the tail end of anxiety.

I couldn’t help but laugh when Céline said, “My ex is someone who would never do anything that would make me want to run him over with a car, and it’s just… ugh—so boring. I’m like, get some balls and show me that you’re honest. Everyone gets mad, but not him. Until he does, and that’s when he starts punching walls.”

I stopped smiling when her face became serious.

“Yeah, he needed to go. He needed to move out… He still has the keys to my apartment. He won’t give them back.”

“The irony.”

“I know. And now he drops by whenever he wants, even though I told him to stop and give me back my keys. Earlier today, he showed up saying, ‘Let me give you what you really want. Let’s play, ‘cause that’s what you want… You want me to be him.’ He started calling me by some fucked-up names, trying to be something that he’s not… Yeah, I needed to get away. I needed to disappear. I drove down here, if for anything, to remember who I was, who I used to be before I got old—”

Céline stopped talking when a couple walked up to the railing, standing arm-in-arm next to us. She sighed when they kissed before walking away.

After a long moment of silence, Céline looked at me and said, “I’m too old to be dating. To have to teach someone new how to be with me... I think I’m done.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Bullshit. You were out with that kid. How old is she?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And you’re, like, forty-four?”

“Yup, and I feel the difference. I tried connecting with her, but it was more of a monologue on her part. I knew she was trying to impress me with all these things she said she creates, but to me, the more she talked about ‘art,’ the more I knew she was full of shit. So I called her a ‘poser,’ and that’s when our date ended and I ran into you.”

“Did you pick the spot?”

“No, she did.”

Céline smiled. “Interesting... We’ve had great times at our spot.”

“The menu’s changed.”

“Of course it did; everything changes.”

“Not everything. The way I feel about you hasn’t. Has it for you?”

She sighed. “No, although I wish it did. I wouldn’t be feeling all this regret I’m feeling now.”

“Regret is a motherfucker.”

“I know... But the great thing about getting older is knowing we have the power to change things up. If the signs are there, we should go for it. We don’t have to live with regret.”

“We don’t.”

“Okay then... What are your plans for when your daughter moves away?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of maybe taking my camera and going overseas, maybe to Syria, and doing some war photography.”

“Still angling to be a photojournalist?”

“Yeah…”

“Even if you end up dead?”

“No one lives forever, and to be honest, I’m tired. I’m so tired of life—the boredom, the sadness, the depression.”

“Me too…” Céline was quiet for a moment before a smile crept onto her face. “But it doesn’t have to be this way, not anymore… You don’t need to go to Syria to experience some excitement—some terror. You can get plenty of that here at home.”

“I can?”

“Sure. You can move in with me like we talked about doing.”

“That was then.”

“That can be now... I trust that you know when to pay attention to me and when to give me space without me having to say anything... That’s the thing I miss the most. How you know. How we talk without words.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’m sure. I drove two hours from the Hamptons with the thought of going to that restaurant, all with the hope, however small, that I’d run into you, and there you were. It’s a sign. Don’t you think? That we’re meant for a final round?”

“Anything can be looked at as a sign, even coincidences, if we wish it to be.”

Céline playfully slapped me on the shoulder. “When did you stop being romantic?”

“The day I lost hope.”

“Then let’s get it back.”

Céline led me away from the railing of the outdoor patio and back inside. We cut across the crowded dance floor toward the elevator, rushing in once the doors opened. It took us down to the main lobby, where we headed to the front desk and booked a room for the two of us.

After I handed over my credit card details and got the keycards, I led Céline to the separate elevator bank reserved for hotel guests. We rode it up to our floor and got off.

Inside the room, we hurried to the window to look out again—down at the icy sidewalks and roads glowing a frosty blue—before turning away and looking at each other.

We pressed our bodies close, staring deeply into each other’s eyes. Our faces came as close as possible without kissing, our lips lingering, her eyes pulsing.

“I just want to be close to you,” she said. “I want to do more than remember the way we were in bed. I want to feel the real again, so let’s get real. I haven’t felt real in years.”

