 
### Time's Zone

### Benjamin Meredith
Time's Zone

Published by Benjamin Meredith at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Benjamin Meredith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To the cute British girl and all those who made it possible.
Table of Contents

Introduction

The Beginning

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The End

Introduction

It was obvious we were running late, and this wasn't a plane I could miss. Why did I book a flight that was leaving at seven forty in the morning? I wouldn't have time now. I don't remember talking to her much—or even wanting to. Sadness had taken its icy grip of my emotions, and I believed that everything that needed to be said had been. The actions and passion that needed to be demonstrated was shown through the prior twelve days, and instinctively I knew this wasn't a real goodbye.

We boarded our last train with the silence of understanding now overshadowing the experiences that'd recently made us laugh together. Royal Albert was a tiny London station filled with the silent thoughts of all those who'd come before. Its electrified tracks were held above the ground by thick, concrete columns. Elbowed beams with glass panes for ceilings stood to our backs as we waited, offering travelers protection from the rain as they waited for their red carriage. The only person accompanying us that early morning was the ticket inspector. Quietly, he'd mutter the names of stops into a microphone on the inside of the train. Stepping onto the platform, I could feel my once upbeat emotions give way to the sinking feeling of desperation.

That ride from the hotel to the airport was quite possibly the quickest I've taken in life. I've been zero-to-sixty in four seconds—but the memory of her head on my shoulder as we boarded that final train ride is something I'll yearn for in all the years to come. It was almost as if the world knew what was happening. We'd experienced beautiful, blue skies for the entirety of the two weeks, but finally the grey skies and rainy temperament London knew so well were catching up with us. As we'd walked to the station, the bottom of my suitcase bore a dark-green color from where the tears of the clouds dampened its velvet-like binding. All that was heard as we ascended to the platform was the clickety-clack of my suitcase's wheels as they met friction from the metal stairs.

So soft and thoughtful was this morning that I remember feeling nothing but everything at the same time. To be with her was ideal, but separation was what's real. This place was a location both lost and caught up in time: The elegant architecture and the classy trains were enough to realize her majesty's timeless royalty. But there was something missing—something the city seemed to once pride itself on but had now forgotten. It was a truth known to humanity hidden behind the haughty acts of humans.

To see her face in the fleeting reflection of the train window; and then to watch as those beautiful green eyes caught mine would become the tone of all to come and all that'd been for the past several months. We were tempered through different cultures but formed from the same human principles. Mirror pictures of selves tested through months of video screens and phone calls—that was us.

"Ben, it's time to get up," I heard as I woke to a quiet British voice telling me the time. I'd been dreaming about an existence I'd created with her, but rubbed my eyes and stretched as I recognized reality was setting in.

"I can't believe this is happening today... I'm not ready for this," I remember sighing.

I'd pulled myself from the warmth of the puffy bedcovers and walked over to the curtains to peak outside the hotel's window. I couldn't help but watch how the fog seemed to condense on the window's warm face, then transform into small droplets of water that ran down its glassy exterior. The glass had seen autumn, winter, spring, summer—and still, it was unchanging.

"Look, it'll all be fine. Just get dressed and let's get going. You've got to be there a little before seven, yeah?" she questioned, trying to get me moving.

"Yeah, I was hoping a little earlier. But it's fine if we're a little late."

I checked the time on the dimly lit screen of my phone, and slowly walked over to the bathroom to change as I sent my family a short text.

"I'm up and we're headed to the airport. It's time for this American to come home."
The Beginning

If it wasn't American, it wasn't right: That's what I'd seen at least. Only six hundred individuals—most of whom only spoke English (and some might argue a different type of English)—made up my hometown of Loretto, Kentucky. Her world was fifteen thousand times larger. To be counted among those six hundred was almost a privilege—a small-town badge of honor. Driving to the convenience shop wasn't possible without hearing the name "Ben" called at least once. And everyone knew the car.

The pearl-white Mitsubishi 3000gt stood for the pride and joy I strutted around town with. In the driver's seat of that car, I was invincible—I was in control of life. I was the epitome of a want-to-be badass, only stopped short by my respectful voice and kind words and nerdy mind. In my cutoff t-shirt and pair of blue jeans I'd strut my stuff; maybe even occasionally wear a baseball cap. My messy brown hair would flop around as the six-foot-tall person it covered threw hay bales onto an old Chevy truck in the heat of summer. And that was as deep as life was as far as I could tell. I could be brought down by neither the elements nor the situation—until she happened. She spoke as if she knew everything and I carried myself as if I was everything—and she didn't, and I wasn't.

The friendliness and well-to-do people I'd known my entire life was something I'd later realize I'd taken for granted. With thirteen million people, her world wasn't as defined in character. Her people didn't greet strangers, nor did they extend common courtesy. Variations in language and culture didn't make up my country world as they so-well specified hers. Was underage drinking, "mudding", shooting guns, and driving tractors and trucks not something everyone else did? The way to kick back and relax was to grab a six-pack of Bud Light and stargaze on a warm country night, right? Rejuvenation wasn't supposed to come through an expensive rendezvous at a cocktail bar twenty stories above an even-more luxurious city.

I was in love with the way things seemed to work—or at least disillusioned by the idea that I was. The simplicity and dullness found living in the middle of nowhere seemed to be characterized by exactly the opposite. Anything and everything was possible. I could walk out my door and fire off a shotgun without fearing the cops might show up. And if that wasn't enough, I could relax by hopping on the sporty four-wheeler I'd rebuilt and ride it for miles-and-miles down curvy county roads. Following the same laws as people who lived in the city didn't seem necessary. In my eyes, I was a rebel in hers.

Life was simple and kind where I was raised, and I incorrectly guessed that I was stuck in a time and place unaffected by the world around it: God's country, they called it. The beautiful green hills and unleveled yellow-and-brown fields remained a constant as the sun rose and fell each passing day. In the winter, corn stalks stuck out of the white wonderland, and in the summer the same stalks prevented you from seeing around the single-lane curve. Loretto was and is a world of its own, and Kentucky was nothing more than a place stood still and solid through any rain wind or snow. My world was slow paced and five hours behind. Here, those that could did and those who wanted took. Politeness and humbleness were merely corrections for an education neither begun nor nurtured.

I remember that time and that place—I even lived with it now. I'd just gotten back and was trying to adapt back to Kentucky. I'd been in college for two weeks now. It was an early August morning, and I still wasn't used to class at eight and then another at four. Wow, it was hot to be morning. Waking up to eighty-degree weather wasn't my idea of fun. I'd parked in the stadium lot and made my way to the bus that'd drive around campus. "Cardinal Shuttle" it was called.

It wasn't easy getting used to a routine I'd lived four years over at this point. I'd wanted to go to school in California or Michigan—not two miles down the road. Cheap college was an easy sell though. It'd thrown off my plans and so had my trip. I even skipped classes early on.

I'd put in earbuds and found my seat, patiently waiting for other students to get on. We'd just made it to the stop for the library when I saw her. Her bright-red hair is what I remember catching my attention. She smiled nicely at the bus driver before taking a seat across from me. It didn't help. I felt odd and began to feel like that time was with me all along. All I could remember was the past, and I missed my stop before realizing what I'd done. In my mind in the blink of an eye—everything.

Several months earlier, I'd come home just as any other. I had lots of homework—no real intention of being able to finish it all—and the need to complete paperwork for college was still boiling on the back burner. As the day dragged on, I went into the late hours following my routine. I had a red notebook in my lap to scribble math problems in as I lay on my grandma's fold-out bed in the basement. The calculus book that sat on the nightstand was unopened, unlike the web browser on my laptop. Instead of surfing the web for fun, I headed to the browser and typed two simple words that would forever become a giant joke between us: Pen Pal.

The number of results was amazing. There were websites everywhere advertising "millions of users", or "over one hundred countries represented." Millions of people touched with the same curiosity I'd been struck with? Instead of perusing through random sites one-by-one, I clicked on the first result: Pen Pal World.

"Nice title," I thought. "Can't go wrong with that."

I started scrolling through the site and realized that this was nothing more than a sort-of social media page. It was possible to search through people of a specific country, age, and/or gender. At the bottom of the green-and-blue backgrounded page was a notice that read, "Please do not use this website with the intention of meeting or taking money from anyone." Oh, the irony!

"You're doing what?" my brother Nicholas asked me after finding out I'd started talking to pen pals.

"I mean why not, you know? It could be cool," I'd answered.

"Is this your way of getting girls? Because I'm sure for a couple bucks you could get one here a lot cheaper."

"I've talked to guys and girls, smart ass."

"Hey, I'm just saying. I'm sure there're easier ways now that you're eighteen," he'd countered sarcastically.

"Well, if I ever find anyone interesting enough, I'll let you know."

But they were all interesting. The people I read about had the same interests as the people around me. Art, music, school subjects, movies—all of it the same. People liked what people like. There weren't stand out lines in "About Me" sections that stereotypically screamed, "I'm from Russia!" or, "Greetings from Japan!" In each of these small descriptions was a desire to learn and to share; to be understood and to understand; and above all the desire to do well in life and find meaning through goals and dreams.

I didn't have much luck attracting attention the first few days. (After all, who talks to someone who doesn't have a picture of themselves on their page? That's a reason for suspicion, is it not?) I hadn't fully talked myself into pen palling, so I wasn't all that disappointed when I only had one or two people try to reach me. A young man from China and a teenage girl from Norway made up the luck I had. What I did decide to do however, was reach out to others. Some people responded—and the conversations went well—but there was still an oddity to each conversation.

It was enjoyable learning about different cultures (be it a Norwegian girl or some Chinese boy), but the connection wasn't there. As a visual learner, I needed pictures and places and names—tangible things that could prove there was a world other than my own. I wasn't gaining much talking to a girl from Russia who was just like any other teenager; responding with a short text and displaying no desire to carry on a meaningful conversation.

"Hey, you gave it your best shot. Just try harder tomorrow with the girls at school," Nicholas teased me one morning. (The joke being that Saint Xavier—my school—is a male-only school.)

A week after I'd joined, I was just about to drop the website and was failing to log on but every few days. However, one day after an unusually long day at school, I decided to search for pen pals from the United Kingdom. Why not face the reality that the most similar friends an ocean away would be from Great Britain? I began scrolling through the list and soon came to the picture of the most attractive red-headed girl. Absolutely stunning she was. The color of her hair was that of an autumn's day whose colors all combined to one; and could perfectly be compared with the red-and-orange flowers put out by any quaint pub. Her smile reminded me of home, and in her eyes I sensed love in disguise.

Then I read her description of herself. I was awed even further. This girl was into math and science, as well as learning new things. She studied French and Russian it said; and I was captured by her eagerness to talk to others. She said that she'd had pen pals before and was open to gaining more. But I sensed there was something deeper reading the line, "I'd even be cool with talking to people from the U.K."

It was almost as if she was looking for something she wasn't to find in the life that surrounded her. She was any nerdy guy's dream—gorgeous AND intelligent. Based on her short description, it was apparent she had it all going for her. Surely, she had to have some significant other who'd be upset with an American telling his girlfriend that she had the most interesting life.

But that didn't discourage me. After all, I was just looking for something more—not really a significant other or soul mate to connect with. So, with a touch of faith, I sent her a long-winded email about what it was like to be from the sticks of America.

"Hi! Sorry to interrupt without any type of introduction..." And I waited.
Chapter One

One thing the website allowed users to do was see when last the other person had been available. So curiously enough (in a non-stalking way, I might add), I was looking to see when she'd last been on the site, and if she'd gotten my email. I was a little disheartened finding that she'd been available but hadn't responded. But then again, who wants to talk to an arrogant American bent on believing that they're from the best country in the world?

Although letdown, I figured that instead of letting another pen pal slip from my grasp, I'd try again. Maybe it was possible I'd incorrectly entered the email address or that she had problems on her own end. This time I sent her a message directly on the website. It was funny though, because this was the first pen pal who I tried contacting more than once. Sensing there was something special hidden behind the captivating face and the descriptive biography, I tried once more.

"Hi! Sorry to message you without any kind of introduction, but I've gotta say that's awesome—a pretty girl with a passion for science and math (nerds across the world must be hyperventilating at their computers after reading that one) ... Well, I hope this was interesting to read!"

I checked back the morning after, and to my surprise she'd responded. It wasn't anything special; just that she'd gotten my message and was excited to get a new pen pal (especially from the southern bit of America, she added). Still, I was excited she wanted to talk to me. After she suggested we chat with Facebook instead of the website, conversation took flight.

"So, I'm kind-of a rookie at this whole pen pal deal, and I was hoping you'd walk me through it," I remember starting.

"What's new about it? Talking is talking," she laughed, "unless you Americans do something different."

"Well, I guess not," I'd said through unsure and clenched teeth. I wasn't comfortable with witty banter yet and figured I'd get to know her first.

It was so uplifting talking to this girl. She wrote out her thoughts in a way that made me feel she cared about what was being said; and her innocence was felt in the most basic form of communication. Whether it was a voice memo of her doing her Southern "Mary Lou" accent for me—or telling me that Americans incorrectly pronounce the word "Aluminum"—she had all my attention.

My phone was constantly on me, whether I was traveling to Nashville for the end of spring break or sitting around friends doing homework. It became so bad that my friends knew there was something different about me. I wasn't fully present to the world surrounding me or the one surrounding them. There was a small part of me missing to them.

"... and to find velocity you have to integrate...," my buddy George was trying to explain.

I'd glanced up to see the slick cow lick in his messy black hair, and noticed he'd worn his standard puke-green shirt and tie that day. He'd noticed my inattentiveness and had grown tired. We'd been in the school library for an hour.

"Ben, are you listening?"

"Of course, Georgy," I'd replied as I slapped him on the shoulder. "You do math and you get an answer."

After letting out an intentional sigh, he took the iPad from my hands and sent her a message: "Ben is a very busy man and doesn't have time for shenanigans."

"She'll love that," I laughed. But my attention was elsewhere anyways.

She'd grown up the epitome of a child prodigy. From a humble childhood, she grew to be the person I'd come to know on some random website. Her secondary schooling was on par with the school I'd grown up around; and the neighborhood she was raised in saw alcoholism, drug addiction, and teenage pregnancies. She'd seen it all and for that, the wisdom she had wasn't the result of past failures and mistakes as from which mine had come. Able to take a list of eighty vocab words and have them memorized to use the next day, I'd teased her about being a French and Russian savant.

She came from a family of seven and she (like I) was the oldest in her family. Being stubborn was in both our characters—and her desire to be right and her will to win was something I admired and could relate to. I was envious of the success she'd built for herself, but at the same time found comfort knowing that this was the type of thing I would and could be doing had I been in her shoes.

The first time I had the courage to send her a voice note (a voicemail of sorts), I realized how much fun I was having. I was taking a picture from a "trustworthy" internet source and trying to put a voice to it. Slowly, we were taking the dreamy idea of one another and forming a tangible figure which we could almost reach out and grasp. I had a sense about divinity as we all do, but all I could show for it was a picture of her family or a video of her talking. God was it hard to wholly grasp something that instinctive. The first sound she had of me was of me doing my British accent, and I butchered it completely.

"So, as you can see—you and I share one similarity in the way that we talk. I wanted it to be a surprise...but my parents are British too!" I one day told her.

I sent it to her not knowing what to think. I was nervous and excited all at the same time, and knowing that she could immediately listen to it only further scared me. I was sitting on the front porch, and the only support system I had now was the black-lab mutt licking my face. Her attempted American accent allowed me assurance, and I could tell from the cute laugh that I'd been missing out on something special for quite some time.

"Well, I'm American in case you were wondering," –Pausing now to either capture my attention or find the confidence to state her next line— "Mary Lou, I just can't seem to find a pen," she replied in her best southern-belle voice.

"That wasn't all too bad," I'd assured her. "I think you have it down."

Her voice was fast paced and smooth—almost as if she only had five seconds to tell me something. And she was determined to use those seconds to the best of her ability. There was something different about this tone though. It had no blunt choppiness or, "I'm better than you" arrogance. The accent was stereotypical in no way, and it was as if someone had taken the candidness in her "would-be" voice and replaced it with innocence. Through no glib but gleefulness this girl had traded in the image I stereotypically formed of her (a Queen Mary figure destined to rule with authority) for that of the sweetest princess bearing empathy yet confidence.

After hearing one another's voices and seeing one another's faces, unwritten rules began to form. The British royalty admired her would-be prince; and the cocky American teen called her his little woman. It was in this idea not communicated that both of us depended. The relationship that began to form was that of best friends jealous of one another's partners.

After all, four thousand miles is by no means a walk in the neighborhood (or even in the park surrounding the neighborhood). For some reason, we were destined to be burdened with this secular hindrance—but by some means we'd broken through the modern paradigm of what love could be. There in the many hours of texts and phone calls, we made the silent declaration that the opportunity of our lives was upon us.

"You know, I really would love to get to meet you one day," she'd randomly hinted early on.

"Yeah—I can't say I feel any other way," I'd sadly laughed through a smile on Skype.

"I think we could actually be best friends, you know?"

"Aren't we already?" I grinned.

"I guess it depends on your definition of a friend," she'd thought aloud.

It's odd to imagine any situation one isn't familiar with; and falling in love with an image or sound on the internet isn't something most of society is willing to accept—even I had my doubts. It's easy to be attracted to or even fantasize about an image, but to embrace that image and its importance in one's life is a bit odd to most. The teenage boy a few months earlier would've scoffed at the idea. Somehow, it managed to happen.

"You're still talking to her?" Nicholas asked me one morning as he noted the phone in my hand.

"Well yeah, I mean...she's just cool, okay?" I offered as my best explanation.

"So, why are you texting her so early?" he further questioned.

"Umm... maybe because London is five hours ahead of us?" I reasoned.

"Oh yeah."

Waking up for school at six became rolling out of bed at nine for summer. April transitioned into May, and I graduated high school with the memory that the only person I cared about sharing that moment with wasn't there. Something more was needed. We were human beings and questioning fate. (And how else was I meant to get Nicholas off my case?)

I was determined to act on the dream and accepted that I was responsible for its completion; but I couldn't have carried it out without her. I was losing track of the future and forgetting the past. Being with her solely through a web connection was enough to come to this conclusion. And with that rational, I reasoned that the physical interaction must've been something greater. With the British voice on my mind and the desire to reach out and touch her growing stronger with each passing day, I made the life-changing choice that I was going to see her.
Chapter Two

It'd been almost four years since I'd been on a plane; and at that I'd never traveled alone. The most I'd ever driven was to Nashville from Louisville—and that trip included other friends and only lasted three hours. To make this journey, I'd be going alone. As to how many eighteen-year-old's can attest to that type of trip I don't know, but I'm sure the statistic isn't that large.

As with any dream, I began to work. I started to figure out what was needed to take the small-town boy and fly him halfway across the world to England. The first thing I needed would be the passport. I'd never seen myself as needing one anytime soon, but I'd been wrong all along.

More importantly however, I'd need to pay for such an adventure. And the trip wasn't cheap by teenage standards. Any college student is shy spending a couple hundred dollars—much less thousands. Staying two weeks in a London hostel would cost around a thousand dollars. The transatlantic flight would cost just as much. Then there was the money spent on souvenirs, food and travel.

"Benjamin, do you have any plans for paying for such a trip?" my dad questioned one afternoon while watching TV. He'd overheard the conversation my mom and I were having, and now looked over to the kitchen to where we were standing.

"Well, I'll get two jobs if I have to—but I'm really set on going. I don't know how, but I'll find a way to make it work," I softly said while sipping my water.

The ice inside the glass had melted, and the air around it began to form cold droplets that ran down the side. I felt my father's sternness elevate, and the tension in the room could've been cut with a knife.

"Do you realize how expensive it is? You know how much money you'll be spending? And on top of that, you don't even know if her family is real. How do you know you won't show up and no one will be there waiting?" my dad interrogated, his only concern on green Benjamins. "I don't mean to get you down, but I don't think you should go."

"Well, I know she will. I mean, we've been talking for three months now—so I think I'd know if I was about to be stood up. And I'm going to make it work. Simple as that."

And just as promised, I did make it work. Not only did I pick up more hours at my current job, but I also picked up a full-time job working at a summer child care program. I was putting in ninety hours a week (adding the time spent driving to and from work). As I stared into the cup of caffeine needed to get me through the day each morning, I was reminded as to why I was doing it. Something about that shimmering, fleeting face told me to keep moving. In total, I managed to make two times the money I'd need for the trip. With each passing day that summer, the dream that'd been built the months prior was becoming more-and-more a realistic dimension, and less-and-less a mere fantasy.

The months began to heat up likewise the conversations. It became obvious that what was difficult now was neither the lack of sleep nor the long work weeks: It was keeping the relationship going. After three months, the thousands of texts and hours of video calls were cut short from talking all-day to talking on-and-off for three-to-four hours.

"It really is nothing," she'd say. "I'll just have to make you stay up late for me when you come here, isn't it?" she'd grin over Skype.

"I'll owe you way more than that," I debated, thinking of any special gift I could get her.

"I don't know Ben, you've known me for three months, and you're already coming all this way to see me."

"Yeah, but anyone with a little passion can do that."

To make the relationship work required a lot of effort, the majority of which came from her sacrifice. Those two months became a demonstration of love; this idea that its innate quality was effortless while to have it required much effort. This thought became critical as we began to argue about the worth of what we were doing.

"I don't stay up every night just so you can tell me that I should be sleeping," she'd argue after I'd had a long day at work(s). "If I stay up this late to talk to you, I'd obviously like to talk to you rather than you tell me it's late and you understand if I want to go to bed."

"Look, I'm just trying to be nice. I don't care what you do. Go to bed; stay up and talk to me; do whatever you want," I'd retort.

"Well maybe you should care, because I'm the one staying up this late just to talk to you."

We'd both sacrificed sleep and had spent a lot time waiting for each other to be free. I even remember going to my CPR training (for the daycare job) halfway asleep. I'd woken at one that morning after going to bed at twelve the night before, so I could chat with her before she headed off to work.

"What if some kid needs CPR and you've just completely messed up? Like instead of three chest pumps you give them four and they die?" she morbidly kidded.

"Well... I mean, I guess that's on you."

"Hey, don't blame me for your own inaction mate. You're the one up right now."

"And I wouldn't want it any other way," I grinned sleepily.

As a server, I was more focused on texting letters into a phone screen than on mindlessly tapping orders onto a computer. Two weeks before the trip, and I noticed I was completely dissociating myself from real life. Instead, I was busy partaking in that of another's. I was just beginning to live my life—both with and for her—but was growing concerned over another detail.

"So yeah, how long did it take you to get your passport?" I remember asking her a week-and-a-half before leaving.

"Well, mine was delivered about a week or so after the interview I had to go to."

"Hmm...," I thought. "Well, I don't have mine in the mail, and it's been like a month. I wonder where it's at."

"Ben—I swear to God—if you can't come simply because you don't have a passport, I'll come to you and put you in a suitcase and take you back with me."

"Would you really?" I jokingly asked. "You can't even drive and have never flown before, so that would be quite a sight."

I'd gone about the process the right way and had given myself enough time to get the thin booklet and be on my way a week later. However, as summer came to an end I was still passport-less. I was running out of time it seemed. At first, I wasn't all that concerned—considering I'd procrastinated and understood it was only meant to arrive two weeks before the trip anyways.

