Tatamagouche.

As I walk through the courtyard, cobblestones quip and quarrel with my soles, arguing over the right of way and the passage forward. A drink or two in the morning before my final stand. My hat rakishly perched atop my head, my saber at my side dripping ink, I march forward and sit; rapt in the hard wood chair.

He asks the question and I offer the answer. My laughter echoes and rings at the disbelief that crosses his face. This cycle continues to plague us all, whether we know it or not. We grow old and complacent, content with the doldrums and dealings of the average day. We busy ourselves with the minutiae. Infants, children, schoolchildren, students, workers, retirees. The big picture. Everyday a smaller cycle runs its course. Time lapses. Still it is the pursuit of happiness. Life and Liberty. Where is redemption found? Love. What becomes of those that never find it? I see the worn faces staring across bar stools. I see the empty eyes staring out fogged windows on the crosstown bus. I see.

Her smile alone charges the room. Protons and electrons argue, bounce, and flit with reckless abandon. My heart beats fast, as the thuds mark a cadence for the tiny countless legs that scurry across the floor, carrying a weight Atlas would balk at. As she tosses her hair back, it ripples, like waves of grain, gold, blown by a warm summer wind. I take it in. She crinkles her nose. The buzzer rings and lets me know its time to go.