Céline began to undress, and I followed her lead until we were both naked. Her body looked more glorious with age than it ever had in all the time I’d known her. She went to where she’d dropped her large handbag by the door, reached in, and pulled out a wooden brush before walking back and handing it to me.

We climbed into bed together. My back rested against the headboard, and Céline positioned herself between my legs. I started brushing her hair. She moaned, her head moving with the rhythm of the brush, until it caught on a snag, jerking her head back.

“Why so many knots?” I asked.

“I don’t have anyone to take care of me,” she replied.

“You do now.”

“Forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever.”

“Pinkie swear?”

“Yes, pinkie swear.”

With the crossing of our fingers, I sealed my promise to her and then continued combing her hair.

Her soft moans told me she was feeling the pleasure of being back in the real—what she would call her Littlespace.1

Being in a room with Céline like this wasn’t about sex. It was about enjoying how her hair smelled like mint, the city, and sweat. It was about paying attention to her moans, which grew softer the more I brushed her hair, until I knew she was about to fall asleep.

That’s when I told her to lie back. I tucked her in with me, covering our bodies in cool, white sheets. I savored the way her body bent as I spooned her from behind, rocking her softly until she was fully asleep—and then it was my turn to do the same.

When I woke up the next day, Céline was gone.

For a moment, I panicked, thinking it had all been a dream. Then I saw she’d left a note on hotel stationery, set on the desk by the window. It had her address, her new phone number, and the following message:

“When the time comes, and your daughter moves away, you’ll know what to do. Until then, we’re ‘no contact.’ I’m sorry, but I learned my lesson the hard way: never be the other woman again.”

I couldn’t help but smile at how Céline still knew exactly how to create the most desire in me—pulling me in before pushing me away, but only temporarily, until we were supposed to meet again.

This time, I had hoped it would be for good.

But a month later, while waiting for my ex-wife to finish her latest round of chemotherapy, I was reading The New York Times, and there it was: Céline’s obituary. It noted her passing from a stroke and highlighted her accomplishments as a poet, along with the influence she had on others.

That was the day all hope died with her.

I haven’t been the same since.

Want more? My Instagram isn’t where I write, but it’s where I share the images, music, and moments that shape the stories I tell. If you’re into the culture, the vibe, and the history behind these worlds, follow me @viktor.e.mares.

Also, my novel The Desert Road of Night, which explores many of the themes in my short stories, poems, and personal essays like this one, is available for preorder on Amazon.

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Share World as Ecstasy

Joy is…

     the holding of hands
     as we sit
     on the hood of
     our car

     under a night sky
     spread above us,
     with an array of stars

     beginning to appear
     as the blue hour
     fades into night, 

     scattered from
     horizon to horizon,
     framing the top 

     of mountains
     in the distance,

sitting in a dark silhouette.

Ecstasy is…

     the whoosh of air
     blowing through

your hair, in tangles,

     from cars racing up and down
     the interstate,

and you let out a laugh,

     and you let go of my hand
     to stand up
     on the side of the desert road
     and begin to profess

with a yell,

     arms outstretched
     at the night,

your love

     for the sky,
     and the stars,
     and the night,
     and the unseen moon,
     and the unseen sun,

and to our Creator,
Who is unseen but seen—

     Who gave us this gift of the moment, where

your joy,
your ecstasy,
     becomes

my passion,
my everything 

     that I express
     through my one
     long,
     soulful
     kiss,
     to
     your
     tender
     lips.

Where This Moment Comes From

If this moment touched something in you—something real, something that stayed—it’s part of Eulogy for an Old Lover and Other Poems, available now on Amazon. Every poem in the collection carries that same pulse of wonder. Love, memory, loss, devotion—held in moments you can step into and stay with. If this moved you, the book will stay with you. Come see what else lives inside.

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This is part one of chapter 29, The It Girl, from the novel The Desert Road of Night.

April 12, 1997

Sylvia was hesitant to leave her apartment, but the clutter and the smell of what now felt like a cramped cell pushed her out the door to face the specter of death.