Seven days before the trip, and slowly I let the anxiety eat away at me. I'd call the Passport Agency again and again to check on the status of my application and found that my passport was "being processed", and that, "the Agency took note of my dates of travel and was aware I was supposed to be leaving in less than a week."

"Hi, I'm calling about the status of my passport application," I must've mentioned at least fifty times on the phone.

"Yes, what's the name?" the operator would respond back. "Can I have your date of birth please?"

This conversation took place for two days before I received my answer. All the waiting and banging of my head on the kitchen counter—all over pieces of paper. Suddenly, all the hopes were crushed with one email from the National Passport Agency (five days before the trip). I remember my heart racing; the adrenaline now pumping and the tears that began to flow as I read the line "However, the identification you presented is insufficient for passport purposes."

I don't remember why I'd woken up early, but for some reason I had and the email in my inbox wasn't the start my day was looking for. I felt as if I'd drank thirty cups of coffee—but didn't have an ounce of caffeine in my body. Needles and pins pierced my numb skin as I tried to reason in bed that dark morning. How the hell was this possible? I'd submitted the application in the correct time frame, ordered overnight shipping, and had already paid for a room and a flight. I immediately confided in her because I knew she was awake (the one time that her being five hours ahead was beneficial) and remember the line "I will say a prayer this one time".

"I don't know what I'm going to do," I said through teary eyes, now glazed over by the realization that this could be the end. "I got the email and I just don't know how I'm supposed to fix this."

"Okay—we've figured out everything so far. So, we can do this. Is there anything else the email said? Like it's not a definite you can't come, is it?" she attempted. She was just as upset as I, and the heart that sank in my chest was now sinking in hers as well.

"Well, it says that I could get these other things, but I don't know if there's enough time."

"Then you can find a way to get them, right?"

"I don't know...Possibly," I all but tried.

Upset, I woke up my mom and told her about the email I'd just received. She reassuringly told me how I was to overnight the Agency the information they needed. Twenty minutes later, I was in the car driving to McDonald's to figure out what to do. Living in the middle of nowhere, I hadn't grown up with high-speed internet.

Arriving at the building, I found that a state ID card would be "sufficient identification" and was obtainable by simply purchasing at the circuit clerk (as I later found out was a fancy way of saying "place you get your driver's license"). The Passport Agency failed to accept my learner's driving permit, and there was no way to get a full license in just a few days.

I could get the ID made that day, and the challenge then became to get the Passport people the piece of plastic I'd just created. I drove over a hundred miles from place to place to make sure the ID would be there (in New Hampshire) overnight. I almost ran through the metal detector at the circuit clerk, prompting the security guard to make me try again. A large glass window was all that stood between me and a nice lady who asked about my upcoming trip. I remember telling her about my problem as I posed for the picture.

Once home (after two hours on the phone listening to call waiting; combined with the hopes and prayers from London), I heard what I needed to hear. The representative told me she'd personally see to it that my passport got to me by Friday (two days before leaving)—an almost impossible task.

Just as promised, the passport came in the mail fifty-two hours before my flight, with the red word "URGENT" embroidering the United States Postal Service envelope it was placed in. I was returning home from my grandmother's house across the hill, and ironically had met the delivery truck as the driver placed the envelope in the mailbox.

I remember tearing open the seal of the white envelope and taking the blue book from its package to admire it. With the fear of not being able to meet her still on my mind, I took a deep breath; reminding myself that I'd be going. Through clouds of uncertainty and connections of faith alike, I'd be there. Passport in hand, now it was time to take control of my emotional state. I'd flown up my gravel driveway to run inside and happily shout, "I guess it's time to pack!"

How do you begin describing the fear that accompanies flying halfway across the world to meet someone who's nothing more than a voice from memory and an image on a screen? We were both stuck in a dream; an inescapable haze that both fogged our reality and teased our thirst for more to see. We couldn't see the foundation on which we were standing, but nonetheless knew something was there. Then it became time.

"What if she turns out to be some old man who just wants you because you're pretty?" my youngest brother Luke kidded as he buckled his seatbelt in our Town and Country minivan. To bid me goodbye at the airport was my family, who'd come along to see me one last time in case something happened. (As my family had so lovingly put it.)

"In that case, he's footing the bill for this trip and everything else—because the pretty face in the videos promised me more than that," I laughed back.

"If you don't come back, can I have your room and hockey sticks?" Nicholas then asked.

"If I don't come back, feel free to have whatever you like. And always remember you two: You both have a lot of work to do before you're better than me at hockey."

"Yeah, okay," he'd grinned. I knew I was going to miss my two younger jokesters.

I'd made sure to pre-check everything and took extra caution to lock the backpack containing my passport and all the cash I'd exchange once there. In the car, my family made small talk and tried preparing me for going through different airports. We'd been visiting with my grandmother earlier that day, and when it came time to leave I felt small pockets of air bubbling in my stomach. I wasn't lightheaded, but I remember feeling nervous and excited all at the same time. We'd left the house at three o' clock on the dot and arrived at Louisville airport two hours early. Once there, my dad parked the car as the rest of us went to check my bags.

He'd dropped us off at a set of automated doors that immediately led to the baggage check in, and the area was empty as I searched for other flyers. All that stood between me and this exploration was a line of podiums that had cutouts for weighing suitcases. The man behind the baggage check-in helped as I scanned my passport on an electronic reader. Once finished, my mom aided with last minute advice.

"Okay, you're going to go through security, then go to Terminal A. Once you get to your gate, you'll wait for them to board the flight."

She now pointed to a screen that hung from the ceiling and listed all of the departing flights— "You'll find your flights on the boards in each airport, and they'll tell you the gate number to board your flight. There should be directions to get to the gates in every airport. Simple enough?"

"Yeah, I hope so. If I can't do that then I'm pretty sure I'll have a difficult time getting to London from Ireland and Atlanta."

I had a three-hour layover in Atlanta, and then a four-hour layover in Ireland. It was nerve-wracking, and I figured that once I was on the first plane I'd begin to worry about the reality of it all. The first flight would give me enough time to plan for the rest of the journey.

"Let us know when you touchdown. Oh,"—she began as if she'd forgotten something— "you don't have to recheck your bags, so once you're there you're free to find the next gate and wait."

I hugged my family goodbye and headed towards security. A large Pegasus representing the city of Louisville and its famed Kentucky Derby now flew above me, and I couldn't help but glance above the winged horse to the domed windows it flew below. The sun was shining, and a few clouds aimlessly wondered the skies. I also noted the interstate that sat outside the airport fences, whose cars moved speedily en route to their destination. Had it been any normal day, I too would've traveled the same road to reach many of my usual destinations. But today wasn't a day I could use a car to get where I was going. It was time for me to take my spot in the sky.

Unfortunately, I failed to consider the size of the airport and had an hour and a half to wait at my gate. I'd been the only person in the check-in line, and security had only taken five minutes. Waiting in line to step into the body scanner as TSA agents in their dark-blue uniforms directed passengers through, I believe all the doubts began to set in. Will she/he think I'm funny? Are we compatible? Will she/he like me? Is this going to be okay?

And through it all she was there, telling me the worry was unnecessary. As I exited security and walked down a moving walkway to find my gate, I noticed a young couple sitting near the boarding gate. A boy in a baseball cap and jeans spoke to a younger-looking girl who wore a cute t-shirt and shorts. The two seemed my age, and I couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Are you ready to go home?" the girl asked with a Southern-belle accent.

"Yeah," the boy responded.

To where they were going I didn't know, but it was obvious they were making the journey together. And that's all that mattered in the end. She sat with her legs neatly folded beneath her as she lay her head on the boy's shoulder. It didn't look like anything out of a romantic movie; it was true and kind and caring.

Now looking out the windows to watch as the planes fused into the clouds, I couldn't help but feel she wasn't that far away. As the Louisville flight attendant began to board the flight, I eagerly stepped into my next adventure. I waved a gracious hand to the face of comfort and openly greeted the unknown as I boarded the first flight to The Peach State.

Finding my seat in the tight jet, I was overjoyed to find I had a window seat. The fuselage of the plane was illuminated with small-white LED's; and the leather-blue seat trapped my body as I awkwardly shifted over the passenger in the aisle seat. The orange seatbelt light flashed on above, and the plane slowly pulled away from the gate. We began to roll towards the runway, and excitedly I propped open the small window blind. The plastic mask was designed to shield the passengers from the sun—but that was a minor complication in an already exciting scenario.

The plane made a final turn onto the runway and stopped to warm up its engines. I could hear the whirl of the turbines growl louder, and noticed we were gaining speed. I felt the nose of the plane tilt upwards and realized we were no longer on the ground. Higher and higher we soared, until the destinations I'd driven to became small dots. The sun was shining, and the sky was vacant; below us was this layer of clouds. Halfway through the flight, I forgot about the view and began to plan for the next few hours.

It began to get tricky once I arrived. Knowing how to go about checking-in bags and grab different boarding passes in a certain time frame? To me, that might as well have been another language. I remember dropping the phone and running from help desk to help desk until finally I reached my gate. Atlanta in the United States to Dublin in Ireland. It was that easy, right? Just hop on a plane and fly across the Atlantic to a culture different than my own. I'd been eating dinner when I heard the call for my plane to board. Taking a deep breath, I showed my passport to the boarding inspector who scanned my boarding pass. Anxiously and excitedly, I stepped onto the Boeing 767 as the final call to Europe was made.

Even though the staff did their best to comfort the hundreds of passengers with regular meals and drinks, the plane was still a bit uncomfortable. It seemed to be tilted upwards, as if I had to sit inclined at ten degrees. There were documentaries and music and TV shows and news on the small screen in front of me, but as we ascended six miles over the coastline, I decided that I'd beat jet lag and fall asleep. After all, it was dark outside. That way, I'd have the entire day to spend doing things in London.

It was gorgeous though: I couldn't help but look out and notice the millions of lights that dotted the Atlantic seaboard. For so much darkness, there were so many lights; all of them trying to block out the darkness. I was surprised to read that it was minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside; and was even more awed that in only a few hours we'd flown a thousand-or-so miles away from Louisville. Now the plane soared over the Canadian coastline, and soon a plummet from the sky would result in drowning.

I was drifting in and out of sleep, and the final thing I remember before waking up in Ireland was the fashionable flight attendant asking, "Sir, what would you like to drink?"

A lighthearted voice over the intercom had woken me, and slowly I realized that the pilot was greeting his passengers. At the same time, I'd heard the light chime of the seat belt sign as the light flickered on above.

"Alright folks, soon we'll be landing. We've got about twenty minutes before we land, at which point we do ask you to refasten your seatbelts and stow away your belongings. It's about twenty degrees outside here in Dublin, and the current time is 9:43 A.M. We do also ask that you please turn off and stow away your electronic devices, and we hope that you've enjoyed flying with us."

It was exciting to step off the plane in the modern airport. Looking out the windows, I could see the inwards and outwards slopes of the building—just a small tease of the European architecture I was about to see. Walking from one part of the airport to the next, signs overhead were painted in green Gaelic text, and the line to explain why you wanted to enter the EU was beginning to back up. A serious-looking man, whose glasses stood perched on his large nose, asked me why I was coming to Europe; and I held my tongue as I tried not to tell him I was crazy.

I was in Dublin's airport with a backpack on my person and trainers on my feet; all the while wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. I was epitomizing American style for all the Europeans who noticed me and stood out as an artless character in an already awkward world. From Ireland, it was a short hop across the islands and what would become a home far away from my house. The fifty-minute flight had me gasping for air the entire time.

Being so similar, the nerves were starting to rear their ugly faces; and the British princess was having to cope with the fact that within an hour she'd see this mystery man. The excitement was coming way too quickly, and how was it not meant to?

I could tell we were in London as the vast fields became houses stacked on top of one another. I also saw the famous red buses that seemed to move about the maze of manors in a slow manner. The tiny red figures caught my eye as the grinning sun bounced off their sides; and now left me looking out at the hundreds of thousands of buildings. For some reason, I couldn't find the famous suspension bridge or the clock—but knew they were close. I landed in London City Airport feeling so surreal, and immediately noticed how chilly it seemed (as I'd just come from the smoldering heat and humidity of the South). It was as if I was in a weird dream misconstrued from a would-be love story that some Hollywood mogul might dream of capitalizing on.

No one in London seemed to drive and (as could be expected from any big city) the public transport system was amazing. Shortly before the trip, we'd tried to find a spot to link up; but panicked, we decided to play it by ear. Grabbing my heavy suitcase from the baggage claim, it was obvious from the towering buildings and the fast-paced life of the people around me that I was no longer in Kentucky. Knowing their intended direction, people hurriedly grabbed their bags from this odd waiting room that doubled as the airport's baggage claim. The luggage was thrown about randomly, and passengers rudely shuffled past one another to claim their own.

To make it easier on her, we'd finally chosen to link up at the airport's train station. I wasn't ready for the complexity and systematics; and looking up pictures of what I could expect did me no good. Exiting the airport's automatic glass doors, I walked through an empty metal doorway whose jungle-green headboard read "Welcome to Docklands Light Railway".

I noticed the coffee shop I'd offered to her as the place to meet to my right and took a concrete set of steps to reach the small platform. Egyptian-blue beams held up the glass that made up the cylindrical station, and I couldn't catch sight of my British wonder. Dismayed, I began to worry; thinking that this might be the story that so tragically plagues some. While I was looking at the steel tracks, she'd sent me a text telling me not to worry. Apparently, she'd been at the airport for over an hour now. As I later assumed, she'd been looking at herself in the mirror, finalizing her look. Sitting there waiting, I sent her a simple text.

"So, I've made it to the platform. Where to now?"

Just as I'd glanced up from my phone, I saw a figure running towards me.
Chapter Three

I don't remember how she ended up in my arms, because in that moment I was star struck in what was. I felt her soft arms wrap around me as I said with the shakiest voice, "So, is this the part of the movie where she realizes he's a fifty-year-old man and slowly walks away?"

Her short-lived laugh quickly faded to silence as we remained in the same hold. There we stood for what seemed minutes, finally satisfied to know it was the dream we thought it would be. As I slowly came back, I realized how gorgeous she was. The photos and videos she'd sent me didn't come close to the beauty of the person held in my arms. She had the prettiest emerald eyes, and I remember the small yellow ring that seemed to encircle both pupils. But what caught my glance was the mirror I found in the deepest part of her pupils.

In her eyes was also the slightest disguise—a bunch of unknowing lies that'd ultimately lead to our timely demise. As we stood there, I felt something beneath my fingertips. Its smooth feel told me she'd worked for this day. The hue of red I saw in her hair reminded me of the most peaceful autumn's day; as the leaves begin to fall and beauty's what you saw. Fiery red hair for a fitting attitude.

Not only was it beautiful, but also was it everywhere. Her hair fell all the way to her waist, and the pretty curls she'd put in it implied she had no desire for this day to be a waste. The floral skirt she'd chosen to wear danced with her every move; only held still by the black tights underneath. The pink jumper she wore told me I wasn't the only one feeling a bit chilled, and the black purse at her side complimented the black boots that covered most of her shins. Everything about the girl in front of me spoke of elegance and was a reminder of her humble but exceptional class. It could've been quite a memory to have kissed her, but neither of our personalities were that daring.

She was soft and sweet, and I felt like she was now my responsibility. A few moments passed, and we began to pull away from one another. I wanted her in bed in that moment. Not the type of bed for one-night stands, but the kind you wake up at eighty or ninety together in. She was the first to speak.

"Ben, it's actually illegal for us to be up here, so we've got to go back downstairs," she started laughing.

"Illegal? What're you talking about?" I questioned curiously.

"You don't have your Oyster, and you've not tapped in, so you could just get on the train and ride it without paying."

"Illegal? That sounds like a bargain to me," I grinned.

Noticing the elevator at our backs, I motioned to it with my head as we waited for the dark room to reach our floor.

"Elevators make me so nervous," she confessed—only after I'd jumped on it.

Making our way towards the terminal doors from where I'd just come, she took a small, blue plastic card from her purse as she explained.

"Take this. This is your Oyster card and will be how we travel by train or bus, yeah? You've first got to 'tap-in' where you begin your journey,"—now taking my hand and tapping the card to a rectangular stand (which I later learned was the card reader)— "and tap out as we arrive at our destination."

As she did so, I noticed that the circle on top of the yellow reader changed from orange to green, indicating that the card had been accepted. We now moved back—taking the stairs this time—to the platform, and eagerly awaited our first train.

I remember the kind-of weird tone the first few minutes seemed to take on. We were both silent sitting there, trying to take in the person each of us had fallen in love with. In those first few hours, I think we were both trying to wrap our minds around the recent idea that this was happening. Closed off was in our natures but openness in our hearts; and for this I think we'll never be apart.

Black screens electrified with orange letters hung from the roof of the opened platform and were the instructions passengers needed to know how long it'd be before their train arrived. I could hear the whine and whirl of the train as it approached and was surprised when a small, boxy car stopped in front of us. The side of the candy-red train was painted in light and dark blue stripes.

It was the silence. Not the silence that takes the form of awkwardness from meeting a new person, but the silence one experiences when pondering some deep thought. We were both thinking about the current situation and the person we were trying not to touch. Holding our tongues, we both tried not to say anything uncomfortable.

As the train took off, it almost knocked me down as I stood standing. I laughed at myself, hoping that embarrassing moments weren't something that would become a habit on this trip. We took a seat in one of the coupled seats that faced many others and sat my suitcase to the side. Baby-blue poles that passengers could hold on to extended from the floor of the train to the ceiling; and looking out the windows I realized how large London was.

The buildings that seemed to reach the skies were everywhere, and the city was growing larger each minute as characterized by the cranes that stuck out from every few buildings. Windows made up every inch of many constructed buildings, and the steel seemed to bend London towards a more modern future. As we rode along the screeching tracks, I noticed a weird sense of spectrum. In one still was the archaic but awing outline of gothic architecture; and in the next, modern glass. Old and new alike, my first impressions of London included a place confused by time.

Pointing to a series of buildings that had bank names on them, she told me, "That's Canary Wharf. That's the district where all the business people go. And that white dome with poles sticking out of it is the O2 Arena."

Taking note of the financial borough, I couldn't help but wonder how the entire space was used only for trading stocks.

"That's too funny. That little 'district' is basically the size of Louisville," I told her.

Looking peculiar, she couldn't help but wonder, "That's really how big it is? That's quite small, isn't it?"

"Well, now it is," I laughed back, staring out the windows as we made our way down the rails, past the luxury apartments and tourist destinations. I was now trapped in another world.

Our first stop was a smaller borough of London known as Newham. Here, we'd find my hostel and drop off my belongings. To get there, we had to change trains and make our way through and to another underground station. Hundreds of people filed past us quickly, and I was walking too slowly and apologizing to strangers who didn't care.

Taking a flight of stairs, my suitcase clunked behind with each step. I looked apologetically towards her, only to receive an odd-looking grin back. While I tried to pull my suitcase in the automated doors of the train before they quickly closed shut, she took a seat in one of the open spots and patted on the soft fabric of the seat next to her as to signal my spot. This new train took off, and she began to explain once again.

"You see, we were on DLR but had to change to District Line so we can get to East Ham."

"Is that where the hotel is? I thought it was in Newham?"

"Well, East Ham is part of a borough known as Newham,"—she paused for a minute before continuing and grinned— "I see how this would work out without me."

For the next twelve nights, I'd be staying here and call this small, immigrant pocket home. Getting off the last train was awkward, and having to tote the suitcase behind for a lot of walking wasn't something I became a fan of. From the opened and outside platform, we ascended a set of stairs to tap-out.

The inside of East Ham underground station reminded me of the pictures I'd seen from World War II. Only now the scene was colored, and the monotone black and white of the pictures I'd seen was colored in with the dull brown-and-red brick of the building. Bright-blue machines that allowed passengers to top-up their cards stood to our left as we exited the arched and opened entrance.

Walking outside the station after struggling with my suitcase to pull it through the tap-out line, I was happy to find that the sun wasn't as bright as it might've been back in Kentucky. The noise of the bustling city now made itself known as buses honked their ringing horns and hundreds of footsteps walked in unison past one another. It was quiet though. There was no conversation or laughter—only the mechanical sound of routine.

The houses outside the station were all built onto one another, and their faded pebble-splashed faces were a testament to the many years they'd been standing there. The sun showed the imperfections in the shared brick walls—but still it was a lovely sight. They were small by my standards and appeared to be only one-and-a-half stories tall. It was as if someone had taken a shotgun house from the U.S. and built it upwards.

"Where in East Ham is the accommodation?" she asked as we made our way out of the station.

"To be honest, I don't really know," I admitted as I showed her the picture of the map on my phone. "The map said it's only like an eighth of a mile to walk, so it can't be more than three or four minutes."

"Oh, I know where that is," she smiled. "Looks like you got lucky on this one."

With my suitcase following behind and my crammed backpack slung off my side, we walked across the busy street outside the station. We then walked down a lonely side road that led to the hostel. Cars sat parked on both sides of this one-way street. Trees randomly popped up from the narrow sidewalks; and small security walls came off each of these small houses.

Conveniently located a few minutes walk from the station, we'd arrived at my hostel. From the outside, it was hard to tell the building was a hotel; and the missing parking lot camouflaged the ordinary looking building. The innkeeper, a middle-aged Middle Eastern man, was quietly waiting inside the glass-hutched door. As he checked my documents, he handed me two keys: One for the room, and the other to open and lock the front door of the building.

"Here are your keys, and your room will be up the stairs, to the left, then down the hall," he quietly murmured in broken English as he scratched his black beard. "Please enjoy your stay."

"Thanks," I said as I made conversation with my first Brit that wasn't her. "I might have to check out a day early, if that's okay?"

"This is fine," he nodded.

While I carried my suitcase up the carpeted stairs, she let me know what her family thought about me staying in East Ham.

"You know, my mom told me to tell you that you couldn't stay in this bit of London or where I live because you'd never want to come back. They kept saying, 'Oh, he can't stay there!' And I felt to agree," she said half jokingly.

"If it's got a bed and somewhere to take a shower, I think it'll be fine," I reassured her.

Entering the room, I found that lying on my back, I could touch the two walls parallel to one another. The length of the room wasn't much better and had space for the bed and my suitcase (if placed at the end). It was cozy though, and the mini flat-screen TV that hung from the amber wall was complimented by the glass desk and tea kettle that stood to the side of the bed. All things considered, I was quite happy with the tiny room and its furnishings. The broke college student inside of me couldn't help but feel accomplished for having earned such a bargain. Elsewhere in London could've cost a thousand dollars a night.

"Well," she said as I met her outside of the building, "I wasn't planning on doing much today and was nervous about planning anything since I thought you may be tired, so to be honest I really don't know what we can do. We can go see central London if you like."

"Yeah, that'd be great! I slept on the flight over from Atlanta, and that was like eight hours, so I'm good. How about some McDonald's for lunch though?" I sheepishly grinned.

She'd been working there for a year now and displayed a passion for the place I wasn't expecting. Always sharing stories, she was never shy to talk about work.

"Yeah, okay," she consented, "That sounds good."

In a sense, this was our first date but to call it that would be an embarrassment. I hadn't picked her up in my car; she was the one watching over me and telling me where things were; and the traditional roles displayed from taking someone out were reversed. We exhibited all the traits a first date might entail but had "known" each other for months. We were both nervous, and for that reason the two introverted individuals shell-shocked from meeting each another made small talk.

"So, how was your flight?" she'd eagerly asked.

