Will send off an email shortly.

But this feeling, as he sat here, that was his to experience alone. Nobody else could sit on this bench and go through the sorrow it meant to him. Twenty years ago he joined her here, and listened to her apologise, wish, and leave. Twenty years ago he begged the silence for something more; he reached his grasp out to a cloud.

She hadn’t stayed. She couldn’t. She had changed too many times.

I close my eyes against the pain. I remember the first time I met him. A birthday party he was throwing for a girl he wanted to date. We were introduced, we smiled at each other, and then I left after a few minutes to go see a movie. The next time was a few months later. He was standing outside his apartment holding a gray chinchilla in his hands as neighbors gathered around him wanting to see. We were introduced, we smiled at each other, I ran a finger down the back of the little fuzz ball, then left to go out with some friends. Then he came to me, baring chips and beer for a party. He was introduced, he smiled and said hello, then turned to leave. I stopped him. That was all it took, one of us stopping the other. We married two years later. Now, after five years of marriage, he’s left me. I might recover if it was another woman, but not this. Tears streak down my cheek. I bring my fingers to my lips and place a kiss to them before laying my hand on the cold granite of the tombstone.

Ken Coffman

Sorry, I was lost in thought. I’m surprised you recognize this symbol, yes, it’s pagan or wiccan. A girl showed it to me a long time ago and it stuck with me. She was pretty, like you, with brown hair and brown eyes. Eyes a man could get lost in.
The first time I saw her, she knelt with a colorful, cotton peasant dress working up her thighs. Her legs were thin and covered with dust. She doodled in the dirt with a long finger. This very symbol, now that I think on it. The wind teased her hair, which, I noticed was braided with leaves and twigs. She said the symbol represents fate and chance romance, but she might have been mocking my nervous excitement and naked interest. When she pushed her hair back, she left dark smudges on her cheeks. It was not filth; it was charming.
I asked if she was a witch and she smiled.
Could be, she said. She tugged my hand. Come, we must have wine.
I hesitated and she called me silly.
As we climbed weathered stairs, the wind whirled and the long grass bowed and whispered.
Her front room was dimly lighted and the air was thick with hazy perfume. She brightened the room by lighting candles in every corner; in tins, stabbed into empty wine bottles, and held by elaborate silver candlesticks. Flames lapped at darkness, but did not defeat it. Flickering shadows writhed on the walls. It was an odd dance accented by flashing, mischievous eyes. She poured wine from an asymmetrical, black, label-less bottle, and then pulled me down to a rug woven from odd-colored yarns. Decorated with strange patterns.
We live our lives in symbols, she said. I asked what our physical act symbolized and she laughed. Love and the circle of birth, of course, she said.
As we moved together, the walls fell away and the room moved through the candles like the solar wind flows through stars. Her stories were dreams. After my energy was tapped, she stood and, dressed only in shadows, danced. Her body was nymphic and her hair was a silken banner. Time coalesced, evaporated, and drifted into irrelevance. I was enchanted.

In the morning, the candle flames were dead. She kissed me and I clutched her body with desperation.
I love you, I said. I want to know you, to grow old with you, to possess you.
She pulled away. No, you don’t, she said. You don’t want to know how I pay the rent, how I look when the sun abuses my face, and that I bleed from my nethers when the moon is full. Am I boring over time? A naggart? Stupid? Am I a witch, really a witch?
She threw my shirt at me and ordered me to get dressed and leave. There was no resisting her command.

Sorry if I rambled. I can’t help but think of fate, love, passion and chance encounters at times like this. You truly have pretty eyes. Can I hold your hand and pour you a drink from the black bottle?
Can witches read minds? I don’t know the answer to that one. Let me show you again. Notice how the symbol seems like something solid. Like a key or talisman, perhaps. Like a whispered question on the wind.
And, when you’re ready, we can go…