Noise under the pile of pillows and blankets I'm sleeping on.
It sounds like music.
I think it is my alarm.
I shuffle though the pile, hitting my head on something, and find the noise box.
There are some red line-and-dot hieroglyphs on the front of the box but I have difficulty deciphering their meaning.
I think it means that I need to get ready for work.
I perform my normal pre-work rituals with some disaffection and distraction.

There was someone just here, near me, I think.

She arrived on an airplane.

Picked her up at the airport.

Got lost getting there, it took forever to find her. We embraced. I wanted to stop by Albertson’s for beer. I think this was a bad idea, it took an hour. Some woman gave me a sob story about not being able to take anymore money out of her ATM. She wanted me to let her charge my groceries and then give her the money. I told her no. She kept asking until I walked away. I’m surprised my ride wasn’t upset with the delays. We just wanted to get back to my apartment.

After we put away the beer haul, we started watching some film and television shows on my computer.
We haven’t seen each other in six months. A few years ago we spent 6 months together, inseparable. Now all we can think of is each other.

Our relationship never ended.

I was cheating on another woman by being with her.

When I left, it should have been over, but we still cared about each other. A part of me wishes I'd stayed there, but that would have been impossible. I left her for another woman, but I was cheating on another woman by being there.

We aren’t very much alike. We come from totally different socio-economic strata. My life revolves around music and film, she absorbs media haphazardly. I skated over school work, doing what I needed to get through and absorbing as much as I thought important. She works hard, studies, reads, and makes sure to have as much done as possible.

If we are together then we are holding each other (oh, her thighs, her breasts,) whispering loves to each other (and absorbing our Egos into One) between snide comments about whatever we are watching. The Neverending Story provides a wonderful example. She comments that the dramatic crescendos of the score are coding film language for children, like some kids’ show repeating the alphabet over and over. I just think about the Rockbiter's strong hands. We move on to watch some episodes of Daria and various other cartoons and shows. Daria's teen angst stirs something in us.

Night blends into day, time loses track of itself. Chronos must have fallen asleep. another victim of the Fates.

I pull my futon mattress on top of the ancient bed since I know she is uncomfortable sleeping just on the futon. I don’t know why I find sleeping as close to the floor as possible to be more comfortable than being on a bed. We sleep; she wakes up early. The strangeness of my bedroom makes sleep difficult for her. I think it’s still morning when we rise. I haven’t risen from my dark room so early in months. The blinds are still down in the rest of my apartment. It’s dark but not as dark as I’d like.

The worthless shit that lives downstairs turns its stereo up all the way. I’d like to put on a porno and blast it. We watch some more cinema. She asks me to turn up the volume repeatedly. In addition to having bad eyesight, she has bad hearing. This might account for her poor taste in music. Then again, I listen to Japanese bands that play chainsaws and scrap metal, so who am I to talk? I can hear the dialogue clearly, in some spots she asks me to repeat what was said. I wonder how my hearing can be good after 15 years of concerts and shows and about a year of playing with a band more than once a week. I am lucky, I guess. I know, my Zodiac is nothing but luck. I don't believe in those things, but I was born in the year of the rabbit in the Chinese system, and a Pisces in the western system, lucky as all hell. Einstein was also both. Even though I was born into poverty I still remain fairly healthy (U2 quote: "The rich stay healthy while the sick stay poor.") These past few years of hard living will wreak havoc eventually, I’m sure.

We eat. She eats. If I remember to eat once on a day off, I’m lucky. We eat several times over the 78 hours of her trip. I eat only ramen, spaghetti, or cheese sandwiches usually. We went to the Taqueria Santa Cruz. The owner asks where we are from. He owns the taqueria at Merrill College, U.C.S.C. Small world, I think. I ask for a beer. He doesn’t have an alcohol license yet. This is disappointing, but not the end of the world. The burrito I order is very good, but I think the chips might have been fried in lard. They have Pepsi in glass bottles. I get one, it tastes so much better than the plastic we have become used to in the past 15 or more years. The bottle is different from the ones I remember as a child. They aren’t as curvy, the neck is thicker. The soda tastes much better than its contemporary cousins.

We go out later that night to Sanctuary, one of the goth/industrial clubs in town. We spend an hour or so there, then cross the street to the Double Down. I start to think about the bad habits that are inherent to such places. We don’t stay long. A friend asks why we are leaving, another friend reminds him that I am with an attractive woman, that I have things, other than the bad habits inherent to such places, to attend to. Taxis always arrive quickly to the Double Down, they pay for special service. The ride home is very quick. I can’t remember the last time I left the Double Down that sober. Home, now. More beer, more film – or some music, it was late. It doesn’t much matter. We move the coffee table and place the futon mat on the floor to make more room for us to lay next to each other. I think she has gained weight; she may have mentioned it. Her hips and belly fit nicely in my grasp.

I find her breasts, hips, and belly everything in the world I want to hold.

She is a few inches shorter than I am, when I wrap my arms around her we are a perfect match. My body covers hers.

She has gotten rug burn on her hips from the couch and the floor so we are trying to be more careful. Her skin does not take well to Las Vegas’ arid climate. She asks me to lotion her back for her. Seeing her nude back stirs some desire. Her elbows are chapped, her lip becomes bloody. She uses my Carmex on her lips, I tell her to use petroleum jelly instead. The ingredients in Carmex can be bad on open skin.

We play some chess. We have been playing postcard chess for over a year now. She has gotten good enough to beat me in that format at least half the time. Over the board is another story. I give her 10 to 30 time odds and still win.

She becomes bored and we move on to ‘country matters’.

On Thursday, we watch some History Channel shows, then the Simpsons. We leave my apartment for just the third time on her visit to venture out to the Strip to gamble with some money one of her relatives had given her for that purpose. She gets $40 in chips at the Roulette table. On her last $5 chip she hits. She gets close to $200 back. The next few drinks are on her. I lose some money on the slots, then we head home.

The bus is at the light when we arrive at the bus stop on Las Vegas Blvd. and Flamingo. We lucked out going both directions.

Arriving home, we only have less than 12 hours before we need to get her to the airport. We turn off the lights and put something on to fill the silence. I cry. All the anger and frustration I’ve had about leaving my partner and having to move into my own place and being so far away from my closest friends is boiling over. ‘Je t’aime’ is all we can say. “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray. I'm waiting for that final moment you say the words that I can't say.”

For years I’ve been saying that I’m making the soundtrack for an indie film of my life. We talked about Ghost World while watching Mallrats. Somewhere between Woody Allen, Kevin Smith, and Daria I realize that our perceived differences are too small to worry about.

I don’t know if we’ll ever live together again, if I'll ever see her again, but we share this one moment of love and devotion.

We leave to catch the bus. We have to walk about a mile to Maryland Parkway. I forgot my bus schedule so we are somewhat worried about the time. The bus gets us to the airport on time. On her last visit, I was only able to hug her for a moment before the bus left. This time I walked her to the security gate. The result is about the same. I am choked up, I begin to cry. I can see her eyes turn red and slightly swell. We kiss our good-byes and whisper our loves. A few tears hit my cheek as I turn away. It’s difficult to control, but I manage to choke them back. I get on the bus. This time it’s route 108 not 109. I fail to notice this as I board the bus. It drops me off about a mile farther away from my apartment. I get home at about 7am. I don’t want to go to sleep, I want to drink some more beer and hang out. I take a shot of Jägermeister, take a sip of soda to clear away the phlegm, and close my eyes.