"It was actually kind-of not fun," I laughed to myself as I began to explain. "Everyone was nice enough, but I couldn't figure out how to tilt my seat back to sleep or anything like that—so it kind-of sucked."

"Oh, I see."

"But it was well worth it," I winked at her.

Smiling back at me politely, she couldn't help but smirk, "Well, I hope so. It'd be kind of disappointing if you were already disappointed by first appearance."

It was apparent that something sincere was upon us. For in those moments we shared our silence, the light grins I cast her way were met with soft smiles thrown to another part of the room. This was all new to her, just as it was to me. And it was obvious she wasn't a fan of having someone she wasn't brought up with watching her eat. For the first time, someone unrelated to her had admired her in a way no one else had, and she was unsure of how to react.

This "date" was also the first time we got to experience the sheepishness that accompanies any "first" first date. It was friendly though, as if there was a soft undertone we seemed to be hiding beneath the soft words, the light laughs, and the chicken wrap and ice cream.

As we finished our meal together, it was her who asked, "What would you like to see first?"

It was only two in the afternoon, and I'd managed to beat jet lag. I was excited and adventurous as any good traveler is, and extremely curious to see what London had to offer. "Well, why don't we see the bridge?" I grinned.

The smile she threw back at me was just the beginning of the affection she seemed to broadcast for London. After topping-up my Oyster, we boarded the train at East Ham and headed towards Tower Hill. Little did I know at the time, but the journey from East Ham to Central London was to become the heart and soul of the actions we'd take together over the next two weeks.

The train was much busier this time, and I had the privilege of not cramming my suitcase in the aisle between the seats. This ride was also much darker, as the pathway it took cut through the tunneled sections beneath the streets. She once again tried explaining the intricacies of London Underground, and I tried to keep up.

"See, we're on District Line now and we don't have to change because it will take us straight to where we want to be. However, if we wanted to go somewhere else we'd have to get on another line. Look," she said, pointing to an odd-looking map plastered above us.

Above the seats were caved-in advertisements that bent in with the curve of the ceiling, but the map at which she now pointed was a white background with what appeared different watermarks stretching across the page. In these watermarks were numbered zones, and on top of the watermarks stood lines of all colors: blue, red, green, orange; you name it. Black dots, white dots, and small handicapped circles then stood on each of these lines as they ran over one another.

"All of those lines are superimposed on one another. If you think about it, it's quite a beautiful system because it's so simple, you know?"

"Oh wow," I admired. "I'd never be able to figure this out, but I think I get what you're saying."

She was right, and later I'd see just how beautiful and complex such a simple system was.

"Well, here we are," she excitedly let out as we neared Tower Hill. "We've got to get close to the doors so we can get off in time."

I was adapting to the way things worked and, using her as my example, followed her out of the station back into the sun. In front of me now was the Tower of London; a castle dedicated to the many Tudors. A stoned walkway marked by baby-blue lampposts led out of the station to a paved road that led to "the bridge".

Guards walked in the grass below us as hundreds of tourists posed for pictures. The courtyard of the castle was a drop from the path we were walking, and it was as if we were walking on the walls guarding the castle. Four towers stood above the castle's walls, whose portcullises were topped by golden crosses of sorts. Leaving the station, she'd pointed it out and told me of the lovely glass poppies that'd once decorated the lawn.

"During a war memorial, the garden was filled with these beautiful red poppies," she let out as she looked at the lawn. "You should have seen them Ben, it was so lovely. You could even buy them later. But get this: They were arriving to peoples' houses smashed because it's thin glass, isn't it?"

For as adorable and attractive as her British accent was, I was still getting used to the way she talked. I still managed to ask, "Puppies? What would you be doing with a bunch of glass dogs laying around? Is this like an art museum or something?"

The "Really Ben?" look she cast my way was enough to realize what I'd done, and we both laughed. In my ignorance, studying London's landmarks wasn't something I found the time to do; as I knew I wasn't traveling for tourism. I knew about the famous suspension bridge. I knew about Big Ben. And I knew about the red double-decker buses and black taxis. Apart from these icons I was in a New World. The diversity to come was something I wasn't ready for, and the people who so spiritually wondered London waiting for strangers were people I would've normally welcomed into my life. To her they were crazy, and to them we were crazy.

"Umm... No. Not dogs, the flower. Well," she expressed as we approached Tower Bridge (learning for the first time what the famous bridge was called), "does it look familiar to the pictures?"

"It's not quite as small as it looks in the pictures," I joked.

But I wasn't kidding. The bridge seemed so small in any image I'd ever seen of it, but now overshadowed us as it was unlike any other. Two stone towers stood equidistant from each other and their respective ends of the bridge, while baby-blue steel beams connected the towers from above. It was obvious from the crosses standing atop the bridge that this icon was a testament to time. The two towers were capped with gold and supported by beauty; and not even the flowing river could've damaged the mirrored faces of architecture. The flag of Great Britain and the flag of England flew side-by-side atop the towers, and I felt at home looking at the red, white, and blue.

Walking across the fading bridge, we stopped to overlook it to take note of the crashing wake. The bridge was laid out so that four lanes of traffic made up its center, while the two edges were sculpted by large sidewalks guarded by bright-blue concrete rails. I was noticing how brown the water of the Thames River was when she interrupted my train of thought.

"How high do you think this is? Like if someone jumped from this distance, do you think they'd die?" she asked randomly. "I don't think it's nearly as tall as the Golden Gate Bridge, but how tall is this you think?"

Smiling, I couldn't help but laugh as I said, "Well, if a twenty-five-foot drop will kill you jumping into water, then I should be dead several times over at this point."

That caught her attention and prompted her to ask, "What?! And what's a foot? What is that in meters?"

Much like when the pilot told us on the descent that the temperature was twenty degrees, and I began to panic remembering I hadn't brought any winter clothing; I realized that the British were a people I was going to have to adjust to. She and I weren't as alike as I would've thought, but intrinsically something sensed was the same.

"Yeah," I quipped as we slowly turned from the edge, "every summer my family takes a trip to the lake, and at this lake are these cliffs we jump from. The distance is probably like one-and-a-half times as high as what we just saw."

"There's no way!" she exclaimed. "So, you mean to tell me that you've basically jumped from Tower Bridge before?"

"Well yeah, of course," I responded as if it were on my daily agenda.

"I'm not sure if I believe that."

"I guess I'll just have to grab your hand and jump in one day; no matter how murky the water is."

"Have a laugh—are you mad? I mean maybe one day, but not now."

This seemed to mark a difference I noted early. The experiences I'd been through back in Kentucky seemed to be a fantasy to her. She'd never known what it was like to take a car a hundred miles an hour down a straight stretch of country road and much less knew how to drive a car in the first place. Never had she known the power of holding a weapon that could end another's life with the pull of the trigger. The only life or death situation she'd faced was current, and the three thousand square foot residence I lived in was a multimillion dollar home where she lived.

Only as we neared the end of the bridge to turn towards Westminister Bridge (which marked the end of central London) did I become struck by what surrounded me. Different races and cultures were represented everywhere I looked. No longer was African American the only race that seemed to be mixed in with the Caucasian majority; and people blended into one another. Street performers littered the walks with their musical talent and magical deception. Everywhere I looked something was happening, and I'd entered a world that was determined to continue moving. From the magicians suspended in midair dressed as odd characters to the artists singing their renditions of favorite hits, everyone was part of the bigger act.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked as she interrupted my fascination.

"This is really...I don't think I ever could have imagined this," I said befuddled.

"It's special, isn't it?"

"Almost magical in a way. Not Disney world magic, but maybe the adult form of it," I smiled.

Zigzagging in and out of the crowds, she let out an "Oh!" as if she'd forgotten something important, "There're a few geocaches located all throughout this walk."

"Geocaches?" I'd asked.

"Yeah, they're these pieces of paper hidden across different parts of London, and you write your name on them when you find it. The clues to find them are online."

Going up to one of the many lampposts that lined the River Thames, she searched its base many times over before sadly confessing to me, "Aw, someone must've taken this one."

Her smile redeemed itself upon finding another on one of the other bridges. "Alright Ben, do you have a pen?"

Casting her a funny look, she realized that I'd never been one to pack pens on my person and proceeded to take one from her bag. Writing her name on the paper and then asking me to write mine, she took the small piece of paper and read our names aloud.

"Cute," she grinned. "I've never heard our names said together. It sounds good. I like it."

"You should write 'Kentucky' next to my name," I teased.

"You know—to be fair though—I'd never heard of that state until I looked at a map and met you."

"I guess that's expected though," I thought. "Like I don't know much about England either, and that's probably not right."

"Perspective," she winked.

Pointing to a tall building that resembled an upside-down icicle, she told me that the Shard was one of London's newer buildings; and how she'd once gone to dinner with friends there. The blue tint of the widows gave the Shard a unique look, and its height was comparable to the Empire State Building's. Mentioning a famous model she'd seen when she went, she told me how she'd paid four pounds for water.

"The servers kept asking us if we wanted more water and we were like, 'yeah, yeah please,'. They kept bringing it, and we realized we were paying four pound for a bottle of water! Never again Ben! I don't think I'd go back unless someone else is paying for me," she kidded.

"Yeah, that's rough," I said clinching my teeth. "Paying a ton of money for something most people take for granted. I bet it was from a rock spring in Scotland—chilled and aged, that is."

"Nah mate. They probably got it out of the River Thames and filtered it. Cheap bastards."

As I'd later find, water wasn't a free thing in London. There weren't public water fountains everywhere as there were in the U.S.—and even the restrooms weren't free. In any London park, it cost us twenty pence apiece for each use. Taking her phone out, she began to take pictures as if I'd never have the chance to visit this place again. I was curious and asked her about it.

"I feel like every time I walk through London there's something new to see. Like I always see something different about London," she'd told me. "And besides, you're on holiday remember?"

"That looks like the bridge from Harry Potter," I accused, pointing to a bridge whose supporting metal beams spiraled around it.

"Maybe because it is? J.K. Rowling is British, you know?"

"Let's go have a look then," I said, walking against her shoulder, forcing her to get on the bridge.

It was uncomfortable to just grab her hand and lead her around—as it seemed the opposite was our situation. Touching her was still a surreal part of the experience, and it was hard to understand that I could reach out and grab this person.

"Ah! Ben, I don't like this part," she nervously let me know as we walked across a see-though metal grate: The only thing standing between ourselves and the water below.

The grate was placed so that bridge goers could look down and watch the water wave past. For the bridge enthusiast beside me however, the grate meant certain watery death. She made sure to avoid stepping on it and—just as had been true in the elevator shaft earlier that day—the thought of falling into the water wasn't a risk she was willing to take. Stepping aside while we passed, she broke the contact our shoulders had been making.

There was a new bridge every hundred or so yards, and likewise a place to get a better look at the water. Seeing all the people who so daringly stuck their phones over the bridges to get a picture, she couldn't help but wonder how many phones had been dropped in the river from taking "selfies".

"What would you do," she wondered, "if you saw someone drop their phone in the water?"

"Probably feel bad for them?" I said, unsure of how to respond. "I probably wouldn't have the nerve to stick it over the edge in the first place."

"Me either! Like how can anyone have the courage? I know I don't."

It was curious conversation, but we had no other way to find our secular similarities. We'd now arrived at the corner where Westminster Bridge met the long walkway that led from London's County Hall back to Tower Bridge where we'd begun an hour or so before. Faded-blue arches dressed the bridges support and—as was true for Tower Bridge—Westminster Bridge was split so that centered traffic could be hidden by large sidewalks on either side. The huge, erected clock that shared my name was now looking down at me from across the bridge.

Strangely enough, Parliament didn't seem as large as it had in pictures. The two buildings' brown stone suited the gold trim that outlined the clock's four faces. The gothic architecture and sharp towers seemed deserving of attention from anyone who looked. After all, gold accented this city in every way, but a metal is merely a metal.

At Big Ben I also, for the first time on landing, saw the double-decker buses that litter every London street. Tour guides, black cabs, and thousands of tourists dotted every step of asphalt; and I laughed as I noted how much the tour guides "put it on" (as she put it). Every time we'd walked past a tour group or overheard any London person offering services to any of the tourist population, it was easy to note how deep their accent was.

"Ben, listen to the tour guides talk. Like I don't talk like that, do I?" she inquired.

"Well no, I guess they sound like what you'd expect to hear on TV."

"Exactly! See what I mean?!"

The words the tour guides used were indeed put on to appeal to paying customers. The overuse of the word "sorry", "mate", "bloody", and "queuing" now seemed like small tricks the salesmen used as a part of their act. Had I been in those tourists' shoes, I too would've fallen for the stereotypical London the media seems to portray. The experience I got was much different though.

My view was filled with the real immigrant crisis; the lack of the stereotypical "Londoner"; and the solitude and silence of living a normal London life. Bleak and beautiful she was; her corrupt and consuming demands that inspired any individual. Besides, it was all jibber-jabber anyways—nothing but meaningless letters and words trying to describe a reality since gone and a feeling already lost. You couldn't just read a book and know London. You had to experience her in all her beauty.

It was getting dark now, and I began to pester her about a specific diner to eat at before calling it a first day. We'd just turned off Westminster Bridge to walk down a set of steps to get to the tube station. Now, we walked parallel in the opposite direction our earlier path. It was odd to look across the river, knowing what the people who now walked there saw. Maybe they'd seen something we'd missed. And maybe we'd seen something they missed.

"Look, I know this is going to sound familiar," I started, "but I was really looking forward to eating at your work at some point... I was hoping you could maybe show me tonight."

"I don't know Ben. It's a bit out of the way and it's in a dodgy part of town, so I'm not sure."

After a lot of begging and pleases, she conceded to show me her work and agreed on having dinner there. (After all, it wasn't toooo far out of the way.) Barking McDonald's was dimly lit that night, and the crowd from the day ceased to exist by eight thirty. The olive-green siding of the building was small and generally unnoticed unless you were standing outside the building. After ordering, we sat in a quiet corner, once again admiring the company neither one of us had experienced before. The modern interior was shaped by green-and-purple figures. As I carried our tray of salted fries and disproportionate drinks to the tabletop, I was once again touched with the same nervousness from earlier that day.

As the sun bid us adieu, the outer world began to get darker and cooler; and I noticed how the vibrant city lights and hurried people began to slow and dull. I was shocked at how people in this world seemed to go about their routines. In this fast-paced life, no one noticed each other. I was staring out the window looking for something familiar; just someone who'd notice me looking and nod back. But it never happened until I looked across the table. People walked hurriedly and spoke just as fast. Admittedly, I wasn't ready for the walking we'd done, but the excitement from being with her made me forget the pain of aching feet. A bit of small talk ensued between us, only to be offset by what happened next.

"So, what do you want to do as this turns into Uni?" I'd asked. "Do you think you're excited for school to begin and your fresh start?"

"I don't really know," she replied, staring into her cup of cappuccino.

"Come on, surely there's something you're looking forward to," I attempted again.

"Ben, I really don't know what I want to do... I was always that 'golden girl', you know? I was meant for Cambridge or Oxford, but now I don't know. I know I didn't do well on A levels and I just don't feel like I know what I'm meant to be doing with my life. My friend Conor is going to MIT and came from the same background as me, so why couldn't that have been me? It's almost like I'm still finding myself in a way."

Finally, I knew why she was on some pen pal website. Her dreams seemed to be counterbalanced with the realization that she hadn't gotten the marks that would get her into the University of her choice. It seemed the beautiful British girl sitting in front of me was lost in the same search as everyone else.

Slowly reaching across the table to grasp her small hand, while catching her sad eyes as she looked up from her cup, I shared what I'd learned through the loss of loved ones; the winless hockey seasons; and the grades that shattered my A-average along with my chance at any reputable college.

"Sometimes life has a weird way of teaching you the most valuable lessons you'll ever learn. You've got to stop comparing yourself to others because that's the surest way to sink yourself. You're only going to be drowning in the expectations of what you think you should be doing at this point in your life. Pretty girl, I promise you what you're doing is what needs to be done, and at this point in life you're on the right track to do exactly what it is you love doing."

I saw her sad gaze slowly turn into what looked more like a sad smile, and I knew for the first time she'd shared something personal with someone in a way she hadn't before. Coming from such a vibrant world, it was odd to think she'd shut off her true life from others.

"I just don't know what it is I want to be doing, and that's the problem. I'm searching for something, but I'm not sure of what. I could do language at Oxford, but I'd have to wait an entire year and retake exams."

"Chase what really inspires you then," I offered her. "Don't settle for things that give you a safety net, because that's never how you'll find yourself. You love languages and speak decent French and Russian; and as an American I can say that's pretty impressive.

"You're never going to be happy in life if you're not doing what you love anyways, so why not do what you're passionate about? I would've never made it to this McDonald's if I wasn't determined to meet you."

"Yeah, I guess so," she sadly simpered, too-far caught up in her world of thought and bottled-up emotions. Slowly gaining her confidence, she looked up at me wanting to change the conversation. "So, after seeing everything, what do you think? I do want you to love it, yeah?"

"I love everything about this place. I love the culture; I love the architecture; and I love the vibrancy. I think there might be a little bit of freedom to do things missing, but I really do enjoy the hustle and bustle of the city."—I paused for a minute collecting my thoughts— "...But you and I both know I didn't come here to meet the city of London."

"Good," she replied, finally content with her day's work as a tour guide. In asking me what I thought of her city, we both knew the city of steel and concrete and gold wasn't the body of life she wanted me to love.

Making sure I held the door for her as we walked outside, I noted how chilly it was to be a summer's night. The fifty-degree weather bit at my short sleeves, and I wished that I'd brought my jacket along. After waiting at the bus stop, we got on the red coach together (my first experience). I remember the newfound closeness I felt for this person who I'd known for a while but was just beginning to meet.

To get to my hostel would require her to backtrack to make sure I arrived safely. In fact, we had a small dispute about her walking me to the doorstep. As the bus began to make its journey towards East Ham and then to Becontree where she'd walk home, I remember her laying her head on my shoulder as we both sat there in silence, reflecting on the day that'd just happened and the many to come.

She seemed to show a new interest in me likewise, and her curiosity was no longer based on my cultural heritage. Given to me that night was a small portion of her trust; something that could've never been completely built over the internet or video calls. Hugging me goodbye as we reached my room, I realized I wasn't only excited about the days to come but was anxiously looking forward to each morning. I wanted more hugs. I wanted more journeys. I was in a state of euphoria and being with her made me forget about the empty fields and small-town bars thousands of miles away. I was alive.

"Okay, so this is it I guess," she said as we arrived at the door.

"Nah, you got me for eleven more days—so I wouldn't count yourself lucky yet."

"Okay," she smirked. "What time are we meeting in the morning?"

Looking down at my phone to realize it was already ten, and that by the time I'd be in bed it'd be twelve or close to one, I asked, "Hmm, how does ten sound?"

"I think I can make that," she laughed. "McDonald's here, yeah?"

"Yeah," I smiled back. "That'll work."

This time it was I who grabbed her; holding her so close and then saying bye.

"Thank you for everything today," I said.

"Well clearly," she smiled. "Who else was meant to show you how to use the tube?"

She slowly allowed herself to escape from my grasp and waved goodbye as she turned around. I watched as she walked back to the bus stop, her back facing me and her arms wrapped around herself; once again trapping herself in her thoughts. Little did I know at the time, but the scene of her walking away wasn't something I wanted to be watching—as it only magnified the pain of seeing her fade away several days later.

I took the room key from my jean pocket and fidgeted with the door for a few seconds before walking up the brown steps once again. In a weird way, the scene was chilling. There was neither noise nor nosy guests looking at me as I entered the hostel. Taking my toiletry bag out of my suitcase as I entered the room, I headed to the tiled bathroom to take a shower. The water was cold, and the air from the open window bit at my already chilled body. There was something rejuvenating about it though.

"I can't believe I'm this far away from Kentucky," I thought to myself. "Just yesterday I was in another country with my family and friends, and now I'm here with her."

Tucking myself in for the night, I texted my family to let them know I'd arrived safely, and that the girl I'd dreamt of was more-so that than anything real. This was the end to a new beginning; but sadly, also the beginning to a lovely end.
Chapter Four

The plan had changed. Instead of having me meet her, she told me to stay put because she had a few things to give me. In the meantime, I decided to exchange some of the money I'd brought and use the debit card from my bank. Getting robbed of twenty cents a dollar, I decided it was best in my future traveling endeavors to exchange the money before I arrived in the country.

After changing the money, I headed to the ATM/bank to use my card. Being a little unnerved to find that my card didn't work (especially after giving my bank a three-week's notice), I called home to get things settled. After minutes of ringing and redialing two or three times, it struck me that it was four in the morning in the U.S., and I'd have to try again later. Later, the same would be true of gift cards I'd brought. We'd once gone into a store to buy something, and embarrassedly enough my British companion had to foot the bill.

As I met her at the door, I was more than delighted to see that she'd brought me several different snacks and drinks: a six pack of soda, some water, a few sweets, and what appeared to be these circular, chocolate disks. Considering them to be cookies and thinking of the phone conversation we'd had earlier, I asked, "So, where are the biscuits?"

"I just handed them to you?" she awkwardly noted.

"Wait, you mean these cookies?"

"No, those are biscuits."

Reading the label of the purple-packaged cookies, I laughed as I realized that her idea of biscuits and mine were different.

"That's too funny. When I think of biscuit, I think of these doughy-like, yellow bread things that you put jelly on."

"Wait. Jelly? How in the world do you put that on bread?" she asked in a condescending way.

"With a knife usually?" I belittled right back.

"No, but it's like solid and almost not even spreadable."

"Wait, what do you think jelly is?" I'd asked, attempting to settle once and for all the jelly/jam and biscuit/cookie debate. Pulling up a picture of a green blob on my phone, I laughed as I told her what I called the gelatin substance on the plate.

"So, what do you Brits call the grape, strawberry, and blackberry stuff you put on bread?"

"Jam," she definitively said. "Sorry mate, but you Americans are dodgy."

Getting on the bus as we headed towards our next journey, I couldn't help but feel it would be her way and her way only when it came to certain words.

"We did invent the language after all," she'd use as her defense.

"Yeah well, maybe it's changed," I kidded.

"I wasn't born yesterday Ben."

"Who knows? Maybe we both were."

When we weren't joking around or expanding our English, most of our time spent together was through sightseeing. It involved me playing onlooker as my British sovereign pointed out the many locations of London. Only in this way could I discover her through her hardened metallic shell. London was her expertise, and she took no shame in having to show off her city to an admired outsider.

One of the first real trips she took me on was that of a short tour of Kensington; a district in West London well-defined by its extravagant cars and its luxurious apartments. Being only minutes from central London, the area was a beautiful neighborhood one might pick out of some dreamy scene from any spectacular film. The architecture was stunning and the people even more so. They were wearing suits and nice dresses as they passed us by; talking on their phones, ranting to the person on the other end about market prices or the next big thing.

The different shaded buildings were architectural novels with their uneven faces and rounded sides. Trapped amidst these buildings were the white-washed stucco houses of timeless London. Luxury cars were parked parallel on the street out front these large townhouses, and the one-way streets weren't only selective in direction. She knew the lifestyle was ornate, but by how much she didn't know.

Only when I saw the Lamborghini Aventador pass the Ferrari 458 on the narrow street did I realize I was no longer subject to Ford and Chevy muscle. Never had I envisioned seeing the world of supercars surrounding me. Any small-town kid can tell you all about his or her first car; but never does the idea of owning a supercar seem realistic.