She was hesitant to make that walk in the cold drizzle to the memorial service, where her agent had pressed her to attend without an invite. The agent told Sylvia, “No one calls anyone out at these things, anyway. So just remember: always smile and act like you know—like you belong.”

To get her agent to continue returning her calls, Sylvia had to do as she was told and act like she knew Irwin Goldbook—the Departed—who had passed away a week earlier. She had to act like she wasn’t disgusted by the Departed’s personal life—his personal stances—despite admiring his work and the bravery it took for him to live a life that seemed to have left him with no regrets. But still, Sylvia wondered at what point his chicken-hawk ways would rightfully overshadow his work, so that instead of being known as the man who, through his poems, challenged censorship laws in the 1950s, he would be known more for being a member of NAMBLA.

Sylvia wanted to turn back and return to her cell of a room—where she could play her cassette tape, worn down by years of replaying the songs recorded on it—to listen to Pat Benatar, over and over on loop, sing the lyrics to Hell Is for Children. While singing along, Sylvia would strip naked, take the knife she kept beneath her mattress, and drag it across the surface of her body, marred with the invisible scars all children who have been through hell carry in silence.

In the cell of her room, where the clutter no longer felt like the bars of a prison but the armor that protected her—surrounding her like the shell of her beloved dead turtle, Kalpa—Sylvia would listen to the song and toy with the knife until something in her no longer felt the fear she had carried since she was a little girl. That same fear had her hiding in the dark corner of a foster home until Constance the Matriarch came through and slayed the monsters who had become her captors, scooping Sylvia up—baby doll still in hand—and racing out of there.

Sylvia would play another song from a worn-down cassette she had made in college, comprised solely of the ticking clock, the drums, and the chimes in the intro to Time by Pink Floyd. She would grab that same baby doll—the one that had been cared for by her best friend, Reginald Superstar, while Sylvia had been in the blur at the peak of her addiction—and hug the doll like it was her child who had just turned thirty years old. Then, Sylvia would throw herself against her books, strewn across the floor, and cry. And cry. And cry.

So, to avoid that—to not go back to her apartment, to not see Kalpa’s tank—its emptiness a glaring example of death but also a reminder, just as Kalpa had been for years a reminder of the rarity of life—Sylvia kept walking along East 10th Street.

As she continued her walk under the bleak skies, beneath the drizzle that dotted her hair and became drops clinging to the clumps of her blowout like dew on stalks, Sylvia began to repeat to herself over and over: “I am the miracle. I am the miracle. I am the miracle. I’m meant to be here. I’m meant for more.”

Because of the hundreds of times she had walked from her apartment with Andrés to Strand Books on Broadway—near where the memorial service was being held—she continued walking along East 10th Street with her eyes closed. It was at Strand Books that they would spend hours browsing books together in a silence that would make her, at that moment, whisper to herself, “Shantith.”

It was a peace she missed.

It was a familiarity that made her feel safe; to have him home, in bed, meant she didn’t need the knife under her bed because Andrés would be there, always ready to fight—to protect—to defend what she had made his: her soul.

It was that hunger to feel oneness, borne out of silence, that almost made her keep walking toward Strand Books instead of stepping into the front courtyard of St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery, crowded with people heading into the event.

Her agent, standing under a red umbrella in the drizzle, rushed up to Sylvia and yelled, “You’re late.”

Before Sylvia could respond, the agent grabbed her by the hand and yanked her into the crowd moving inside. She sat next to the agent as the memorial began. Each speaker came to the podium and shared a story or memory about the Departed before sitting back down. To Sylvia, it felt intrusive—like she was violating something sacred within the circle of friends who took turns speaking. She didn’t understand how this memorial was supposed to be the networking opportunity her agent had claimed it would be, not until the last speaker left the podium and people began milling about. They laughed and talked about their work. For those who shared a connection to the Departed but didn’t know each other well, they exchanged business cards and numbers, saying, “Let’s collab.”

Something about that made Sylvia want to burst into tears.

Would her death, whenever that comes, be just another excuse for people to get together, make small talk, and exchange numbers—all to set up collaborations that would lead to more attention for their creative work?

No!

