Beggars for Roses

Until We Meet Again

I looked over at Maria's side of
the room one more time. She had taken the
bed while I had grabbed the sofa-cum-bed.
We were in the comfortable room of
a local motel not too many blocks
from the hospital. We weren't sleeping
yet. Instead, we both had our laptops out
and were working.

                                         I couldn't tell about
her, she looked serenely occupied, but
I was distracted. Heavily in fact,
by memories of the last time we had
shared a room. A cabin on a boat, to
be precise. It had been only for a
half hour. It had been immensely hot. It
had been romantic, had been surreal.
It had been tumultuous and totally
unnerving. It had been soul-shattering.
Yet healing, engendered a feeling of
coming full circle. Well, almost, that is.

Oh, my God, I'm being a total creep.

It had been a fluke, and Maria had
made that clear on more than one occasion
through her cold demeanor. No matter my
confessions, no matter how baring to
the bone they were, in a matter of weeks
we had gone back to being the same old
work buddies, cool, distant, professional,
friendly if the occasion called for, naught
more, nothing less. Awkward self-awareness
notwithstanding, augmented several
times by the fact that most of my staff had
become accidentally privy to
my psychological nudity, as
a result of that stupid bet Anna
and Maria had going in mischief.

Back then, I couldn't go down the old route
of distancing myself from her: finding
a girlfriend. Not after Nina. I had
lost my heart twice over. No spirit left
for the ruthless dating game. So I took
the other, healthier option and threw
myself headlong into the ongoing
research project I was heading.

                                                                  It was
an investigation on the fate of
Mexican children who cross the border
without their families. Billy and Riz
were with me on this. Our field research had
taken us on many trips to both sides
of the border, at times all the way to
the families of some of the children
who had been able to reunite with
them. Other times we also went to the
unwilling destinations across the
border, when the smuggling children had been
caught. Unceremoniously returned,
some of the unfortunate ones had wound
up with human traffickers who would look
to employ them in various trades: drugs,
prostitution, and house servants. This side
of the investigation was tricky
and dangerous and we had hired the help
of several free lance reporters on
the Mexican side to aide us.

                                                           By the
time we had been done with the leg work, the
personal side of things at Scope had cooled.
Everybody had moved on, though nothing
had been forgotten, it never will be.

The "thing" between me and Maria had
become a phenomenon, a living
breathing reality of its own, its
presence detectable between the lines,
behind casual glances and choices
of words and unfinished statements, and quite
facetious fully intended puns by
everyone and everywhere on the two
reporters' floors in our building.

                                                                    Until
at last, Maria decided to try
her hand at dating again.

                                                     See, that's why
you can no longer think about the boat
incident, you perv! Whatever it had
been, a wrinkle in the fabric of our
universe, was just that: anomaly!
Never to be revisited, never
to be made something into or out of,
never to be of any consequence
whatsoever.