As I opened my mouth she looked puzzled and asked, "Is something wrong Ben?"

"Well, we're walking the streets of some of the richest people in the world... So, there's that."

"How can you tell?"

"Some of those 'pretty' cars,"—as she liked to call them— "that keep passing us cost as much as your house and my house or even more."

"Really?!" she exclaimed. "How would you even know something like that? And I'm sorry, but that's too much for a car."

"Because I love cars. There's something so special about getting behind the wheel to go."

"Hmm?" she questioned with clinched lips and slanted eyes.

She had no idea what I was talking about. The gridlock traffic London was famous for wasn't known to sixteen-year-old's new to the road. The idea of jumping in a car and making a new journey wasn't a hobby of hers or the other teens surrounding her. Driving wasn't a necessity given the excellent transportation system.

"I wonder when I'll be able to drive," she thought aloud. Just smiling at her, I hoped that maybe one day...

Continuing on the beautiful streets of Kensington, we realized that we were lost. In showcasing one of London's most expensive postcodes, she'd managed to get caught up in the awe of the pretty mansions. It wasn't her intention to spend the day fantasizing about what it might be like to one day be a millionaire living on the inside of a marble-painted house. Instead, we'd been searching for the London Science Museum and the Museum of Natural History—but to no avail were we finding either one.

Being lost in a poorer part of London was much different than being lost in a wealthier part of London. To be lost in an impoverished part of London meant to be on a street saturated with hordes of immigrant vendors and different languages. An Indian man shouting at you to come buy goods, or maybe a Persian selling halal meat—that was poorer London. However, to be lost in a more expensive part of London meant almost silence and the occasional wealthy businessman or businesswoman. Wealth here was characterized by quietness and stillness.

The shops here were nothing like those found in East Ham or Barking, and the large security guards standing salute at each window was indicative of the value of the merchandise within each store. From the shop offering flashy handbags to the one selling watches, I made it a habit to give a friendly nod to each of the guards standing ready at the doors.

She picked up on this after a while—and with no hesitation asked, "What're you doing Ben?"

"Well, I'd be bored if I had to stand at a window and watch as people richer than me walked past. I'd be willing to bet the clientele of those shops aren't the politest people."

"If you were a millionaire, do you think it'd be easy to be humble?" she'd asked.

"I'm not so sure I need to be a millionaire now," I'd laughed. "Money isn't that valuable. I bet some of those security guards know that from the way they smile and nod back at me."

"But don't you find them so intimidating?"

I held back a rude laugh as I compared these "security guards" to the ones I knew at home. While they were had more-than-enough muscles that begged to rip apart their shirts, they had no means other than their bodies to throw at thieves. They might have stood several inches higher than me, but if I had a gun they had no bullet-proof vest to protect themselves. On their sides they carried radios rather than handguns and perched on their faces were reading glasses—if not glasses at all—rather than tinted aviators that hid their condescending look. They were woven in fine silk, as compared to being ragged from tactical vests.

"Not at all. They don't even carry guns. They seem kind-of lonely and bored to be honest. The only people who intimidate me are the people who have heavy assault rifles on them; and so far we haven't seen any of those walking around. Even your cops don't carry weapons... Don't you find that so weird?"

"No. That's why police brutality isn't a thing here," she halfway ridiculed. "That's kind of scary though—to know your police officer has a gun? No thank you."

In some silent neighborhood of Kensington did she first grab my hand as she had the courage to innocently ask, "Well, I'm not sure where we are. Can we consult the maps?"

The maps she was referring to were those on my phone, and it was cute the way she handled going about things. In the independent culture she'd been brought up, it was as if she had to ask me for permission for everything.

As we found our way to the science museum, we were stopped short by a polite Mormon man spreading the good news of Jesus Christ. Noticing the man, I also noticed the grey-washed Church of Latter Day Saints that stood behind him. The front of the building had a thin, golden wedge that ran from top to bottom, and the slim window panes that extended from the top of the building to its base made the church look more like an apartment complex than anything else. What irony had befallen me though! Only weeks before had I tried describing to her the tidy-looking men that wore black helmets as they rode their bikes around neighborhoods, enveloped in their formal white shirts and black or red ties.

The smiling man greeted us from afar, and as we came closer she pulled at my shirt warning me of what was about to happen. Coming from the South, I smiled back and invited this man into our routine so that she could experience Jesus Christ. The man began conversation with her, and I could sense I was bringing her out of her comfort zone. Her body tensed up and her tone became sterner as she engaged herself in this awkward dialogue.

"How are you all doing today?" the Mormon asked. "Have you heard of this book by any chance?" he'd said as he motioned to the Book of Mormon held in his right hand.

"We're doing alright. And yourself?" I answered. "And yeah, that's not a new one for me, but I can't say the same for her," I'd winked.

Hearing my accent, he immediately asked me where I was from, and my response of "Kentucky" led him to smile.

"It's funny," he began. "I have friends from Kentucky, and they talk exactly like you."

He then began to fire at her several questions that make up the Mormon Routine. His attention was directed at her, as he knew I was already acquainted with divinity. I could see her pursed lips as she quickly threw out retorts to questions like, "Do you feel like you have a calling or purpose?", and "What got you out of bed this morning?" But I was confused. The conversation seemed to pit her against him, and at one point I remember him telling her that he'd found his purpose in life, to which she responded, "That's good?"

In most cultures, that answer would've been rude. But the way she responded was almost as if she was asking this stranger for guidance because she didn't know the right thing to say. Seeing that she was faltering, I told the man we had to go because we were late to meet some friends at the science museum.

Oddly, at the beginning of the meeting, he'd also asked, "Are you two a couple?"

Looking at each other, we'd both responded "No", as if there was an understanding of the imposed limitations. In our hearts and minds we were one, but it was still as if some secular separation led to our seclusion.

Walking away from the man, he called after us in a suggestive-but-friendly voice, "You two would make a lovely couple."

From those words a sheepish grin slowly transformed itself into a beautiful smile on her face. His voice was as friendly and kind as any, but there was something this man saw in us that only something greater could've noticed.

"I'm so sorry about that," I halfheartedly offered while smiling at the cuteness I found in the situation.

"Why Ben, why?" she'd jokingly responded.

"Look, I got us out of the situation; so now we're all good."

"Well, considering you're the one that put us in the situation—you kind-of owed me that one."

"Yeah, I guess so," I couldn't help but grin as I rolled my eyes.

Approaching the science museum, I let out a laugh as I saw an image on one of the window panes that read "No sharp objects". Above the letters, the sign showed a fork that'd been crossed out by a red "X". In American culture, the signs usually had pictures of knives, guns, or explosives—but as I found in London, forks are just as deadly.

To my surprise, all the museums were free; and I found peace of mind knowing I wouldn't have to pay ten bucks to see a collection of different things for an hour or two. Once inside, the entrance to the museum was marked by a space capsule built of Lego's. In fact, the entire first floor was devoted to engineering feats of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; elegantly showcasing Henry Ford's Model T and other iconic engines.

"Look at that car and tell me what's different," I curiously proposed, hoping she'd pick up on the left/right side of the road debate.

"Well, I don't drive a car, so I wouldn't know, would I?"

"No, I think you know. Look closer. I know you've ridden in one before, so tell me what it is."

"Oh!" she let out excitedly. "What the hell?! The wheel is on the wrong side of the car!"

"Well technically, it's on the left side of the car, whereas you Brits are right," I mocked.

She was now more curious to find different American/British achievements; and it became a competition to see which country was more scientifically inclined. The life-size replica of the moon landing left me grinning, and I couldn't help but braggingly ask her which red, white, and blue flag was placed on that artificial bit of rock. We walked to the third floor, and she pointed out a dim spot in the room further darkened by a black wall.

"So listen yeah, my friend Ahmad has the funniest picture of me and all our friends against this wall. Because the flash on his camera was on and I wasn't ready, I looked such a state in this picture. It's something none of them have ever let go."

"Then let's rewrite the story," I playfully responded.

Pulling her to my side, I turned on the flash of my camera to take a picture. To say the picture rewrote the prior story wouldn't be the truest statement, but it nonetheless left us both laughing at the result.

"Oh my days!" she'd laughed. "That is so jokes."

"I won't never understand y'alls slang, you know it?" I chuckled in a Southern accent.

"All you have to understand is my body language," she'd seductively said, swaying her head to look at me.

"You're a mess."

Leaving the science museum, we headed for the Natural History Museum (conveniently located further down the street). I was once again amazed at how large the Gothic structure was. The building was bricked in the same stone as Parliament and Big Ben; and the stained-glass windows were a reminder of the building's historic past. I'd been inside the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. before, but never had I been surrounded by this number of people. From the aquarium to Hyde Park, London was a play spot for the elite of the world. This old cathedral of sorts was inviting to all those kings and queens, and excitedly we walked inside.

Her face lit up with all the different skeletons and ferociously framed faces, and we marveled at the charcoaled bones of Dippy the Diplodocus. I loved to watch her move about the exhibits and show me the things she'd done before. There was always a personal story she could grab and share with me.

"You know, I really do think Luke would love this museum," I told her as we entered a wing that showcased pterodactyl skeletons.

"So bring him," she winked as if it was possible. "Only a day's travel."

"Yeah, it doesn't help that I'm poor," I said as I defended my argument.

"No you're not," she laughed. "You're well off I swear...Better off than what it sounds like someone else here is."

We could hear the ferocious roars but couldn't figure out where the noise was coming from. Turning the corner in one of the corridors, we saw a life-size T-rex bend its figure back and forth, swaying to the soundtrack of the Cretaceous period. The animatronics were incredible—so much in fact that she had trouble looking into the emerald eyes of the beast moving towards her. But something about those eyes must've sparked some excitement—for she kept looking.

Because of the crowds, we didn't spend much time in the Natural History Museum and decided that we'd been walking for long enough. We bid the many skeletons farewell and left the museum in search of somewhere to rest. We found a courtyard beside the museum and sat on a wooden bench. Here, we watched as a little girl and her younger brother chased pigeons in the crowd of tourists. The young girl got close to grabbing one, but the bird flew away just before she could catch it.

"Look at how jazzy she looks," she laughed. "Look at those little shoes and the little dance she's doing. Oh Ben, why can't my kid be like that? Ahh."

"Well, hopefully you don't have a kid—because that'd be the elephant in the room right now."

Half-jokingly but halfway annoyed, she proceeded to laugh halfheartedly, "Well, you know what I mean. But look at her. She's so smooth. I wish I could run around with that energy, but instead I'm working my life away serving ungrateful people at McDonald's. Actually, I just wish I had that energy in the first place."

"Hey, you and me both sexy lady," I'd yawned as I placed my arm behind her on the back of the bench.

"How is it already this time of the day?" my British tour guide asked as she glanced at the time.

"Who knows?" I replied. "I feel like the days will go by quickly anyways. Plus, we aren't even meeting up till eleven-ish."

"There's just not enough time in a day, is there Ben?"

"Or in two weeks," I'd sadly resented.

While we watched as the mother called to her children, my lively companion asked if I was ready to visit Hyde Park and see Buckingham Palace. Content with any situation, I told her that anywhere would be fine—as long as she promised not to leave me in the waves of tourists and the tunnels of the train system. In all honesty, neither of the names meant much at the time and still don't. They are just names after all.

The park was accessible through several different gates, and as I'd come to find was much bigger than I'd anticipated. The space was roughly twice as big as my family's property lines back home. For the first time, it was clear London wasn't a world solely built of concrete and steel and glass. There was much loveliness in London; but this type of beauty was only discovered after visiting all parts of this microcosm. Walking through the park, I noticed a pond filled with small paddle boats and birds of different sorts.

Ducks frantically drowned their heads in the glass sheets, only to pull up water with which to wash themselves. Floating across the water side-by-side, white swans set a more romantic scene. These creatures were likewise dunking themselves beneath the water's tempting promise of purity. Unfortunately, even these water-loving animals couldn't hold their breath for that long. Unlike the water from the River Thames, this water was much more cleansing and clear.

She began to snap an endless collection of what would become precious moments as she explained again, "I'm sorry Ben, I just love pictures. They really let you reflect on what you were feeling in that moment, and you can go right back to that point in time, you know?"

"Right," I winked. But somehow in that moment, I knew I was only disillusioned by the fading sound of her endearing coo; and that sadly this sound would once again have to transcend the same time we were lucky enough to share.

Making our way from Hyde Park to Green Park, Buckingham Palace was in our view as she pointed out a long stretch of road that lead to a large archway opening to Trafalgar Square. The road leading to the Palace seemingly stretched on for a mile, and once again was bedazzled with supercars and luxury cars alike. An angel-like statue dressed in gold stood at-the-ready in front of the Palace, while two other figures guarded her below.

To make more beautiful an already picture-perfect scene were thousands of roses—each romantically red from the intensity of summer—placed in different sections around the Palace. The rectangular building and its many windows stood still, colored in ivory and outlined in gold. A tall, black fence ran around the building's perimeter and was capped with golden spikes.

"When Duchess Kate and Prince William got married, this entire stretch of road was packed with people," she'd told me.

"That doesn't surprise me," I admitted. "There must've been a hundred thousand people in attendance for that."

"Who knows? Maybe...But then again, do you think there's really that many people?"

"Easily. Like when we were getting off the metro earlier today, just standing there on the platform..."

"Let me guess," she interrupted while laughing at me, "that's the number of people where you live."

She'd stolen the thought from my mind and the words from my mouth. And it was by no means the first time she would or had done before.

"Exactly," I said as I threw a smile her way.

Having admired the Palace, we proceeded to Trafalgar Square to see the famed lions majestically resting below their prized Admiral Nelson. I'd watched a movie that showed this place, and I was proud to know I recognized something other than Big Ben or Tower Bridge.

"As you know, I could care less about the history. I really have no clue who any of these people are," she said, laughing as she motioned towards the monuments. "Sorry mate, but if you wanted that you'll have to catch the tour bus."

The bus she nodded towards now was a double-decker that had images of various London icons on the side. There was always a person on the second floor of the open-topped bus talking about London to those interested. The number of vendors and street performers capitalizing on the tourist economy was something she must've hated. It was almost as if her own people were trying to sell her on the idea that the city she lived in was more a false vacation than a perfect home.

While we sat on one of the water fountains, she pointed daringly to the lions, telling me to climb atop for a picture. Without thinking, I jumped on the silent beast and made a now-world-famous pose. She thought it was funny how easily I'd hopped on the lion, and told me that when she tried the same, friends had to help her up. Standing on the lion, I was caught up in the architecture everywhere, as well as the misleading idea of perfection. If it wasn't created by the humble hands of a true mason or decorated by the fingers of a famous artist, it didn't belong in London.

"Ben, I'd get up there with you, but I'm a bit afraid my skirt might come up," she apologized.

"It's fine," I assured her. "You gonna take your picture?"

"Of course," she said. "How else am I meant to prove you're real to people?"

As I hopped off the lion to rejoin her, she used her favourite expression by telling me it was time for one of those moments.

"Okay, picture," she'd say, striking a new pose.

"I guess I'll let you have your fun," I'd rolled my eyes as I smiled.

The day was slowly beginning to fade to darkness as the day prior. At nighttime, central London was nothing like the pitch-black I'd become so used to living in the middle of nowhere. Only the moon and soft-white outline of the Milky Way offered the night light where I lived. Here though, these city lights never died nor faded; nor did the persona of the people. Westminster Bridge was still crammed with people, and the boats offering cruises didn't seem to mind the fading sun. The "Disco Boat"—as she'd named it—was more alive and louder than ever; pitching its tunes and party noise across the River Thames.

"You know, the Thames River doesn't seem so dirty now," I joked.

"Wait, what?"

Unsure of how she could've been confused, I asked, "Wait, what do you mean 'what'?"

"Say the name again?" she now questioned.

"River Thames," I'd repeated.

She began to laugh at me, and I couldn't figure out where I'd made my mistake. After her fun at my expense, she explained, "It's pronounced 'Tim's'—like the person Tim."

"Ohh," I said embarrassedly. I'd been pronouncing the name wrong this entire time, whether it was from a text or a street sign. "I mean in all fairness, who's to say it doesn't rhyme with the word 'Zane's'?"

"Um, I think I would know," she responded sassily. "I am British."

With the name correctly pronounced, we began to cross the bridge to make the walk, only this time in the opposite direction. I noticed a different radiance beating off the dancing river. Different colors were in every frame. London Eye glowed a bright red as it circled the city; and the blue and white lights strung from the trees lining the river added to the lovely nuance. Then there were the lit-up walls of County Hall that housed London's aquarium. Purple lights shone brightly on Tower Bridge's two towers and were complimented by the white lights electrifying the bridge's baby-blue concrete beams. A carnival flashed its antique yellow and orange lights, begging any passerby to stop and say hi.

The city had caught my attention with its magical show of lights; but there with humble words and innocent looks, the beautiful girl walking at my arm caught my heart. The smell of all the outdoor restaurants, along with the music of street performers, was all too cute—making the walk more romantic than I'd earlier guessed it to be. Tidied businessmen met even better-looking women at outdoor tables, while tourists posed along the riverside.

"Look!" she called as she pointed to a bus along the River Walk. "Me and my friends call that the gay bus, right? Because if you look at the colors, it's a bit feminine, is it not?"

Noting the rainbow lights that decorated the awning of the bus, the words "Frozen Yogurt" and "Snog" only stereotypically seemed to build her case.

She reflected on her past before letting out, "It's funny though, because in all the times we've passed it, they're only men sitting at the top of it talking and laughing."

I gave her a hard time about being homophobic, to which she played along. As I teased her, I spotted a new set of pink lights that highlighted a bridge before Tower Bridge. I remember being amused by the Christmas spectacle that seemed to last year-round here, and the buildings seemed to sway along with the wake of the Disco Boat. I was intrigued as we passed a monument famous to English teachers worldwide, not having realized what the spherical building was. While my British chuck had no interest in the Globe Theater, her sarcastic remark about finding tickets to take me to a play reminded me that she was indeed my Shakespearian ladie bird.

"Mom told me I should take you inside of there, but all I could do was smile and laugh. When I was in school, my Literature teacher gave me tickets to go see a play for the good work I'd done in the class... and to this day I still have no clue what happened to them."

"That sounds about right," I grinned.

"But listen to this, they have a version of Romeo and Juliet called 'Romeo and Julian', which is basically the gay version. Imagine!"

Once again giving her a hard time because I knew she had nothing against gays in any way, I responded, "What is it with you and gay people tonight? If you're hinting that I should switch teams, I'm already a plane ticket in the hole and have a hotel room booked for next week. So, sorry to burst your bubble."

"Ben, you know what I mean."

And I did.

During the trip, she didn't need to say anything to communicate with me. A simple look or glance and I knew what she was feeling or thinking at any given moment. In fact, we'd communicated so much that once before the trip I'd left my phone sitting around, and my brother picked it up intending mischief but only got a resounding, "This isn't Ben" response.

We sat in silence often during the trip, and only then do I feel we grew closer. The moments of bonding weren't construed during the loud walks in the heart of London nor were they founded in the many tourist attractions or restaurants of the city. I met her in the silent moments characterized by her head on my shoulder and her long hair blanketing my back.

"What are you looking at?" she asked accusingly after she caught me staring into her eyes. We'd been walking back to Tower Bridge, and at this moment were underneath a set of trees whose white-and-blue lights dimly lit our path.

"I don't know."

Pausing, I tried to find the words to describe the ineffability, "I've never really felt this... All of this is so beautiful," I said, nodding to the panoramic view surrounding us. "The city lights, the people, and glow of the city: It's just all so new to me."

Once again pausing for thought, I attempted to come up with sentences that might if only allow her to see what I saw. I took her hand in mine as I raised them above our waists. "But this is also something that's new for me. I don't know what it is, but I love it. I feel secure, and it's as if nothing could faze me... I'm at peace, you know? Nothing's more important to me right now than walking across that bridge and making the journey back to East Ham."

"It's kind-of odd at first," she admitted as she gave a soft grin. "I've never had someone look at me that intense. It's almost like you're staring into my soul. I can't decide if I should run far and fast now, or if I should look back and try to see what you see."

She was obviously nervous; much more than I'd been flying to meet someone who may not have even been the person they claimed to be. I could tell from her shivers and her timid hand that uncertainty still clouded her conscious.

"Only time will tell you what you wanna do," I smiled back. "Just let things fall into place, and just as promised in McDonald's, everything has a strange way of working out."

"Let's hope so, because I'll tell you what—right now I have no clue," she laughed through a gaping grin.

As we neared Tower Bridge, I noticed several strings of dim LED's that highlighted a set of concreted terraced steps. These steps led to a broad, flat area of grass that I assumed could be picnicked on during the day.

"Let's sit here and look at the lights," she'd told me. "Isn't it all just so lovely?"

"It's...amazing," I slowly let out. "But the one thing missing is the color of the water and the sky."

"What're you talking about?" she questioned as she glanced upwards, understandingly noting the brown color of the River, now mistakenly masked by darkness.

Taking her hand and pointing to an airplane's searchlight in the apparently empty sky, I tried to explain, "This is a brilliant city, but you don't have the stars. The sky here—and in any city really—is empty because of the pollution. Back home you can't count the stars... At home I can look up and really get lost in how big the world is. I can see the whitened color of the Milky Way in the background, and just lose myself looking up. Here it's just... darkness everywhere in a sense."

After a short pause, she thought aloud, "I've never even heard of anything like that before, but it sounds nice." With her fascination of astronomy, I knew I'd caught her attention.

"It is," I proudly said. "As corny as it sounds, I used to go outside during the beginning of this summer and feel the breeze and look up and think about you. Because while you're almost four thousand miles away, when I looked up and realized you were looking at the sky as I—you weren't so far away anymore."

The sheepish smile I'd come to love now painted her face as she took her head and softly placed it on my shoulder.

"And then you came here and realized I wasn't looking at any moon at all," she said laughing, trying to make her voice more serious. "You know, I did proper dream of you on the train. I'd put music on, and certain songs just really made me think about us and what it'd actually be like to be with you."

"And so far, is it up to standard?" I half-grinned as I shot her an inquiring look.

"It's great. I really think you and I are so in synch and it's nice. Like I don't know anyone else who I've connected with like this."

"And all it took was a few creepy texts from a faceless pen pal," I said, a full smirk now taking over my face.
Chapter Five

I'd become quite used to the train system, and breakfast every morning was kept constant: East Ham McDonald's. She was always a couple of minutes late and put me in charge of ordering so that we could still order breakfast before lunch was served. I'd always watch her smile and clap her hands together as she approvingly looked over the food she'd normally be serving; and I couldn't help but smile myself. Those innocent looks and that smile to die for—and I thought and knew that was enough. I'd sip on my coffee while we discussed the plans for the day or what was new in her household life.

The morning became nothing more than our alone time from each other spent together. Time was precious, and minutes wasted amounted to days without one another. To say goodnight around eleven and then to say good morning at ten the next day had become our routine. Then, only after trying to look decent for the day, we'd make small talk over breakfast and walk back to the tube station.

Kyoto Gardens was the stop for the day, and shortly before we arrived she informed me of how we were to see a waterfall and giant goldfish. As it was a small inlet in the larger Holland Park, we'd once again travel to Kensington and Chelsea to find these famous fishes. She'd sent me pictures of the waterfall earlier in the summer, but still I was wary of any "giant goldfish".

"You're sure they're goldfish, right?" I repeated several times as we walked to the platform at East Ham. "Like, they're not a different kind of fish?"