Sylvia vowed to herself that when the moment of her death comes—crossing that boundary between the Land of the Alive and the Land of the Not-Alive—she will have already stipulated in her will, as her last wishes, that there should be no service, no funeral, no memorial. For all she cared, her ashes could be tossed off a bridge into the deep, so that any river below could take what’s left of her and make it part of the Earth. Her body would live on that way—as sediment among the rocks beneath the cool waters, flowing from the source to the depths of the ocean.

The agent snapped a finger in Sylvia’s face, bringing her back to the moment. “Wait here… I see someone I need to say hi to.”

Before Sylvia could respond, the agent shot up from her chair and raced over to an older man, whom Sylvia recognized as someone well-known in New York’s literary scene. He wore a dark blue blazer and slacks with an open-collar white dress shirt, signaling to the crowd that he was wealthy, whereas others were merely rich. He had power, whereas others had influence. He was someone who could open doors for anyone, and after the agent pointed Sylvia out to him, he sauntered over and grabbed her thigh, squeezing hard as he lowered his old-man body into the seat next to her. His old-man whiskers protruded from his ears, and age spots dotted his wrinkled, translucent, soft hands that felt like they had never worked a day in his life—hands that now squeezed her thigh, uninvited.

Sylvia shot up, crying and screaming. She ran into the courtyard. The agent followed, grabbing Sylvia’s shoulder from behind. Sylvia swung around, punched her, knocking her to the ground. She knelt, coming face-to-face with the agent, who looked back like a terrified little mouse.

“You’re trying to pimp me out?” Sylvia yelled, hitting her again. “I’m not the fucking one.”

And with one last punch to the nose, Sylvia terminated her contract with the agent. She raced out of the courtyard and across the street to a coffee house. She rushed in with her face to the floor, acting like she was just another person coming in for a cup of coffee. The more she tried calming down, the more her mind raced with intrusive thoughts, trying to convince her—after having been fondled—that maybe sobriety wasn’t such a big deal.

She had been happier high because, at least in the midst of heroin bliss, she was numb. She wouldn’t know about the monsters who could make not just men, but anyone with a semblance of power, abuse it—because they were weak. Because they knew nothing of respect, of trust, of the Dance, where the charm of a lover—the songs of an Orpheus—could help bring out the Little still hidden in the dark corner of her being. Coaxing her from her hiding spot to show her true self, to give herself in a trust so deep—in a love so powerful, so strong—that she would surrender her knife and ask her one and only to drag it lightly across her body, so that something in her was no longer scared.

That’s when the tapping of a microphone in the corner of the coffee house made her look up, finally aware of her surroundings, and see her One standing there:

Andrés.

In that moment of the long stare, with her mind constantly moving and racing, she understood: what once seemed impossible now made sense. If they were truly each other’s one, surely fate would conspire for them to meet again.

It was written in the stars.

Recognizing what could possibly be at play, she buried every intrusive thought; she mustered everything in her to hold back the Little in her that wanted to run up to him, tell him everything that happened across the street, and point out the monsters that tried taking advantage of her. She wanted to watch how the Big in Andrés would dispense justice, the same way she suspected he had with Caleb years before.

If this was fate at play, she had to bury everything and act like all was well. Smile. Smile with everything she had—tap into the joy of what could be the day of their ultimate union—the return to her Purple Room—the launch into Space—the bliss found in the posture where her heart would meld into his, and his face would press against her chest, and they would become One.

Yes.

On what could be the day remembered as the turning point of her life—changing it—she would not want it to end before it began, with an old man being carried on a stretcher into an ambulance and Andrés hauled away in handcuffs because he had to protect what the Little in Sylvia made his: her everything.

She moved away from the line to stand a few feet from him, as if to say, “Here I am.”

He broke eye contact with her to look around the now-quiet room.

Sylvia looked around with him, at the faces of everyone in the room, all of whom appeared confused by Andrés—a man who had, at one point, seemed ready to read his poem but was now hypnotized into silence by her.