"I mean, that's what they look to me. But I'm no fish expert or anything."

"Apparently you're decent, because you've caught the best one," I winked playfully.

To get to Kyoto, we had to snake our way through dirt paths; slithering in and out of trees and bushes. We took a set of small pebble steps that led to the harmonic place, and a row of bamboo fence now guarded our path. I immediately noticed all the Japanese architecture—all the random rounded rocks and short grass. The cute shrubbery and trimmed bonsai trees that made up the park added a specific touch and tone to the already perfect place. Autumn had begun coloring the leaves of several trees as they stood out against the green background. Her red hair and her withdrawing nature was but another piece of the park in a way.

Gracefully strutting around were many peacocks, and I grinned as I told her, "You know, we used to have peacocks," as she chased the bird, asking it for a picture.

"Really?" she asked, now focusing her attention on me as she'd caught the bird showing off its feathers.

"Yeah, only they were eaten by our dogs a few weeks after we got them. So, they were red and brown rather than blue and green." Her gruesome look told me these weren't the laws of nature she cared to know about.

Circling around the park, I began to hear the flowing water as it bounced off the jagged faces of cascading white and grey rocks. A thin black string was strung from bamboo post to bamboo post. The fence came up to my shin and was designed to make the park look nicer and encourage people to stay off the grass. As we made our way around a small pond centered in front of the waterfall, I noticed Japanese Koi fish swimming and couldn't help but smirk at her.

"Let me guess," I said. "These are the giant goldfish, aren't they?"

"Yeah. Isn't that what they look like to you?"

"No," I couldn't help but laugh with the slightest hint of derision. "Then again, I really can't laugh because I've known what these things are for years. Nicholas wanted to put a koi pond in our front yard, and probably would've built it had it not been for my parents. My dad thought he was just digging holes in the front yard."

"Ah, that would've been so nice! What a shame!"—changing her focus now— "But what exactly is a front yard? Is that like your garden?"

I hadn't given it much thought, but none of the houses we'd seen had lawns in front of them. The front doors of homes were met with a ten-by-ten bricked patio and guarded by those indifferent brick walls.

"Well yeah, kind-of," I responded. "But it's more like an area you can run around in. At my house, you have to spend a bunch of time cutting grass in the summer. But I don't guess that's a thing here. I'll have to get my mom to send me a picture of what my house looks like. Normally though, a garden is something you grow things in."

"Well that's true here too, but you'd probably rent an allotment more than actually put plants behind your house."

"So, basically the same?" I reasoned.

"Yeah, I guess. But I'd just have to see for myself," she'd hinted.

There were neither neighboring houses hugging mine nor sidewalks to jog on: Just grass, trees, and the occasional shrub or two. After receiving the picture, I showed her—telling her that the image was taken standing on top of my grandmother's hill. The hill my house stood on was a picture-perfect scene. The sunny sky seemed to kiss the green treetops while the white puffs of clouds floated in the background. The horses that stood grazing on the hillside added to the country experience one could get from looking my way. It was a house in God's country only lacking the most essential experience.

"That's way too much for anyone to have," she surprisingly let out. "No one ever needs that much land, do they?"

Not sure of how to carry on—being that I'd always grown up with more-than-enough room to get out—I simply said, "Well really, no. But you do live in one of the largest cities in the world and the only place you've traveled to is Paris. So probably a lot of houses have small gardens or lawns in front of them—maybe not as big as mine because I live in the boondocks, but still."

"Really?" she once again questioned. "I guess it's inevitable and I'll have to come, isn't it?"

Grinning to myself, I couldn't help but imagine how a Londoner like her would respond to having mud lace her face instead of the makeup she wore as we tore through trails or a muddy pond. I couldn't think of the reaction that would come from the explosive sound of a shotgun as its pellets cut through the air. And most curiously, I couldn't help but wonder what she'd think of having to drive ten minutes at sixty miles an hour to get to the closest convenience store.

"That would be quite a sight," I admitted as we reached a bridge that stood in front of the waterfall. The water in the pond could've been no more than two or three feet deep, and the bridge had no rails to keep onlookers from falling in. The sun beat off the crystal-clear water in a way that made you stop and glance at your reflection.

There were people behind us, so hurriedly she took two British pennies from her purse and handed one to me as she said, "Okay, make a wish."

With that, she tossed her pence into the water and smiled as she waited for me to do the same.

"Hmm," I waded out, "what to wish about?"

"That the people behind you don't push you in, because you're taking too long," she smiled.

Shooting her a malicious smile, I tossed my penny into the small pond as we walked across the end of the small bridge.

"Okay, so what did you wish for?" she asked.

"That I can stay here forever," I conceded.

"Hmm. Possible, but not likely," she let me know as she grinned at me. "Especially not now."

"What about you? And why not?!"

"You're not supposed to tell people your wish because then it won't be true. Gosh Ben, didn't you know?" I couldn't help but give her a gapping grin—I'd just been beaten at my own game.

"Well...," I trailed off, "when I think of a good comeback, I'll let you know."

"Sure you will,"—now imitating my accent— "I've got a good comeback. Just you wait."

The park branched off into a more open area, and the Japanese theme faded into a more forest-like one. We strode hand-in-hand, looking at all the different flowers and trees. The silence around us now filled my thoughts, and I couldn't but wonder what time it was. We came to a walled-off plaza of sorts, and fountains were now the center of attention. Around these fountains were beds of different flowers and bushes, guarded from park goers by small, dark-green fences.

To our sides was a lifesize chess set, which prompted her to tell me that the only chess she played was on her computer. Intrigued, I'd asked her to tell me how she learned to play; and became proud as I found out there existed another human who placed her pieces where the computer told her to. Begging her to sit at one of the benches, we noticed a vineyard that stood at our backs as we watched the flowing water.

"I love how quiet this place is," she said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, it's nice. It kind-of reminds me of my house, but it's a lot prettier."

"How can nature be prettier?" she'd asked.

"Like everything is so neat and I'm sure they have people taking care of the parks and trimming those hedges and it's all so clean," I noticed, pointing to the pebble pathways.

"Oh. What does it look like where you live?" she wondered.

"Well, everything is out of order," I began. "The trees aren't planted in rows and the flowers and shrubs aren't set up so nicely. It's just a bunch of random growth."

"So basically, it's really disorganized?" she confirmed.

"Well, yes and no. I could argue that all this is disorganized because it's not the way nature intended it to be. All these things have been tamed through years of planting and nurturing. At home that's not how it works."

I could tell she was starting to draw the connection, and it was peaking her interest in the place I called home. She rose from the bench and motioned for me to come take a picture with her in front of the fountain. In doing so, I noticed that her knickers were showing because of how she'd been sitting and—after making sure no one else was in earshot—proceeded to whistle and wink at her. Kidding at the time, I gave her a hug as she tried adjusting her tight jeans beneath my arms.

"You're actually something else," she said in her most British voice.

"That's my job."

She began to readjust her top as well—looking down her shirt to reposition her clothing—and in a seductive-but-kidding voice whispered to me, "I'll let you see later."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but my hotel room only sleeps one. Sorry."

I couldn't help but laugh. Instead of being arousing, it was comical. And instead of being strictly sexual, it was spiritual. To make it personal, we'd both have to be present.

Content with the pictures she'd taken, we headed out of Holland Park to find a Tesco from which to buy her famed "meal deal". On the street, we once again played "guess how much that car is worth" until we reached the small express shop. Walking in, I was caught off guard by the all the food that could be bought. In a certain part of the store, it was almost as if we'd accidentally walked into a bakery rather than a supermarket. Cinnamon rolls, un-bagged bread rolls, and a salad bar filled with different leaves now stared back at me. The meal deal she was after cost three pounds for three things: a sandwich, a bottled drink, and a bag of crisps.

"Okay," I reasoned aloud, "three pounds is like four-fifty my money, so this is actually the cheapest thing we've come across."

"That's what the 'deal' is for Ben. Otherwise, it'd be just as expensive as everything else in here."

"Yeah, but isn't it kind-of irritating that name brands here cost almost two times what they would in America?"

"I guess—but I wouldn't know, would I? To me that's so cheap and I don't believe you. Had I never met you, I'd never know what I was missing out on in the first place."

"Well, I guess it all has to do with perspective, right?" I wisely smirked.

"Right," she'd agreed.

I was taking notice of the endless queues when she interrupted me.

"Oh, let's go to the self-checkout," she cooed. "I love getting to put all the coins in."

"Um, how old are you again?" I kidded.

"Old enough for you, and that's all that matters," she said as she stressed the 'ou' sound in "you".

"Okay, where now?" she asked as we came out of Tesco.

At first, I was unsure of why she'd asked, but as I looked at the time I realized the day was almost over. "Hmm, is there anywhere close we could go to kill the last hour or so?"

"Let's look at the maps."

Taking out my phone, we found that we were close to where we'd been the day before, and the science museum and natural history museum were only short walks.

"Ah, Kensington Gardens," she let me know. "The Gardens might be closed, but it's in Hyde Park—so they may still be open."

"Okay. Let's have a look anyways, yeah?" I responded in my best British accent.

"You're never going to perfect it, you know?" she slyly grinned back.

"We'll just have to see about that," I challenged.

Atop a small hill was a red-bricked building. The building was Kensington Palace—the royal residence of the British Royal Family. The gardens (in the backyard of the Palace) were no less beautiful; boasting wonderful shades of reds, greens, and yellows. It was difficult trying to process. I was slowly being torn between worlds; one in which I lived to see the future and its blessings, and another in which I was present to what was happening in a given moment.

"You know, those dogs running around scare me," she told me as we made our way to the bank of a pond, spotted with ducks and geese alike.

Looking up to see the small Golden Retriever she was talking about, I couldn't help but smile as I thought of the German Sheppard/Black Lab mix running around my farm. "It's not even that big though?"

"Yeah it is," she said back. "My dog is small. Anything larger than a Yorkie is big to me."

Not having noticed it before, something was different in the way she pronounced the word "yeah". After asking her to repeat what she said, I caught the "r" sound that seemed to be replacing the "ah" sound.

"Ah, you invented the language, but you weren't taught it. What a tragedy," I teased her.

"Well, at least I don't say things like 'y'all', 'howdy', and 'ain't'."

I condescendingly grinned as she once again attempted to do an impression of a Southern voice. So, this was what it was like to hear me do my British accent. Two voices intermingled in one another: One smooth and sweet; the other reckless and rowdy. While I could hear the differences, the message sent through our voices was the same. That was true for anyone I guess. It was the same idea; only confused by a different way of putting it across.

"What do you think it'll be like when I go home?" I questioned abruptly, as curiosity had gotten the better of me.

"I was just thinking the same thing!" she excitedly said.

"Okay, so I won," I made obvious. "But what do you think will happen once this is over and we both have to go to Uni?"

"Well, I think you're focusing on the future right now, when you should be thinking about me," she responded while tucking herself in my arm. "I think it'll be the same, but I think there'll be small differences in the way we act towards one another."

"Yeah, I was thinking something similar," I admitted. "Like I don't think it'll be so dreamy any longer, you know?"

"Huh?"

"Like now that this has happened and it's a thing, the focus will be trying to have it back, you know? It's like giving someone a gift—a gift they've always wanted and are happy to have. But suddenly, you take it away from them. Even though you know there's another gift, somehow the person who received it knows it's perfect. And I feel like it's something we perceive but can't define, right? It's almost like this perfection is the result of imperfections made well through effort."

After staring at me curiously and allowing time for thought, she agreed, "Yeah, I guess so. But I think it'll still be dreamy in a sense."

"Oh, definitely. This has been eye-opening, you know?"

"Yeah," she happily sighed as she softly lay her head on my shoulder. "What type of things would you like to do tomorrow?"

"Hmm," I thought. "I don't mind, what did you have in mind?"

"Well, I'm thinking art, but other than that I don't have a plan for now."

"Then we'll decide as we go along, right? Sometimes not having a plan is the best plan of all."

"Right," she consented.

"Just like some endings, right?" I playfully smiled. "Sometimes they don't make any sense at all."
Chapter Six

The clouds were beginning to cover the sky, and the sunshine we'd known the past couple days seemed to have made its way back to my house. Sloane Square was the destination for the day she'd told me—whatever that'd meant. At first I was confused, because it looked like we were in Kensington for a third time. The business suits, the luxury cars, and the expensive penthouses overlooking the streets made it obvious we were no longer in any normal borough.

"Today we're going to Saatchi," she'd mentioned as we boarded the underground train.

Remembering that she'd talked about the museum before, I was still confused on what type of art was hidden behind the many-windowed, plantation-styled building. The guard to the marble museum (dressed in an expensive suit and transparent earpiece) stood at the porch in front of a set of large wooden doors.

Like every other museum we'd been to, the guards searched her purse as we entered, and afterwards we were free to walk through the building. Strolling through the opening to our left, we found a marble room full of bright-blue plastic shopping bags. Thousands of crumpled bags now formed the trapezoidal prism lying on the floor of this elegant room. There were neither signs describing what the bags represented nor a person standing ready to explain the scene. I concluded early on that this was a contemporary art museum, and for that we'd soon be met with unexpected twists and turns. With her personality and mine, it'd take every ounce of tact to put aside the humor we both shared. All the serious art connoisseurs floating around would've been shocked by our interpretations.

"Interesting enough," I'd commented as we left the first exhibit.

"London's solution to global warming Ben," she explained through a serious-but-gaudy smile.

Walking into the next of the rooms was a standing black sign with white lettering that warned of "mature audiences only". Not even mature audiences could've been prepared for what was in the illuminated hall. The grotesque faces staring back at me looked as if they'd each come from the same horror film; only shown in the fifteenth century. The faces and images were oddly contorted and wrapped in ruby reds and jaded emeralds; the oil-based paints they were enrobed in characterizing each of their dark and slippery natures. In one picture was the head of a man in agony because of his missing genitalia, which seemed to have something to do with a suspicious-looking woman with a knife in her hand. The woman in the painting had been smiling and looked pleased as she stood with the bloody weapon. The Brit was the one to break the unsure silence.

"You know what he was probably thinking?"

"Yeah— 'That's not how you give head Mary!'" I joked.

The laugh she let out (probably way too loud) was clear indication that we thought similarly when it came to having a respect for more gruesome art. Living, laughing, loving. Not lying, lamenting, loveless.

"But as much as I kid, her breasts look nice," she said, pointing to a framed lady in a red corset.

"Is that what you want for your goodbye gift?" I kidded. "It's a little late to pick up a corset—but I mean if you'll promise to wear it for me, maybe I can make ends meet for you."

"Well no Ben, I'm just saying that even though the women of those times weren't allowed to dress out, they sure knew how to be cheeky and a little slaggy."

"Well, if you say so," I said.

Oddly, Saatchi Art Gallery was one place that wasn't filled with tons of tourists, and we were free to move about the rooms using as much time as we wanted. The gallery was broken into three floors. Having visited the first, we moved to the second, whose theme wasn't much more picturesque than that the first.

The theme seemed to be death; and from the many "dead" human dummies intertwined in the garbage of their workings to the bombed city portrait, it was uncomfortable in a way different than the first. While the first floor was strictly awkward, the second was eerie and had a more serious tone. These artists had chosen to paint death into their lives; unknowingly telling the public their view of the world. It was obvious our art didn't belong in this place.

Although serious, she still managed to see a painted picture of a car and motorcycle wreck and remark somewhat seriously, "That's you."

"Umm, not yet," I'd countered thoughtfully.

If the first room of the second floor was centered on human tragedy, the second must've been rooted in all its animal counterparts. There in the second room we were immediately met with a picture whose baby-blue sky was contrasted by scores of littered cow corpses dotting the green grass. Turning now to see why she'd let out a small gasp, I saw a grey tepee in the corner of the room. At first glance it looked like a Christmas tree—only this tree wouldn't have signaled glad tidings.

On closer examination, I realized that instead of being made up of twigs and spruce, these branches were brought to life by hundreds of dead mice. From their fur to their pink tails, the artist did such a good job that to this day, I still have no clue whether or not the mice were real. Their features were so lifelike; but in the end, it didn't matter how special they were because they were victim to their time. Permanently trapped together forever, they were perfect.

I was happy to finally leave the room but couldn't help glancing back at the painting of a dead black horse that resembled the one back at my house. The exhibit hit me in an odd way—and seeing the picture of the mangled motorcycle and contorted car was something my mind had trouble wrapping itself around. Maybe I wasn't so invincible, and my time was to come just as it would for everyone else. The only difference was that I could foretell the date.

"You know, this piece does speak to me," she stated, pointing to a fake corpse whose jeans and shoes were filled with stuffing of some sort. The limp body was visible, but the head of the figure was covered in textbooks. From how the books lay, it appeared they'd fallen on the poor soul and suffocated it.

"Yup. I'd say that sums up our lives," I chuckled quietly. "Looks like calculus and physics to me... It is kind-of true, you know?"

"Yeah... The reason you're not allowed to go back home," she told me as she pointed to a suitcase laying open on the floor, playing home to a bomb that'd been planted within.

"You didn't know I hated British people? That's the reason my passport was taking so long. Duh," I sassed.

"Ewww," she suddenly started. "Look at that."

Looking at the room she was pointing to, I couldn't help but feel a small portion of dread as she crept towards the spider-infested room. The room wasn't large, and it seemed to be the one guests liked to crowd in. While she began to take her pictures, I felt a chill run down my neck as I looked at the models of the large arachnids swarm around the room. There were easily forty or more, and when the artist had run out of room he or she stacked the pests on top of one another; creating a swarm of frightful creatures.

I was glad to leave the room, and finally we'd reached a part of the gallery that wasn't based on death or sexual abuse or any other negative aspect of the human condition. It was hard to tell what the theme of this exhibit was. The vibrant neon colors and the brown and black backgrounds of the pieces of parchment on the walls reminded me of the hipster culture that seemed to be retaking the U.S. by surprise, but I knew the same niche wasn't a fad in the U.K. The colors on the parchment were exotic, and it was interesting to see the creativity of each of the artists.

Reading the name of the artist aloud— "Hmm, that suspiciously sounds like a ten-year-old Chinese kid who's some master artist already" she said.

"He's probably been painting for ten years, so cut him some slack. He's more famous than both of us," I joked back as we walked towards the exit from which we'd earlier come.

"Yeah, I guess that's probably true," she grinned. "Okay, but you know we're not done, right? At the bottom of the floor is this room of oil."

"Oil?" I'd asked as it caught my attention. "Like cooking oil or car oil or what?"

"I don't know. Just like oil."

We were about to walk down the stairs to this mystery sea when I noticed the elevator and naturally began walking towards it. Seeing her nod her head no, I remembered the awkward moment we'd had at the platform the first day. The room that spoke of death must've been clouding her thoughts, and falling to the floor because of a failed elevator wasn't the way she wanted to go out. Choosing the stairs, we arrived at the room she'd been describing, and I stood perplexed as I came to the pier of this extending sea of oil. I couldn't find sense in this murky pond but questioned her anyways as she created one of the videos I'd take back to the Kentucky.

"What's...," I tried introducing.

"Shhh," she interrupted as she began her narration. "Now here's a room filled with oil... Smells like—well, oil."

The way she so freely drew out the "I" sound on the word "oil" made me think of Marion County, and I laughed as I began explaining.

"People don't say the "I" sound where I come from... It's just 'Ull'," I tried to demonstrate. I knew I was attracting the attention of everyone surrounding us, as it was likely these Europeans would never again hear a southern accent.

"That's because your people are still learning to talk," she winked.

"Yes. Yes they are," I proudly confessed. "We may be a little behind the game in terms of education and abbreviation, but honey—we're still the most respectful."

"And what's that get you around here?" she rhetorically asked. "Being stabbed."

"Like this?" I demonstrated as I took the invisible dagger at my side and stuck it in her tender heart.

"You would like to touch that area, wouldn't you pervert?" she accused while wearing the look of a mother who'd just looked down on her child.

I could tell she was joking—but hidden beneath the humor was curiosity. It quickly became apparent that we were responsible for painting our own canvas. Only we were to blame for the setting, color, and significance of the work we laid out for others.

"Well, kidding aside this was kind-of fun and interesting... Thanks for showing me! So, what else are you thinking we do today?" I asked as we walked out of the art museum.

"I'm thinking Leicester Square, but we'll have to walk back past Buckingham Palace and all the parks. Or we can take the tube from Sloane Square, change at Victoria, and then again at Green Park to take it to Leicester Square."

"As long as I'm by your side, I'll go anywhere," I brown-nosed as I kissed her cheek.

Walking side-by-side, she'd finally opened herself up to walking arm-in-arm; and the awkward lean against one another must've ended as we grew more-and-more used to being around one another. I had to beg for a break every half mile; and though she'd been used to the walking, even she admitted her feet were sore.

I couldn't tell which was worse: Having to walk for miles and put up with the pains of aching feet; or having to spend money to take the tube and spend the journey underground, hidden beneath the surface by the darkness of the tunnels. Once inside the tunnels, the area was ghostly illuminated by dim white lights, and the darkness outside the carriage lasted forever. The only thing cutting at the blackness were yellow lights at the bottom of the arched walls.

As we got off the tube and began to file our way up to the streets, I thought about the boring routine Londoners had to partake in every day. It was a sequence bounded by the same limits of boredom as is saying the alphabet fifty times. With the train drivers playing Charon and the tunnels of the underground the River Styx, these people were by no means a lively bunch. Unfortunately, bus and tube were the only means to travel. We'd finally caught a glimpse of the sun as it began to set.

"You know what that is?" she pointed excitedly to a building that had M&M's decorating its doors.

We'd arrived in Leicester Square, and I was amazed at the party being thrown. Just like Trafalgar Square and Westminster, Leicester Square was filled with people and decorated with beautiful fountains. Children played chase with small water geysers in front of a fountain; and couples shared wine while standing on balconies overlooking the square. In front of the building she was pointing to was a man performing street-magic for the fifty-or-so people circled around him.

"Well, I'm hoping they sell M&M's there," I guessed.

"It's M&M World Ben!"

"They have an entire store for M&M's over here?" I asked.

"Well yeah! Let's go look! I think there's one in Paris too."

The moment we walked in, the store became the scene I'd imagined looking at the outside—only magnified ten or twenty-fold. As children ran around, we awkwardly made our way through the store. Containers of multicolored M&M's stood in front of us, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for all the parents who'd let their kids talk them into coming inside. Columns of dispensers lined one wall of the shop, while giant glass windows previewed the rest.

A set of semi-spiraled stairs led to the basement and upper floor of the building, and as we walked we heard a popular country song playing over the radio. I was surprised that such a name would make its way across the Atlantic; and it was just as intriguing as finding a store that sold pink-camo in the middle of Paris.

"You know who that is, right?" I anxiously hoped.

"Well yeah, I do quite like this song," she responded confused.

"No way," I grinned. "You know she's a country singer, right? Like most of her songs are country songs."

"That's weird—I don't even know what country music is," she laughed.

"No big deal. I'll have to take you to Nashville one day. That's where this girl got her start... along with 'your girl' Taylor Swift."

"Okay. We can drive though, right?" she joked.

"Yes, we can drive," I reassured her. "It's a three-hour drive though."

"Oh... now that I don't know about."

The basement of the building was just as colorful as the first floor, and we stood out in the sea of small children. Life-sized plastic M&M's of all colors and faces were playing with soccer balls or pretending to be James Bond. We were out of place, and it was uncomfortable to take a picture next to the M&M playing a Queen's guard. His black and fluffy hat stood atop his rounded-red head; and the wooden-play door he guarded had a golden M. In the building, they'd also managed to fit the bottom half of a double-decker bus.

"Alright Ben, are you ready to go see what it looks like at night?" she said as she snapped her last picture.

"Let's do it," I excitedly followed up, now tired of looking at plush M&M dolls.

While the sun seemed to fade, it appeared that the colored lights around us were growing stronger. The pinks and purples and blues and yellows and greens now danced off buildings as the crowd swayed in and out of itself. M&M World was itself illuminated by neon-blue lights that ran up the sides of the glass facing in vertical strips.

The colors and crowds were all wondrous on their own; but true London was only crafted as all the shades of music and smells and lights came together. More people seemed to be pouring from the opened station beneath the underground sign, and it seemed people were ready to party. The music of different street artists was beginning to confuse itself in each other's pitch and tone, creating a melodious harmony.

We stopped at a sandwich shop to eat, both of us now only feeling the wear of the week's walking. The restaurant was hidden underneath an underpass of sorts and made for a melancholy ambiance. Looking outside, we could make out two beaming headlights of a black cab before the rest of its chunky body sped past us. It was quiet as had been custom—only this time a different kind of quiet. The tiredness was catching up to us, and both of us longed to be in bed for the night.

"Look," I said as I tried to cheer up the somber mood, taking the plastic wrapper from my sandwich and forming it into a crumpled mash, "Saatchi!"

She managed a slight grin, but I could tell it was time for her to be home. It seemed we were timelessly battling time. As the time we spent together increased, we conversely yearned for time to ourselves—but realized time to ourselves amounted to time wasted. Unfortunately, caught in this separation required every moment precious.

Looking at her warmly, I smiled, "Let's get you home pretty girl."

She gave me an inquiring look as if I wanted to get rid of her for the night, but then reconsidered as she thought about resting, "Aw okay, but can we please make the walk first?"

"Of course we can make the walk first," I smiled. "You sure you're up for it?"

"Yeah, I think so... come on Benjamin," she said as she rose from the table and threw away my artwork.

I held the door open for her and thanked the shopkeeper as we traveled to Hungerford Bridge. We'd never crossed this London bridge, but I'd always wondered what it might be like to stare at the trapezoidal-looking structures from below. Both sides of the bridge had steel beams extending upwards for what seemed a hundred feet. At the top of each of these triangular structures was a bright-white light that jolted the beams anchoring the bridge in place. Underneath the bridge was a floating cruise boat that had a series of incandescent lights running from stern to bow. We'd posed here to take a picture and made sure to include the lit-up red circle that was London Eye.

Sadly, we weren't as close to Tower Hill as we'd thought, and spent another fifteen minutes walking to our train. With heavy eyelids and a gaping yawn, she asked me to sit and rest as we made it to the terraced, concrete steps.

"Oh no!" she gasped as she looked at her phone, "Ben, how is it already this late!?"

"Well it's not, is it?"

Looking at me as if I was mad, she began, "Ben it's 10:05, and the last train to East Ham is at 10:20."

"Annnd...," I dumbly replied, not aware of the severity of the situation.

"Well, that means we're going to have to hurry and figure out how we can take buses home. The 238—the one from East Ham to Barking—isn't a night bus and isn't running this late."

"Well, don't the trains run twenty-four seven?" I'd asked. As she cast me a curious look, I explained, "Well I mean, I can stay out till four in the morning if I was at home."

"Yeah, but you don't have a car here."

She began to rattle off bus numbers and pathways we could take to get home while I stared off at the skyline. Had it not been for her creative thinking, there would've been no way I could've made it home that evening. I came back into focus as she ended.

"... so, we can take that bus and that'll get us home and then me to my house, yeah?"

Without hesitation, I pretended as if I'd been paying attention through all the numbers and various stations and quickly consented. We rose from the steps and hurriedly walked to the brown stairway that led up to Tower Bridge's walkway. As we tapped into the station to make our way to the platform, she let out another fear.

"Oh—even better! My phone is going to be dead in two minutes."

She was beginning to panic, and I heard through the nervous laugh that she was afraid of getting home.

"Hey, it'll be alright," I reassured her. "I can take you home, and then I'll go back to East Ham and everything will be alright, right?"

"No Ben. You don't understand that the buses I normally take home aren't running, and I'm not even certain I can get home at this point."

Knowing the line sounded like something out of a cliché love story, I offered anyways, "Well, how about you stay with me tonight?"

I could tell she was beginning to consider the option but—never having stayed the night with even a friend—I knew she was likely as nervous about staying with me as she was with getting home.

"Look, I can sleep on the floor if it makes you feel any more comfortable or even sleep outside the room or stay up with you until a bus can come."

"Ben... I don't know. I don't think I can... I need to get home."

"Okay, then I'll stay with you until I know you're safe."

She was growing more worried. She was trying to take in all her options at once and view them in a step-by-step manner, but here we were once again. There just wasn't enough time. We'd had a wonderful day and dismissed the dimension. Realizing it was upon us, we were in trouble.

"Ben, you can't come with me. I'm sorry, but I can't allow it," she made it known as we boarded our final bus together.

We'd gotten off the tube a couple stops short of East Ham and exited the station to catch a bus that made stops at East Ham and Becontree. I couldn't help but notice the few people sitting beside us and realized why the buses and trains must've shut down for the nights. We were approaching the final stop as she gave me a last touch of advice.

"Listen, just go straight home and text me when you get there."

"I'll text you from my iPad, because you're taking this with you," I said, placing my phone in her hands. "You know how to use this, right? The password is my birthday, and if you ever need to get to the home screen no matter what page you're on—just press the black circle at the bottom, okay?"

She looked more confident as she took the phone, smiling as I told her where to find WhatsApp. "Thank you," she said.

"Are you kidding me?" I laughed back. "Who in their right mind wouldn't?"

She'd finally proven that I wouldn't be able to get to the hostel had I went with her. The bus began to brake, and its deceleration was a nudge for us to say our goodbyes. Afraid, I leaned into her as I stood up to get off and kissed her forehead as I told her to let me know when she got home.

"As soon as you get home, okay?"

"Yes," she couldn't help but smile back.

Shortly after I got to my room, I heard the alarm notification on my tablet go off.

"Nice way to say goodbye. Try to get a little further down next time," the message read. I couldn't help falling asleep with the largest smile on my face.
Chapter Seven

Thankfully the sun was shining today, because my farmer's tan needed a bit of upkeep. So pale was her skin that I was halfway afraid of the sunburn she'd get from taking a trip to the beach. Nevertheless, time was of the essence and we boarded a train that'd take us to Southend Station.

This train was unlike normal London trains in that it was more like a real passenger train for taking long trips. Instead of tapping in and out of our stops with Oyster, we had to buy paper tickets. This would be the first time she got to sit comfortably next to me—softly drifting off to sleep for the forty-minute journey. Unlike the cushioned benches of the underground, these trains had comfortable theater-style armchairs; and she'd warned me about the seats that sat forward, opposite the direction of motion. Curious as she fell asleep, I stood and turned so that I was looking in the opposite direction the train was moving.

Of course, she was right—and I stumbled back to my seat confused and dizzy. I tried to sit down quietly so I wouldn't disturb her, but she'd noticed and mumbled through closed eyelids in a sort-of arrogant way, "I told you."

I couldn't help but laugh at myself as I thought of the other people who'd just watched the scene unfold. But as I looked, everyone seemed to have their attention trained on the paper or device in front of them.

"Umm," she said, staring out the window at a boat that seemed left in the middle of a muddy field. "Where's the water?"

We'd been traveling for a good thirty minutes, and surely by now the sea would show itself. I noticed too, and I wondered what'd happened as one boat in the mud became ten. It was as if an entire group of people had helicoptered their boats to land. Barges, fishing boats, canoes, jon boats, and small passenger ships now lay lonely in the vacant fields.

"That's funny," I smirked, "I'm pretty sure boats are supposed to sit on the water." I became more serious as I offered a suggestion, "Maybe the water is down for the year or something." It seemed reasonable, as the lake I visited was often high or low based on the amount of water the Corps of Engineers allowed in it.

Laughing at my ignorance, she told me, "Ben, it's low tide. The water won't be up for a while, but we should probably know when the water comes. So, I'll look that up now."

Duh! How stupid had I been to think we were going to one of the rivers or lakes I was so used to visiting back in Kentucky? This was the Atlantic Ocean.

"I smell water Ben," she'd said as we stepped across the gap between the doors and the platform. (She'd used the phrase many times during the trip, but never had I questioned what she meant.)

"Oh, really now? Is that a trait you Brits have picked up over years of having your noses in the air?" I facetiously said as she played, sticking her nose up in the air.

The station was at the tip of the small beach town—and getting to the beach required walking past the small mall and several street-side shops. It looked like any other American beach town, only the shops were called different names and the different ethnicities of people made me unsure of what country we were in. I could see in her eyes that this was something special to her; a location lost in time she was choosing to relive with me. The children running around hinted that she was clinging onto nostalgia's thoughtful hand, and I knew there was something. I was waiting patiently, and then it came.

"You know, at the end of primary school years we'd all take a trip here," she said as she pointed to the small theme park and arcade lining the beach strip. "This was the place to be. And I even came back once to do a paper in physics on one of the rides we'll see in a minute."

Walking past the store fronts decorated with ocean souvenirs, we'd at last spotted the ocean. Approaching the sand though, we saw we hadn't given the sea enough time and that the water wasn't high enough to wade out in. After consulting the web, we decided that with the hour-and-a-half wait we'd shop around, rekindling the memories that'd been made.

The small theme-park, aptly named Adventure Island, stood on the edge of the sea. Its yellow letters were outlined in baby blue as they hung over the opened gate that led to the park. The park was free to walk through, and it was obvious how she wanted me to love this place.

"Oh Ben! Isn't that cute?" she'd ask, only to shriek moments after, "Oh my gosh! I completely forgot about that!"

"Yeah, all of this is great," I laughed. "This seems like a fun place."

"If you'd have asked me four months ago if I thought you'd ever see this place, I'd have laughed so hard," she confessed.

"And I'd have said anyone willing to do such a thing was crazy," I reflected.

Pointing at a rollercoaster (that could've been no more than twenty-five feet tall) she excitedly said to me, "That ride right there is proper scary! So, you go up and up, and then you're thrown down at a ninety-degree angle."

We moved across the street where the theme park stood to an arcade, and she laughed as she saw a certain coin machine game. The object of the game was to insert the two, five, or ten pence coin at the right time and cause the collage of coins at the tip of a metal platform to fall. Only after perfect placement could the coins fall over the edge, resulting in a more-rewarding investment. The amount of games was endless likewise the money you could spend; and we'd spent time discussing the worth of our time.

"Now, what should we spend here Ben? We need enough to have a shot at winning, but we can't spend enough to make people around us think we're hardcore gamblers," she reasoned.

Handing her four single-pound coins from my pocket— "This should probably be good, and if you have a few pounds in your pocket that'd help as well." Converting the four quid I'd given her (along with a two-pound piece she found in her purse) to twenty pence coins, we made our way to the claw machines outside the arcade.

Giving the moose from the Disney movie Frozen an evil grin, she told me, "Watch as I give that moose a real reason to smile."

After taking turns and watching the Elsa or Olaf dolls slip from the claw's grasp each time, I tried to reassure her, "Hey, chin up. We'll get one—one way or another." And she did in due time.

Turning from the machines back to the sea, the water had finally showed itself. Walking back across the busy street, we slipped off our shoes and stepped onto the less-than-smoldering sand. The beach was crowded and the beach chairs all taken.

"Ben, I want to walk in the water... Will you come with me as I dip my feet in?"

"Of course! You don't have to ask my permission. You grab me and lead me to the water, right?"

"That sounds violent, and in this country we don't let our people have guns. Violence isn't really our thing."

I wasn't going to argue with this playful foreplay, so I grabbed her hand and led her to the water. As we got close however, the mud seemed to encase her ankles much sooner than the water did tickle her toes, and it was decided that from the pier beside us we'd admire the view. This idea was fine with me—as I wasn't fond of washing our feet of mud. Admittedly, I knew what it was like to walk barefoot through a muddy pond or creek bed.

She enjoyed making fun of her own people. "Ben, look at what people around here do with a tiny bit of sunshine. Everyone goes mad."

"I mean hey, if you didn't get cold weather lots, I'm sure you'd want snow as well."

She almost skipped across the road as we made our way back, and her smile now stretched from ear to ear as she grabbed my hand to hold onto. We drew closer to the edge of the pier, and the true beauty of the water had finally shown itself. For the first time, it seemed the sun had finally introduced itself to the London waters.

The sky was as open as it had been, and the few clouds lay flat as if they'd been rolled into permanent place. She was wearing black leggings and the prettiest green top—so perfect for the occasion. The autumn I knew was coming was offset by the scene of summer upon us. Skirts would turn into jeans; the sun would seasonally set; and dreams would once again turn into plane tickets.

Side-by-side we admired the view from the pier, staring out at the water. The world around us was moving quickly, but we hadn't noticed. Children rode rides at the theme park while teens, in love with their new beach crushes, walked hand-in-hand across the beach. But for us, we were trapped; standing there staring out at the ocean. We were caught looking out, but from this pier we spotted a quiet tower overlooking the small town. This way, she said, she'd be able to get prettier pictures for my album.

Making our way up the stairs, in a thoughtful voice she let out, "Ben, why couldn't you have lived over there?"—pointing to a small island in the distance (which was actually England itself)— "Instead, you're over there,"—pointing to the stretch of ocean that made its way to more nothingness and everythingness.

Grabbing her waist and turning her towards me, I was silent. We'd reached the top of the tower, and the scene was incredible. Neither a wise word nor a thoughtful tone came from me as I closed my eyes and tried to understand what was happening in that moment.

Smiling as I let my cheek rub against hers, I let out a sigh. While I knew this moment seemed trapped in time like all others, I was saddened that no one can escape time's infinite grasp. We'd done it though—we'd temporarily beaten it. I was proud to even know her in this sense, and she was dependent on me to call her mine. Everyone dies in a different way.

Gently and softly and slowly I introduced my lips to her cheek, and pulled back to let her know, "I can't stay forever right now. But I will be here forever. Maybe later on, but only time will tell."

"I know," she sadly smiled back, "but it would be nice if you could."

"It's okay," I grinned. "Four months ago, you were just beginning to catfish me, so imagine how fast time will fly. Look at where we're standing right now, and look at how much we've accomplished on our own."

"Yeah, that's true. I guess it is time I start acknowledging how much we've done. It could be worse, you know? We could be broke sixteen-year-olds with no way to accomplish this."

Smiling as if she didn't realize what was going on, she let me know we were soon to miss the train, "Ben, it's half four. We should probably get going if we're meant to catch the train."

"That sounds like a plan."

Stepping across the gap from the train's automatic doors and the platform, I knew this time I'd sit in the right direction. She'd once again dozed off to relax; and I sat calmly as I took in the British seaside. We were coming to pass a small village of sorts, and my British mate suddenly woke and startled me as she began talking.

"That village over there is Grays. My nanny lives just past those houses right there."

There was a purple bus stopped at the town's station, and it seemed there was a culture that wasn't London's. We'd stopped to let other passengers on the train. Just as we were taking in the scene, the train took off once again. That night, I knew we'd stop at her work as I'd asked. But this time, a friendly surprise I wasn't ready for waited as I ordered our food and she found a table. Reaching my turn in line, I placed our order and had turned around to walk back to the table as I was asked, "Are you with her?"

I turned towards the counter to look at the person who'd just taken my order. The girl seemed familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Her pretty voice had a British sound to it, but somehow her Nigerian heritage had intermingled itself in this music.

"Yeah," I replied. "How come?"

"Tell her when she gets the chance that I'd like to see her," the girl from behind the cash register said in an open and jealous way.

"Of course," I laughed.

Sitting down with our food, I asked her about what'd just happened. It was her friend who'd she helped get a job, and I knew the human behavior that'd taken place.

"Oh, that's Amaa," she chuckled. "I didn't think she'd be working tonight, so I thought it was safe—but apparently not."

"Safe?" I questioned, smiling.

"Yeah, like I thought it might be awkward to have my friends meet you, but I don't know," she said through an abashed grin. "I tried to set up a date, but they all bailed."

Lucky for us, Amaa had just finished her shift and surprised the red-headed beauty as she grabbed her shoulders from behind, asking her why she hadn't mentioned me. Amaa took a seat next to her and began her dialogue.

"I didn't know he was coming this week!" Amaa complained. "You didn't tell me!"

"Well, he's here," the English girl nervously laughed.

"Yeah, he's here right in front of me; I can see that..." Amma retorted. Turning her attention to me now— "So...,"

She then asked a barrage of questions ranging from "How do you like London?" to, "What's it like living in the U.S.?" From her quick questions to her absorbed stare, Amaa was curious about me in every way. Getting further into our conversation, Amaa came to tell me that she'd been all over the world. She was from a wealthier family, which made her surprisingly extensive knowledge of how the U.S. does things not-so-surprising after all.

She even asked if I owned any guns. Naturally, I gave her the honest answer, but felt like any other American would've answered, "No, only rednecks own those." The truth was that my house hid ten-to-fifteen firearms on any given year, and the other weapons found in closets and on desks ranged from my brothers' crossbows to the knives found all around the home.

As Amaa was called to have her register counted for the night, we made our final bits of small talk. I took the trash from the table and put it in the bin before returning to the table to escort her through the door. At this point, I could find my way to the hostel.

"Ben, text me as soon as you get in, okay?" she halfway begged. "If you want me to go with you, I can. We have plenty of time."

"It's okay," I winked at her. "That's more money you don't need to spend, and you've been a great tour guide—so I think I've got this one. You've taught me everything I'd ever need to know."

"Promise you'll text me though, yeah?"

"I promise," I said, wrapping my arms around her. "Who else is gonna text me? It's like four o' clock at home. Everyone's busy doing something."

"Okay."

"Are you free tomorrow?" I slyly threw her way.

"Hmm... I guess I can clear up some time for you. Same time and place?" she winked as she made her right hand into a gun and pointed it at me. We'd made it to the train station where I'd board a train heading one way, and she'd board another taking her the other.

"Then it's a date. Bye pretty girl."
Chapter Eight

My feet were hurting. We'd covered thirty-to-forty miles of walking, and the pavement was catching up with the soles of my shoes and my feet alike.

"I've got something special for today," she'd told me.

"Just as any other, right?" I smiled.

Boarding the train, I noticed that this "special something" was indeed a way away from the London I'd known. I was surprised that we were in for another Southend sort-of day; and was happy that the weather had once again chosen to be so nice.

"You know those pictures I was showing you of the arches and the vines?" she'd asked. "We're going to visit those today, and I hope you're ready for another train journey—because Hampstead is quite a ride."

The pergolas she was referring to were these Greco-looking arches that made up a type-of vineyard she'd become so fond of. On a trip here with her friends, she'd sent me pictures of the gardens. What was special though, was the underlying message of what it meant to be visiting this place. I remembered the line, "Maybe I'll finally get my kiss here", and realized that today would be the day of all days.

Getting off the train, I noticed that this small town was quiet and quaint as was Grays; and the stillness surrounding the station made for the most ideal setting. I felt like I'd stumbled on a scene drawn up by J. R. R. Tolkien, and the shires were calling out for picnickers. For once I felt at home, and it was almost like the people who lived here were anomalies of would-be Kentucky residents. These people lived in smaller houses and—although there wasn't a single rusty pickup to be found—somehow, I was back. This was the perfect place for the perfect moment.

Taking her hand now and walking across the paths, I noticed a pond that'd been roped off for swimmers to dive into. They swam opposite us on our dirt path, and I can't say I would've found the courage to dive in the water while it was fifty degrees out.

"See," I looked at her, "I'm not the only person crazy enough to jump in water I can't see my feet in."

"And watch as an alligator swallows one of them whole," she said as she bobbed her head up.

"Don't grab that!" I burst as she went to grab a vine of poison ivy. We were stepping into an enclave of trees, and I noticed the lack of caution she displayed.

"Why? What's wrong?" she said startled.

"Well, right now nothing, but after grabbing that vine...give it a few minutes and you'll know what's wrong," I snickered.

"How would you even know what that is?"

"Well, there're some pluses to choosing a pen pal who lives in the middle of nowhere, right? We're still learning how to build houses where I live. The least we could do is learn about the plants we can and can't eat," I joked.

"Well okay, if you say so. But I don't know if I believe you Ben," she said as she cast me a suspicious look.

"Your 'reaction'," I laughed to myself.

Coming out of the undergrowth, we came to a grassy opening with a single wooden bench. We'd been walking for twenty minutes, so I'd suggested we take a break from the trek. (After all, we'd been walking uphill for almost a mile now). I remember looking at her and realized that in a short period of time I'd attempt to do what she'd consented to me many months before over some text message.

She looked beautiful. The black shirt she wore was highlighted by the golden chain hanging around her neck. I likewise noticed that the skirt she'd chosen to wear was shorter than it had been the days prior; only deeper catching my attention as she moved her legs in front of me. I was thinking about it too much now; the gravity of the moment now pulling me towards her. Just as I began to make my descent, the barks of several dogs had stolen back our attention.

"What the hell?" she laughed as the random dogs ran past us. "Where did those come from?"

Following shortly behind these unleashed dogs were their owners, who paced themselves as they tried to keep up. In this world it seemed I'd never get my chance; at least not for the next hour. Even in these lonely areas there seemed to be someone lingering. After our short rest, we continued our trek until we reached a small but busy road at the end of a tree-free opening. Two lane traffic drove around a small roundabout in front of a red-bricked building. As we crossed the road, she pointed to a small, stone marker and laughed.

"My friends and I were messing around with this stone, right? And my friend Ahmad was jumping on it and standing on it—and only after he'd accidentally knocked it over did we notice that it had writing on it. It was well weird, right? At first, we thought it was some random rock—but no Ben! This thing is a gravestone of some sort!"

"So, when I head back to the states and hear of the possessed London girl on the news, I'll know exactly what she'd done to upset the spirit world. Is that what you're getting at?" I joked.

"Exactly Ben," she happily rolled her eyes. "Maybe you'll get back to the states and be the one who's possessed."

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt it," I admitted, "... but how far away are we again?"

"Okay listen yeah, we're almost there now. But the entrance is kind-of like the gate to someone's garden."

We'd entered the park through an opened gate. Next to the gate was a sign showing the park's hours of operation. A path led to a bricked silo of sorts, whose hollowed-out inside was marked by spiraling steps. These steps then led to an open-and-columned walk.

I felt like I'd been cast into Medieval Europe, and the stones on which we towered above others seemed to elevate our place in society. There was no culture in our kingdom though; no separation of the rich and the poor, or of one race and another. While we were no more than fifteen feet above the public, it was still as if we were looking out at peasants; as if we had a divinity they'd yet to—but had the potential to—realize.

"See, this is nice, isn't it?" she asked, pointing to the vines that wove around the tall, marble columns. The wooden arches added to this sense of timelessness.

"This is something I wouldn't find back in Kentucky," I regretfully said. "This is cool though. Like I wish I had this at my house...all alone,"—I added, hearing the playful shouts of children below.

A small breeze now blew its chilly breath on our necks, and I offered her my jacket as we walked down another spiral set of stairs. This set of steps grounded us, bringing us to a small reflecting pond centered in the garden. In the pond, we could see the tower from where we'd just come. Instead of walking by her side this time though, I ran ahead of her intending to begin a game of hide-and-seek. I'd made it down the stairs much faster than she had and hid behind the red wall enclosing the stairway.