“Sorry about that,” Andrés said to the audience. “It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this. I’m just a dad now, given a day off from my family to come here and say:

“Kneeling upon an iced pavement

“In a suit and tie,

“Casting away his briefcase and glasses,

“He looked up at Orion

“In the cold night sky,

“And wondered what had happened

“To the life he so loved,

“Wondering the deeper meaning of it.

“Cursing God who brought about his torment,

“As he exhaled a deep breath at the mountain’s base,

“Pausing to go home to get some rest

“For when he wakes the next morning,

“He can do it over again—

“Pushing

“The same stone

“Up the mountain.”

Andrés paused, taking in the silence from the still-confused audience, then sighed. “That’s all I needed to say. No more. No less.”

Sylvia rushed over the empty chairs that separated the space dedicated to reading poetry from the rest of the audience in the coffee house. She brushed aside the barista who had approached Andrés to take the microphone from him, pulling him in for a long hug. Just as she was about to whisper in his ear, “Hello, Daddy, how are you?” the barista tapped her on the shoulder.

“I’m a big fan of your work. Would you be willing to read something for us, please?” the barista asked.

Sylvia turned to her, a young woman in her early twenties, and gave her a strained smile. “But of course.”

The barista smiled as she handed Sylvia the microphone. Andrés tried moving away to stand to the side, but Sylvia grabbed his hand, keeping him in place.

She turned to face the audience with a reluctant expression, as if examining her thoughts while searching for the right words.

“Hi, my name is Sylvia James,” she said. “I was a poet who came in here to escape… the rain. Without giving away too much about why, between leaving my apartment and just before coming in here, something within me has changed. I’m not a poet anymore. I’ve been given a reminder that what I put out there—my energy through words—has, in some cosmic way, boomeranged back in a way I can’t talk about.

“Since it wasn’t my plan to read today, and it’s not in me to turn down the requests of the baristas here—young women who, I know, work so hard to give each and every one of you, through good coffee, your escape—I want to, instead, read a poem that I first heard at my grandmother’s funeral and have memorized since then.”

She looked at Andrés.

“Don’t ask me why this poem came to mind, but it’s by Rumi, and it goes a little something like this:

“Our death is our wedding with eternity.

“What is the secret? ‘God is One.’

“The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house.

“This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes;

“It is not in the juice made from the grapes.

“For he who is living in the Light of God,

“Regarding him, say neither bad nor good,

“For he is gone beyond the good and the bad.

“The death of the carnal soul is a blessing.”

Sylvia looked back at the audience, sitting in captivated silence, and pointed at the ceiling.

“Fix your eyes on God and do not talk about what is invisible,

“So that he may place another look in your eyes.

“It is in the vision of the physical eyes

“That no invisible or secret thing exists.

“But when the eye is turned toward the Light of God

“What thing could remain hidden under such a Light?

“Although all lights emanate from the Divine Light

“Don’t call all these lights ‘the Light of God’;

“It is the eternal light which is the Light of God,

“The ephemeral light is an attribute of the body and the flesh.

“…Oh God who gives the grace of vision!

“The bird of vision is flying towards You with the wings of desire.”

The audience neither clapped nor spoke. They were like the barista—all with expressions that conveyed confusion and discomfort. In the silence, Sylvia placed the microphone on the floor, grabbed Andrés by the hand, and without a word, led him out of the coffee house.

Across the street, a cop car, flashing blue and white lights, and an ambulance were parked on the sidewalk in front of St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery. Police talked with the agent while paramedics tended to her bruised face and bloody nose. For a brief moment, the agent made eye contact with Sylvia before shaking her head and returning her focus to the police.

Sylvia looked at Andrés and asked, “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

“No… Not really,” he replied.

“I need to get out of here.”

He looked at the police, then back at Sylvia. “Then let’s get out of here.”

Sylvia placed her arm around his and led him away from the chaos.

You’ve just read one chapter from The Desert Road of Night—the story of two lovers, Sylvia Hadid James and Andrés de León, bound by a love that defies time, distance, and even death. Now read what came before and after this moment. See what led to him being taken out into the desert, at twilight, where he declares his amor fati before surrendering to his fate. Available now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and most major retailers.