"Ben," she called from afar, "come on. Where are you? I can't see you, but I know you're here."

She called once more, then fell silent as she continued her own journey. I realized she wasn't going to spend our time looking for me, so I caught back up with her—only to be met with the condemnation one might expect from an owner looking down on a dog.

"I was just tying my shoe, 'wink-wink'," I told her.

"I bet. And those are called trainers."

"Are they though?" I asked sarcastically.

"Well, since you're here—yes."

Passing the reflecting pond, I pointed out a bench atop a small knoll. Atop this hill were two smaller trees, in full bloom as they breathed in their final breaths in the heat of summer.

Nodding to one of the trees as we sat, she began, "Ben, do you think you could climb that? I think I'd try, but I'm probably too heavy—so I can't."

"Heavy?" I'd happily smirked. "If you were really heavy, I wouldn't be able to do this."

Picking her up from the park bench and tucking her knees above my arm, while supporting her head with my other, I carried her to the open space. Her grip continued to tighten, afraid that I might drop her. But for such a light person, this would be easy. I spun in place for a few moments until I began to feel dizzy.

Dropping her legs to the ground, I said to her, "If you were heavy, I probably wouldn't have been able to do that."

"I must be in heaven," she laughed, trying to come back. "That was good fun, you know?"

"Yeah, I've been too," I smiled.

She was in a state of euphoria I'd taken from her by crashing her legs back to earth. "But you still haven't answered me. Do you think you could climb that tree?"

"Of course," I almost mocked. This wasn't a new experience for me by any means, and in a few minutes time I was at the top, looking down at her from above.

"How'd you get up there?!" she questioned with an astonished look. "Come down and show me how to! Pleaseee Ben!"

"Ha, you come up here! Grab the first branch; then the next; and slowly but surely you're standing face to face with me."

Trying to climb atop, she realized that the skirt she'd worn wasn't meant for outdoor activities and begged me to come down. I willingly jumped from my ledge to get on her level to get even higher. Sitting in the silence with her, I noticed what a beautiful day it'd been. I watched her smile as she let the sun lick her neck, looking up and closing her eyes as she did so. Her skin looked so soft; and it was all I could do but stare into those emerald eyes. I was dying to live.

"You know," she brought up, "the day my friend kissed me was on a day like today."

"Oh really?" I tried remembering.

"All over a bag of crisps and a dare," she added.

Feeling the jealousy leave me, now realizing that this had been the moment begging for attention, I mustered the courage to ask, "Did it go something like this?"

Drawing closer to her, I noticed something new about her posture. She'd been sitting upright, but now sat comfortably as if she knew what was to come. Glancing at her face, I noticed that her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and steady. I took my lips and buried them beneath the luscious hair and her pierced ear, letting them guide me across a small portion of her body. As I drew back and forth, I could hear her breathing deepen—only giving me the courage I needed to keep going. I came to her shirt collar and then her lower chin, slowly breathing on her skin as I felt the nervousness dissipate.

I glanced her bottom lip and realized that this wasn't the time for shortcomings. I married her lips to mine in the late summer day slowly but strongly; only for a moment as I realized we were in public. Drawing away and opening my eyes, I was allowed for the first time to look into her soul without the slight disapproval of her untrusting eyes. She glanced back at me smiling—if for a few seconds to then turn and look away with the happiest diffidence. I'd paid my dues to her heart, and the window was now mine to glance into. Gorgeousness was in her personality and attractiveness in her body; but the beauty I experienced holy was found within her soul only.

We were still teenagers, caught up in the world of being in love with someone for the first time. I realized that what was mine in that moment was only ephemeral, and that soon this ode "To Autumn" would be the proper poem for the inevitable end we all must face. Noting that she hadn't come to the same conclusion as I, I took her in my arms and picked her up—only to sit her in my lap and smile at her.

"Oops," she laughed. "This is about to be interesting as long as I don't squash you."

"I thought I proved that for you a few minutes ago?"

"Oh...Guess I forgot, and you'll have to show me again," she winked.

"You're something else."

I couldn't resist the impulse to kiss her cheek as she laughed and told me we were in a public park.

"Think about the children!" she'd joked.

"Let's teach them a lesson or two about how 'best friends' should be treated then," I seductively kidded as I kissed her again.

"Aw, how romantic," she let out as she wrapped her arms around me. "But Ben, you're starting to pull up my skirt."

It was a lovely sight, and I regretted having to help her fold her clothes back into place. She looked at me intently, shifting her weight so that she was tucked in my lap. Only her legs hung out, free to kick back and forth as they pleased. She looked at me and smiled, grinning before she quickly moved to kiss me on the cheek.

"Alright princess," I smiled back as the moment slowly faded away; mirroring the perfection that'd done something similar of the sort. "Let's go get something to eat."

"Aw, but Bennn."

"We've got what, like three more days left? Let's make the most of 'em. Come on pretty girl, let's get out of this place."

"Wait," she interrupted as she grabbed my hand to pull herself from the grass. "This is definitely a picture worthy scene." Taking her phone from her purse and capturing the view, she let a grin cover her face as she let me know, "Okay yeah, let's go."

We strode back down the path, and I was growing unnerved as I noticed I needed the restroom.

"Um, so," I awkwardly began, "is it a crime to use the bathroom in a park here? Like at home I could just go anywhere if I was outside... so?"

"Just find a spot in the bushes or something," she helped, finding humor in my displeasure. "Like, who's going to catch you, you know?"

"Well, based on the number of people we've seen," I began to mouth.

"Just go," she offered me. "Stop taking the piss out of me and work on it yourself."

I did as she'd instructed—laughing at her British humor—and met with her again to continue our way back to the station.

"You're not going to want to hold my hand now, are you?" I smiled.

"Well no, but girls do dirtier things with them in their mouths than you've done with it in your hands, so I don't think it'd be all that bad, isn't it?"

"You're a 'proper' mess," I attempted in my British accent.

She took the statement as a compliment and noted the black birds that stood around us as we reconnected with the swimming hole. The swimmers were gone, and the pond lay still.

"Magpies!" she excitedly said.

"And...?"

"Well, each time you see them, you see them in groups, right? And the different numbers mean different things. Like one means sorrow; two means joy; three for a girl; four for a boy; ... and like that."

I couldn't help but notice a clever rhyme scheme hidden behind the words. As I counted, I asked, "Wait, so what does three mean again?"

"Girl."

Unsure of the symbolism, I couldn't help but feel there was one bird too many. This had been the moment I thought it was, hadn't it? Maybe it wasn't about the birds. Maybe it wasn't important how far they flew from place-to-place in search of whatever they were flying for. Maybe, in the soul of what they were, it was really about the thing they were searching for.

The girl the birds spoke of was tired from her walking and excited for Tesco. Tapping into the station again, she sat close to me on the bench, laying her head on my shoulder.

"You know, that was really nice. Thank you."

I couldn't ground my pleasure. "I should be thanking you. I hope it was what you wished it would be."

"It was," she smiled as she brushed the hair out of her eyes. "And the only thing that could make this day any better is a sandwich meal deal."

After this less-than-eventful day, we'd decided to picnic in St. James Park with the meal deals we'd picked up from Tesco. Offering her my jacket as a mat to sit the food on, everything was just as it'd been before; lots of tourists, and the shade of the trees protecting us from the sun. Not long after we'd sat down, we noticed something strange.

This time things were quieter where we sat. While this normally wouldn't have seemed out of place, it made for an interesting topic—as the park was crammed with thousands of tourists. In searching for our answer, it instead chose to come running at us. There was a kid (who could've been no older than fourteen or fifteen) panting around, all the while missing his shirt. The missing shirt however, wasn't what caught our attention. It was instead the obnoxious noises he'd been screaming and the parents who were nowhere to be found. As well, we couldn't spot any other children that might call him their friend.

While he ran around, I noticed the discomfort with which she sat. Timid and quiet, she ate her sandwich as the child continued to run. He was getting closer now, and with every closing step her face became sterner. Finally, he was at our feet, lying on his stomach with his head situated between her legs and mine. We'd been sitting crisscrossed apart from one another, with my jacket in between, and now this terrible teenager lay in our way. His long, dark hair was thrown about his face in a mangled manner, and his movements were quick as if he'd been caffeinated for life. She was obviously unsure about what to do, shooting me helpless looks while he began to rant.

"Oh wow, is that food?! Did you guys buy me anything that I could have?! Wow! Is that a grape?! May I have a grape?!" he asked as he reached for a grape.

Being so close, I couldn't help but notice our newfound friend was caked in dried mud. His face was smeared in it, and it looked like he'd dipped himself into the pond for a drink.

I handed the teen a grape as a middle-aged British lady called out from behind us, "Alright, leave the couple alone. They're trying to enjoy a meal together."

Directing her words to the British royalty and myself, the polite lady told us, "I've called the ambulance. I'm so sorry, and I don't quite know where his parents are. Timmy, come along now."

"Oh, it's fine," I let her know. "He's not hurting anyone."

The kid seemed disturbed by being called the wrong name, and stood up shouting, "My name's not Timmy!"

By the time he'd gotten his last question out, he was up and moving again, circling St. James aggravating tourists and nationals alike. She seemed troubled and began to pack up our things as I indicated that the shade was much cooler in the corner of the park. From a distance now, we watched as he ran around, losing his trousers to gravity's grip. At one point, he took a bottle of some unknown liquid and tilted it upside down as he held it to his lips.

"Ben, I am so sorry about that! He's one of those... what do you call them? Feral kids. That's not the image I want you to be left with. I promise that doesn't happen normally," she joked. "Oh look! Here they are to take Blaze from us," she pointed as several police cars drove by.

"Blaze?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know— 'blaze' as in what you do after lighting up."

I laughed as I realized what she was getting at and pulled her tight as I let my arms swing around her.

"It is kind-of chilly," she shivered as I took off my jacket to offer her.

"Yeah, it's kind-of cold I guess. But then again, it could be worse and really hot."

"Shh... stop talking and come get warm with me," she pleaded.

I took the jacket and positioned it so that it covered our heads and stomachs. Only our legs could've been showing and—unafraid of what the public might suspect—I began to kiss her as I'd been invited to do hours before. It was the best we had at the time, and we took the simple pleasure as if it was the only thing possible.

A slight breeze began to stir, and slowly the jacket was pulled off us. We smiled and laughed, thankful we had the opportunity. The story goes that settlers from Spain and the rest of Europe brought diseases to the New World. To represent those afflicted, I now brought the germs back. I was the foreigner now, and in this place and time I was the potential threat. But for some reason, she took it and openly embraced it, even though she knew the end to which it led.

She was unafraid of the future. Whether it was because she chose not to think of it or because she simply wasn't concerned, I didn't know. She was caught up in the moment and never fell victim to the idea that I'd shortly be boarding a plane that would take me thousands of miles away from her. Soon, she'd be imprisoned by her thoughts again, and the mental image she'd use to create me would come from the personal experiences we'd had together. The silence shared in small moments wouldn't carry the same meaning over the phone, and she was running out of images left to choose from.

As we made our walk across the river that evening, she was particularly chipper. Above one of the many pubs was a large birdcage with the skeleton of a human trapped inside, and she made it a point to remark, "I should send this to your mom with a message that says, 'I'm sorry Karen, but your son wasn't the person I expected. So, here he is,'."

"I'd do it, but I can guarantee you won't. Here," I said as I began to take the picture, "if I take the picture, you have to write the message."

"Umm, how about no," she said as we hobbled across the cobblestone street. She'd never been a fan of drinking but was intoxicated on something else her lips had tasted.

We made it to our spot and sat down as we had every night before. Only this time was different. Instead of conversing, we sat there in silence as I pulled her into my lap, thinking about the world to come and the moments that were fading away.

"You know, I don't want to go back," I said as I broke the silence.

"We all have to do things we don't want to, and we've still got a few days left, yeah?" she replied. "It's going to happen whether we want it to or not, so it's pointless to get upset about it right now, yeah?"

"I guess so. But it's not fair, you know? You're given the opportunity of a lifetime and you get to see what it is you want in life—and then it's ripped away from you. I worked my ass off to be sitting with you tonight. Before getting to take you on a date, I had to talk to you on the phone for four months."

"Hey, it could be worse," she chided. "I could be from Australia or something."

"I guess that's true. Thank God that's not the case, because I had enough trouble trying to learn this language," I said as I looked at her with a sly grin across my face.

"I thought you said my accent was sexy," she sarcastically responded.

"Only when it's a whisper," I seductively whispered in her ear.

Laughing to herself, she let her walls fall as she began to once again take in the silence that surrounded us. For the darkness London knew, it was obvious that darkness alone wouldn't be enough to take down this city's spirit. But there was communication; and for that there would likewise be that spark of light.
Chapter Nine

Making "the walk" one morning, we'd decided to visit London Aquarium. Waiting in line, we were both growing antsy; so the more joking sides of our natures seemed to bare themselves. She began to hum the theme song to the movie Jaws as I tried pronouncing the word "Anemone" in my best Finding Nemo voice.

As the laughter between us died down and we reached the till, we ventured inside for what would become her first encounter with the "Pir-annaas" she'd been mouthing over in line. Moving from exhibit to exhibit, she wasn't short a joke at any part. From the alligators we found in the Florida exhibit to the penguins at the Alaskan enclosure, she found a way to incorporate some sense of an American joke at every turn. We were traveling the world in her mind; moving from the freezing Antarctic to the tropical Bahamas. Soon, she'd be making her own journey.

One thing she seemed to appreciate was taking pictures of the two of us at any given tank—be it the "Amazon Fishes", or the "Wanderers of the Deep". After snapping our picture, she'd verbally attach a cute tag line like, "Just got back from Brazil", or "Spending time in the Bahamas, no big deal". Traveling the world was a door to something new in her mind. It was as important to me as it was to her, as I'd seen firsthand the new knowing of such adventures.

After hearing me laugh, she questioned, "We can dream, right? We're poor Uni students. Come on Ben!"

"True. But even if we weren't, I feel like we could still work to get to where we're going."

The place was unsurprisingly packed, and we had only moments to spend at each exhibit before moving on. We came to an open tank made from brown rock and realized that we could touch the creatures inside.

"Ohhhh!" she smiled. "Okay, you take a picture of me touching it, and then I'll take a picture of you touching it." The starfish we ran our fingers over didn't seem to mind the different hands grabbing at it.

"Ben, what if we'd chosen to wear like shark-fin soup or dolphin-fin enthusiast t-shirts today?" she'd questioned after seeing a "Be Green" advertisement.

Continuing the conversation, she sarcastically told me that I needed to do my part and stop driving. It was my fault—she reasoned—that the ice caps were melting.

"Okay," I smirked.

"But really, we're always hearing about the fish that've been murdered at sea," she said. "Slaughter in the water!"

"Oh, there is no way...," I got out before going silent.

Coming around the corner, we were faced with a large sign that read, "Another shark has just been slaughtered at sea."

"B-Ben," she attempted to get out through a snorted laugh, "You know what to do."

Giving my best shrug and "Uh-oh" face as she snapped the camera, she couldn't help but let out a loud laugh, and several guests caught us in our facetiousness.

"We are actually going to hell, you know that?" she asked.

"Eh, maybe. Guess we'll finally get to meet the 'slaughterers of the sea' in that case," I smirked.

"Ew man, you're actually terrible!"

"Right?" I proudly let it be known. "Your kind of terrible though, right?"

"Yeah, I guess I'll have you," she consented.

From the sign, we strode to an open walkway with glass walls that were perched above an apparent abyss of water below. Behind these walls were schools of sharks and other fish. Rushing to the glass like small children, we couldn't help but be amazed. Inside the tank was a giant stone in the form of an ancient head, and on closer examination I realized I'd seen the figure a thousand times before. It was an Easter Island stone, and it looked to be all too real with the schools of sharks circling it.

"Oh, oh!" she excitedly started as a large tiger shark headed our way. "How would you like to be bitten by one of those things Ben?"

I lost track counting its teeth, and suddenly I felt sorry for all the surfers who'd had poor run-ins with these salt-water sharks.

"I think I'd shoot myself before it could happen to be honest," I replied.

But it was beautiful. While I would've never chosen to swim with one of these beasts, their many features made them so inspiring. I could've sat at the glass window for hours, and her likewise. Beauty was everywhere in this tank—though many could choose not to see it.

Another tank sat opposite this one, and other sea creatures made themselves a show as they swam from place to place. I couldn't help but wonder how biologically distant these creatures and ourselves were. Did the swimming schools ever look out and notice the other aquariums? Or were they caught up in the dream that those tanks were a reflection of their own?

The last exhibit was that of the penguins; and hidden behind the screeching cries and the awkward smell were these flopping birds. Once again, London-famous pink highlighted the Antarctic décor and the penguins' yellow crowns.

"You know, I don't think that was worth the money," she lamented as we came back to the streets. "We should've gone with the play at the arcade. Surely, we could've won one of those stupid dolls."

"I guess we'll never know," I said with intentions of buying her a doll as a Christmas gift. Silence ensued for a few minutes, and then she let me know how we were to spend the final hours of this third-to-last day.

"There's one more stop I wanted to show you, okay? It's quiet and neat, so I think you'll like it."

Coming out of Camden Town station, her goal was to show me a hillside she'd admired for years. The houses in Camden Town were neatly aligned and had large-stone walls that guarded their entrances. The stones weren't the simple grey walls in any East Ham inlet. Rather, these were painted to match the color of the house they stood in front of, and the sea of whites and greens and even yellows now defended the million-pound homes.

"This is a really nice neighborhood," I'd remarked. "I wouldn't mind living here at all."

"Yeah, but could you?" she asked. "I mean the cars and houses are all nice and close to Regent's Park—but listen."

I stood there wondering what she was talking about, and then it hit me. It was like Kensington and Chelsea—only a little more obvious. There were no children playing; no adults on their way to or from work; and no teens preparing to go out. The car that rarely passed us as we walked the sidewalk was an indication that this eerie place was stuck in time, just like the other wealthy neighborhoods.

"This is weird," I consented. "It's a beautiful neighborhood, but where are all the people?"

"The apocalypse happened around here Ben," she kidded.

"No wonder it's so quiet though; because no one can afford to live here," I analyzed. "Which really isn't fair if you think about it, because this wouldn't be an expensive house in most of America. Most of these houses are what, maybe two thousand to twenty-five-hundred square feet?"

"Ben, you know I have no clue what that means. Oh, there it is!" she said as she signaled to a hill that rose above the rest of the area around it. "Primrose Hill."

We were nearing the start of the hill when we spotted two teens hidden behind bushes. Unfortunately, they thought their kisses were masked behind the jungle of leaves. To their unknowing surprise, she spotted them and winked at me, saying, "Hmm, I wonder who that's supposed to remind you of."

"My girlfriend back home," I laughed.

Shooting me an evil look, she kiddingly warned, "I will kill you Ben... Well, I bet her accent isn't as pretty as mine."

"No," I let go with my face drooping. "No one will ever beat yours, that's for sure."

She smiled arrogantly, knowing that she had something I could've never found in America, trapped in the melody of broken-southern accents and mispronounced words.

"Oh my days! I don't think I can make it," she cried as we came close to the peak. "We've been walking way too much, don't you think? Like my feet proper hurt. Besides, look at all those people."

I looked towards the top of the hill and agreed; there were too many people at the park today. I noticed a shaded tree along the edge of the park and took her hand as we walked. While the weather was neither hot nor cold, the shade was enough to keep the sun out of our faces. She happily consented to lying down, perched in our world beneath this oak tree. As we lay curled up together, she made a comment about the state of her hair.

"Ben, this is a mess," she snickered. "Time to brush it."

Interrupting our moment, she took from her purse a thin, purple brush and began to run its plastic teeth through her thick hair. Sitting up, I eagerly asked if could help.

"Yeah, but promise to be gentle," she pleaded.

"I promise," I swore. "...You know I can braid hair, believe it or not?"

Turning her head to look at my abashed grin, I could note the doubt she had in her tone as she questioned me.

"Really?"

"Yeah. My cousin Candice taught me to after I made her basically," I beamed, somewhat ashamed, remembering the day I'd made my cousin do something she thought was a bit weird. We'd sat in the basement of my grandma's house for an hour so she could teach me the art.

"Okay then superstar, let's see."

Taking her hair in my hands, I proceeded to break apart the carmine strands into three separate groups, interweaving one strand over the other and repeating the process until I'd finished.

"Ah," she said surprised as she examined her hair. "Well done! I didn't think you could actually do it."

As she took the hair band from the end of the braid, she thought to tell me how cool it was that I could plait hair.

"I mean, say I have a little girl, right? Who's gonna do it if her mom doesn't?" I'd explained.

"That's something you've been trained to say, isn't it?" she smirked unfaithfully.

"Works on every single one," I coaxed.

It wouldn't be forever; but in that moment, it lasted an eternity. Looking out, we could see the skyline. It was a dying summer's day, trapped in a moment forever. I felt I could be something more in that moment, and I'm sure she felt the same. I could feel a future but eyed the near end. For once, I didn't think I was invincible; I knew I was. We were an indestructible force in ideality—but prone to reality just as anyone else.

While we lay watching, she told me of the plans she'd constructed for the New Year. To watch the barrage of fireworks, her and a friend planned to come here and watch as colors of every kind painted the black canvas of the midnight hour.

"Ben," she said sadly, "I would like us to be together on New Year's. Might finally get that New Year's kiss, right?"

"In time," I told her. "I've got time off. You've got time off. We'll just have to plan accordingly, right?"

"I guess so."

"Hmm," I said, trying to shift her attention to something more positive, "let's play a game, okay?"

"What kind of game?"

"Test me on these buildings and what they're called."

She was eager to see how much I'd been paying attention. "Okay, so if you can get five out of seven, you win."

"And then what?"

"Well, you can have a kiss."

"This will be easy," I grinned. "I'm about to get a kiss for being here."

We began to play the game and—as she picked out different buildings—I realized that I hadn't been paying as much attention as I thought I'd been. I was close to losing, when I managed to persuade her to accept the ones I'd named correctly after hints. In all, I fell short one or two names, and I couldn't help but grieve over the fact I'd just lost a free kiss.

"Okay, but I still did pretty well, so...?" I begged. "I mean, I got London Eye, the Shard, Canary Wharf...,"

"Sorry, but rules are rules," she said stubbornly. "And besides, those were the easy ones." I used her facial cues as the support I needed to kiss her on the cheek.

"Well, you're mine. I can still show affection, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. For another two days at least," she grinned in a matter-of-fact way. "I'll just have to remember that."

"Remember everything please."

"I will... but Ben?" she asked as if she was growing uncomfortable.

"Yes, pretty thing?"

"I need to find something to drink, because I'm really thirsty," she burst.

"Yeah, okay. I guess it's routine at this point, right?" I couldn't help but laugh back.

It was winding down, and there were two more days to make London a home—but only one to make it a house-worthy setting. We'd seen Canary Wharf and visited the financial district, but what she told me was left was a trip to a more unique place. I was anxious to see what was in store for our final adventure together. Lying in bed that night, I remember wondering where all the time had gone.
Chapter Ten

We'd gotten off the train in a town that could be described as anything but retro. It reminded me of a time and place that'd since come and gone—how appropriate. The windows were painted with large gothic letters, and storefronts everywhere showcased different watches.

"This is Greenwich," she informed me. "I thought it might be fitting, and there's something quite interesting here."

The name registered with me, but for some reason I didn't make the connection early on. It sounded like the name of a town out of a movie I'd watched, but I knew that wasn't where the reference came from. I was sitting in a classroom, learning about how time zones worked. But still, I couldn't say for sure.

Today she'd been dressed as a princess brought to life by some magical force. Not even Walt Disney could've envisioned the beauty in front of me. That morning, I remember running to her. I was excited to see her but dreading what was happening. Grabbing her at the seam of her floral skirt and refusing to let go, I'd let out a saddened, "Two days... only two days left!"

"I know, I know," she'd said, patting me on the back as if she was consoling a broken child. "It'll all be alright. We've got some fun things to do today."

Her hair had been straightened, and the innocent nuances that surrounded her the days before had now been transformed into a professional adult whose beauty knew no bounds. Curiously that morning, I told her to do a little twirl—to which she promptly responded no. Though it was her own, she was still uncomfortable in her skin; and for that I couldn't fault her.

"Maybe later, okay?" she'd tried to make up with.

"I don't care either way. If I get a twirl, I'll be happy," I smirked.

I'd flown thousands of miles to see her—but somehow she was still trying for me as if she hadn't convinced me. We made our way through the town to a lookout that previewed Canary Wharf. An old British Navy piece stood at our sides, and the grey clouds looming overhead reminded me of a storm to come. The name of the ship lurking over us was Cutty Sark. From the looks of the glossy windows around it, it'd long ago been made a tourist attraction.

The last surviving tea clipper stood guarding the River Thames as the water looped around the Isle of Dogs. Not having the desire to go in, we instead took pictures standing next to the ship. After the pictures were taken and the sarcastic comments about, "Okay, now get one of us in case we do last," were made, we walked through the Old Royal Naval College grounds behind the clipper. Two Parisian-styled buildings of the college stood facing one another; mirror reflections flipped across some imaginary line at the top of the hill. We'd found the entrance of the park that led to the middle of the world and began along the path.

"Oh, bloody hell Ben! Can we do this again?" she laughed.

Because we'd earlier had a debate about the British words she used, I smiled knowing that I'd been right. "Thought you didn't use the word 'bloody'?" I asked.

"Okay, like one time," she reflected. Unfortunately for her, there'd been more than a few instances in which I'd caught her using her native slang.

Back in America, there was a spot where people could stand in four states at once. But now, that seemed small compared to standing in both parts of the world at once. Reaching the halfway point of our climb, we'd decided to sit in the middle of a wide field before making our last ascent. Dogs ran towards the college below, and the panoramic view was made up of all the buildings of Canary Wharf. The financial district was positioned so perfectly behind the college. A tall, black building with a trapezoidal top stood out amongst the rest, and I wished I could've been alone with her. It was as if I was though; like we'd been abandoned in a random place in a random moment. Glancing at her, I couldn't help but notice she didn't seem to mind. Her face was stern but open, like she was trying to remember something. A smile would bring her back, and I knew she was trying to remember time as was I.

"It's such a pretty day for it to be so overcast," I noticed.

"Yeah, cherish these days," she joked, "because they won't last for long. Soon, it'll be raining and dark like always."

"You know, I don't believe that. I've been here for two weeks and the weather has only been bad for one or two days. Every other day has been really pleasant."

"You know, it is odd," she consented. "Since you've been here, the weather has been nice, and I haven't had a headache since you've come."

This wouldn't seem odd to any other person, but to her it wasn't a coincidence. Her mum had frequent migraines, and the problem—doctors diagnosed—was genetic as well. I could expect her to have a headache at least twice a week, and not once during my stay did she complain of any mounting head pain.

"I'm in such a good mood that I don't notice it," she admitted. "Like, I think there's something behind thinking positively."

"That and you're finally out of the house all day playing tour guide and girlfriend. You don't have time for a headache," I added.

"Yeah, true. And I feel like I've done a good job, isn't it?"

"Parfait," I said with a French accent, kissing her forehead as I did so.

"Yuck. Ben, you're ruining the language man," she joked. "You should stick to the American one and Spanish. French isn't your repertoire."

"Ruining it?" I argued back. "Please. I'm making it better. How many Americans can speak French?"

"One too many apparently," she grinned.

We sat watching as the world passed us by. The sun played hide-and-seek in the clouds as they slowly drifted from one spot to another. They didn't seem to know where they were going; just that they were going somewhere—possibly to another one of time's many zones. The world sat still as the two of us sat there making small talk. We watched the people around us as they passed by and couldn't help but wonder about their situation.

The conversation that was wanted to be had wasn't. We were avoiding a topic... an issue... a lifestyle. It was some of the most meaningful time shared together, but in a worldly way the most wasted. This place was known to me all along. If by chance—if by destiny—it didn't matter. The innocence I lost as a child and the wisdom I regained through age: All of it a human spectrum. The height on which we watched the world allowed me to journey back to my past while at the same time glance the future path. We'd done it. We'd escaped time's zone to be together. We weren't sure how to react, but we were learning. Besides—it wasn't anyone else's journey. This was something we'd have to figure out for ourselves through time.

"You know, I really do like watching people," she'd brought up, picking out a few pieces of grass as she did so.

"Really? How so?"

Taking the unrooted grass and letting it fall back to the ground, she explained, "Well, I just find them so interesting. The way they act with each other. The way they act in society. Like, don't you think it's hypocritical how so many people act one way around their friends and family and then act completely different once they enter professional space?"

"Yeah, I guess it kinda is," I said, never having thought about it before. "But on a completely related note,"—I added sarcastically— "look at the color of your skin compared to the color of mine."

"I was once told a story about being pale actually," she started. "Japanese girls early on prized Europeans and thought they were so pretty because of how pale their skin was. So being white like this was actually a sign of true beauty."

"Really?" I questioned. "That's kind-of funny, because back at home it's all about being tan. People will lay out in the sun for hours and hours just so they can make their skin a little bit darker."

"Hmm, I guess beauty is in the eyes of the beholder after all," she reasoned. "But I tell you, the Asians were trying to be really pale."

"I guess so," I answered, looking into her eyes. She'd laid her head on my shoulder, and in my eyes, she was the most beautiful of them all. "Do you feel a bit funny?"

"Umm, what do you mean?" she asked through a puzzled look.

"I feel like I've been dreaming. It's an emotion I can't describe—and I know you feel the same. But, I can't tell you how I know. I feel like we're admiring the world we've built for ourselves rather than a world that's been built by others."

"Yeah...," she said with uncertainty to make sure I'd continue.

"It's just so surreal you know? You wake up one day and you're talking to a person in another country—and that's not so unimaginable. Then the next day you're meeting this person for the first time."

After a long pause, she added, "I think you're right in a way, because I'm looking at this in a strange way. None of this is real to me if that makes sense."

"Real?"

"Well I mean, you and me, right? That's something that's real to me. But Canary Wharf over there? That's not real."

I thought I understood what she meant.

"I think there's something we share that's much greater than this, but I don't have the words to explain my emotions and I don't think I ever will."

"Ben, I don't think you can explain something like this."

She was right. It'd take me a few hundred pages to describe a small sliver of this shattered mirror. It was peaceful, and the sun began to make a slight appearance as the clouds scampered out of its way. To sprawl out on this lawn for the day and do nothing but lay still with her: That's what I wanted. I could've died and would've been okay.

While we didn't make it to the top, we'd seen the monument that represented the Prime Meridian, and that was good enough for me. We'd sat atop the hill for what seemed hours, but it was time to move on. It was getting to be almost four, and we'd decided to head back to the city-city for dinner. That night we'd decided to get pizza for dinner and share it over conversation in the park. I'd come to expect nothing from our conversations, which seemed to take a turn in every direction every few minutes.

"You know, I used to work here," she remembered as she returned the perforated menu to the small podium where they were stacked.

"Work here?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied, "I had an interview and was hired, but then never showed up. So, in a way, I definitely worked here at one point, yeah?"

"I don't know. But what a shame," I sighed as I shook my head. "That eighteen-pound pizza could've cost like seventeen and a half had you still been here."

"Oh, shut up," she playfully laughed.

We had now moved across the street to sit on a park bench. She sat criss-crossed with her legs on the bench, enjoying the food as we talked about different things. We watched as the dying sun did its final bow, turning the sky into a lovely pink color as it went. Her head curled up against my chest, and I couldn't help but smile.

"You know," she started, "you've never proper asked me out. Like it's always been some understood thing between us, but never have you asked me to be your girlfriend."

"Because I never thought I'd get the chance. Besides, titles are tacky, right?" I rebranded (as it was one of her favorite lines).

"Well, now you can make your mindset real."

She smiled at me like she'd never been happier. Running my hand through her auburn hair, I asked, "Wouldn't it be most fitting if I did it on a website or something?"

"You know what?"—seeing the reasoning behind the humor— "You're actually right. Instead of telling you how you're the most beautiful girl I've met, I'll send a text, right? Without a doubt, you're the best tour guide I've had. What other tour guide lets you kiss them? I've had so much fun since I've landed, and I owe all of it to you. You know, there are a lot of things I'd never experienced until I had come here; and you're to thank.

"You're gorgeous. From your hair to your eyes, everything about you is stunning. Your physical beauty is nothing but a shade of attraction when I think about the character hidden behind the face."

She sat up looking at me, hanging to the words that came from my mouth. She seemed to be fixed in this thought; and it took a kiss to the forehead to bring her out of the sheepish smile on her face. We remained cuddled for many minutes, the happiness now reaching its sad peak. The sun was setting on the park now, and in a few minutes it'd be dark. It was a pink paradise perfected by priceless partnership.

The night was creeping up on us, and it was time to make our way to a safer part of town. Instead of making the walk that'd been repeated several times over at this point, we chose instead to walk straight to our spot: The one beside Tower Bridge we'd named our own. A chilly breeze rustled through our tight jackets, and it was obvious she was cold.

This time was different; sitting on those steps. In some manner, the emotion of this moment was much more serious and sentimental than had been its predecessors. She stared at me intently, and I could tell she was beginning to say goodbye. As we watched the Disco Boat rock back and forth, I remember her quiet voice as she once again told me that's where she bet business people went after work.

I couldn't help but sit in silence, realizing that this was the last opportunity I'd have to take in the sights and smells of this place. The people were hurried, and the restaurants were filled with music and conversation alike. Nothing was changing for the people who called London home, and this was just another night underneath the city lights for my scarlet beauty.

"Did you have a good time?" she asked hopefully.

I took a few moments to look at her, seizing the seconds I knew I couldn't have back. In her eyes I saw hope and faith, and I knew what my answer had to be.

"Why wouldn't I have?" I asked kindly.

"I don't know. But I want you to love this place. I feel like part of getting to know me and love me is knowing London."

"You've told me. And you have nothing to worry about... But I think it's time you see the world," I couldn't help but think aloud.

I knew that in this city she was; and that this city was very much alive in her. But this city restricted her from being the most she could've. By day she was a student and worker, but by night she was alone with her thoughts—destined to eventually be torn down by what she loved most. The asphalt jungle and glass buildings stood in the way of knowing what was behind her conceited lover's concrete heart. This world had given her everything and nothing at the same time; and she was destined to find her way out of it. Her reason for being on some random website could've been no different than my own.

Sitting in silence, I couldn't help but think of the many videos and images I'd used to create the person now in my lap. She sat sideways, burying her head in my chest as she took in her own form of this feeling. It was her street, and the British voice of a young girl made itself known as she and her sister Kayla walked to the bus stop.

"So, this is what England looks like... Just a bunch of houses on top of one another. There's a car... another car... and oh, look!"—the video held in silence as the tension built— "Another car! Not a horse!" the voice had joked, responding to a video an American had sent her of his house and all the farm animals that called it home.

The sound of metal on metal could be heard, and it was evident the same voice was now on a train as the clickity-clack of the railroad was brought into the video. The video began with the image of a newspaper named _The Metro_.

"You know you're late for school when there's no one else on the train... Dead"—the camera now tilting at the empty train seats— "Dead."—pointing at the opposite end of the train— "And even more dead."—the voice let out as the camera was pointed outside at British countryside.

She was doing her accents, and the film work she'd done with her phone didn't do justice for the stunning figure she was. Painted in a beautiful sleek smile and a matching lovely laugh, I could tell the person behind the camera had spent a lot of time trying to look presentable to the American she'd be sending the video to.

"Alright, readings by...," she began. "Posh: The very first thing I did when I became a doctor was take my mother along to a thyroid specialist."

Now saying the same sentence, she used different accents. Beginning her American accent, she felt to add a bit of commentary.

"American—normal ones that is," she'd said.

I listened as the voice gave an expecting smile at the camera, and waking back up I knew it was all too soon. I'd landed two weeks ago, but felt our time together was spent by someone else. The images and videos I recollected on now were once again becoming the images and sounds I'd have to adapt to.

"I don't want to go home," I admitted in the silence, only made quieter by the darkness. "I don't think I've had enough time, and I'm not ready. There's just something weird about all of this."

"You have to. You've got a plane to catch, and you know that," she said. I knew she didn't believe in what she was saying. "It'll all be okay once you get home. Think about all your friends and family, and think about how fast the past few months have gone!"

"And how fast these two weeks went," I managed to add.

"Ben, we could've had a month, but at the end we'd still feel it wasn't enough. But really, the memories will last a lifetime. This isn't something you forget or let go: It's a feeling."

I had a house in Kentucky and a home in London, and I didn't know which I preferred. To be with her meant everything in a secular sense, but to be without her meant nothing evangelically. This was a time and place caught in between past and future and retro and modern, but somehow it extended forever and never. I wasn't going anywhere but everywhere by getting on that plane. I was so ready to say hello again—but not prepared for a goodbye that'd let it happen.

"No one is going anywhere," she assured me. I believed it and said nothing more. "I hope we get to smell the chestnuts," she added.

"Chestnuts?" I questioned.

"Yeah, there are these vendors along this stretch of walk. They're one of those scents that gives London that 'umph', you know? It's one of my favourite smells and I love it," she said, clapping her hands together.

"Alright then, let's go find the smell."

Getting up from the stairs a final time, she began a video that I'd bring home as a souvenir.

"So you'll remember my lovely voice, isn't it?" she smiled at me.

Tower Bridge was dressed in its most elegant purple lights, and I couldn't help but question fate as we scented the chestnuts she'd been talking about.

"They're not nearly as good as they smell though," she laughed, remembering the one experience she'd had with them.

"Chestnuts?" the Middle Eastern man shouted at tourists walking along Tower Bridge.

"I would kind sir, but I don't like it," she apologized to herself as we were out of earshot.

We'd entered Tower Hill station, and I knew I was about to be treated to one of her stories as we rode home that lonely Wednesday night. As the voice over the intercom reminded us to "Please mind the gap", she began.

"My friend Jayvee and I bought them once and they were so bad we spit them out and had to go buy water to get the bad taste off our tongues...,"

This wasn't the end to her solo conversation; it never was. Listening to her for the many stops coming our way—to East Ham and then eventually Becontree—I couldn't help but smile and take it in; knowing that this was the last time.
Chapter Eleven

I'd woken up early, and it must've been that I knew the significance of the given day. I felt groggy, and I wish I could've gone back to bed and woken up on the second day of the trip. A loud car outside had disturbed me, and I remember hearing a conversation between different people. I wasn't sure of the language they were speaking, but waking up, I felt odd knowing that soon I'd rarely hear it again. Somehow though, I knew I'd listen to it in my mind for months to come.

I still have the last message she sent me outlining what she wanted for breakfast. This would be our last "date", and in an odd way the location added closure to our closing trip. I'd packed most of the things I'd need earlier that morning, and I remember spending extra time shaving and bathing. I'd opened the bathroom window before I got in the shower so that I'd be met with the same crisp air as on other days.

I'd stood on the cold, black tile of the shower that morning in a state of despair—spending what seemed ages looking into the sad figure looking back at me in the mirror. I ran my fingers over the mirror, trying to draw off the moisture from where the steam had condensed on the window's cold face.

She arrived ten minutes late on time and was dressed in the prettiest professionalism while adorning an appropriate sense of sadness for the rainy day.

"Don't talk about how much of a mess I look, I already know," she warned me.

She'd been in a rush from getting her test results. In England, results day was the "make or break" day. She'd gotten a spot for King's College London but found disappointment in knowing the requirements for her top Uni hadn't been met. None of that meant anything now, and while she was sinking in the sadness of being rejected from her top Uni, I was busy focusing on how lovely she looked. Trying to cheer her up, I offered my support.

"You look beautiful though, really. And there's no need to worry over Uni! There are one of two possibilities. Either you believe in free will and you're capable of making any change; or you believe in destiny and this was meant to happen. In my opinion, either view is worth smiling over... And no, the rain didn't ruin your hair."

She brushed off the comment and sighed, noting the sadness we were shortly about to face.

"What a proper day for thousands of students," she remarked as the soft rain fell. It'd been overcast as I walked to the restaurant, but now the grey skies of London let loose their sentiment as the ones back at my house turned to sunshine.

As we left to begin our journey to the hotel near London City Airport, she seemed to notice how wet she was getting. Wearing open flats, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. To solve the problem, we quickly hopped across puddles to a small clothing store.

"Well, those are jazzy," she said, pointing to a shelf of woolly socks.

The lingerie section was now to our left, and she took no notice of me as I pointed to the tight undergarments.

"You know, if you'd like...," I seductively attempted.

"Nah, I'm just here for boots mate."

"Okay, well your loss," I kiddingly sighed.

"Yeah, I bet it is," she brushed off as she walked towards the aisle of shoes. "More like your loss... Okay, which do you like more?" she asked as she held two different shoes in her hand.

"Well, which do you like," I countered. "Let's try them on and then we'll see, right?"

She sat down on the bench at the end of the aisle; and I noticed she was having trouble forcing one of the boots onto her foot. After casting a grinning look her way, I took the other boot from her hand, placing it on the floor beside us. I then got on one knee to pull up her other boot.

"Thank you, Mr. Ben," she mimicked in a childish voice.

"You're welcome. You can repay me in several different ways."

"I've got some change in my purse kind sir," she said, motioning to her leather-black carry-on.

"Hmm. I'll have to let you have a freebee this time."

Walking up the glossy road, we arrived at my room, and I held the door to hide her from the drizzling rain. Packing my bags, we went over the room several times, searching for things that might've been left behind. I had trouble with not having a passport before, so who was to say it couldn't happen again? Straightening up the mess of the kettle stand I'd made, I noticed one peculiar detail.

"This is the first time you've been in this room with me," I thought aloud.

"I know... Some things are meant to be built up for," she shyly responded. "I've never even spent the night at a friend's."

I realized the rigid trust she was placing in me—and for that I could only offer my own. Packing, I handed her things I'd brought along that were images of the United States. Two bags of candy she couldn't find in England, a few dollar bills, a special candle from one of the many distilleries around me, and a cute craft my mom insisted I give her were now things that wouldn't be making the journey back.

On two different pastel boards were the blue silhouettes of the United Kingdom and the United States, with a dashed line extending off each of the boards towards the other. The quote "It may not be an easy path, but it's our path" jumped from one board to the other. As much as the self-righteous Southern boy inside of me wanted to scoff at the words, the humble gentleman couldn't help but feel endeared as I saw her smile and comment on how thoughtful the craft had been.

Checking out of the hostel a day earlier than planned, I thanked the innkeeper for his hospitality. His smile indicated he was used to a different kind of goodbye. He insisted I leave a review on the website, and I assured him I'd do just that. I'd miss the run-down buildings. While things weren't perfect in this borough, people seemed to be trying.

"Well, I didn't miss that," she laughed as my suitcase clunked down each step at the District Line station. "Can't you pick it up or anything?"

"You can carry it for me if you like," I winked at her.

"How gentlemanly would that be?" she remarked. In less than eighteen hours, I'd be bidding my sassy British mate goodbye.

As we were getting closer to the hotel, she had the courage to ask, "Are you sure they'll let me stay with you? Even though the reservation is under your name, I'm still okay to come with you, yeah?"

This sense of adult innocence was something I'd grown fond of, and it was I she found courage in asking uncomfortable questions. I found it incredible that she found the courage to come with me, to love me, to meet me, to ultimately say goodbye.

"Of course! The room is booked for two, and for that reason you're allowed in with me." As I went to add, "... any nice Soho lady could've come with me," she interrupted.

"Oh, so if I wasn't coming with you, a Soho prostitute could've just as easily replaced me?"

I stopped and grabbed her, telling her, "I'm going to miss you more than you'll ever understand."

"It'll all be okay," she whispered. "The first wait wasn't so bad. And after all, we left the catfish at the aquarium."

I'd never admit to her or let her see it, but my eyes became more and more glazed over as I let out the most heartfelt laugh. This bit of London was quieter than most, and whether it was because it was a Thursday evening or because the area was unusually quiet, I don't know. But we were alone. We walked along the quiet road with the airport teasing our view. All that stood between us and the airport was a large lake. Boeing 747's and other planes were taking off and landing now, and the constant reminder was just a type of purgatory at this point.

Walking into the hotel, I noticed a set of TV screens lining the walls of the lobby. On a few of these flat-screens were lists of all the arrivals and departures. The British lady at the front desk seemed professional and helpful, and I realized I was going to miss this more proper lifestyle. As we got our room key, she remarked on the number: 636. Why this captivated her I didn't know, but as she told me it represented us I couldn't help wondering why.

"It's just like us, you know? It's symmetrical and represents us. And then there's something between. What better room number could we've had?"

"You are something else," I remarked in my British accent, "... you bloody little wanker you,"

"Yeah, I guess... Ben, you've been here two weeks and—I'm sorry— I don't think it's gotten much better."

"I think it has, and you just don't want to admit it," I joked as we stepped onto the elevator.

Tired of small talk, I grabbed her waist as the doors closed and gave her the correct snog that any empty elevator brings about. The chiming of the elevator as it reached our floor signaled trouble, and I wiped the lipstick off my face as I teased her about losing hers. We were alone though. A cleaning lady pushed her cart of towels and toiletries down one end of the hall while we made our way to the other.

"Well, here we are—room 636," she remarked as we reached the end of the lonely hallway. She seemed to be asking me what to do next.

"Yes...here we are," I repeated.

After showing her how the magnetic card unlocked the door, she walked through the doorway and hung her coat on one of the hangers. In one of the far corners of the room was a small wooden desk with a rolling chair; and in the other a chair shaped as if it was a shot glass with two sides of its velvet-wrapped figure missing. She sat down on the bed as if to say, "So?" and looked up at me with an odd grin.

She'd never given anyone a shot at being alone with her. She was attempting something new, and this only built her up in a loving way that wouldn't matter in less than sixteen hours. She was colorful and crafty as was the room, and I'd miss her special sense of humor. On the walls were painted purple and blue pictures, and the carpet boasted of light purple, blue, and yellow. The colors of the room added to the theme of contemporary romance, and we were just another piece that amplified the ambiance.

While she took a nap, I took the time to think about the trip to come. I checked the suitcase once more and took the time to talk to friends and family who I hadn't talked to. My parents were anxious to know I was still alive, and my friend Aaron was waiting to hear all about the trip. More than anything, people were excited for me to come back; but lying there in bed I realized my heart was torn. We were waiting between worlds and wishing the Wright brothers had never taken flight—while at the same time would've had a hullabaloo had Columbus not sailed the ocean blue.

What the silent girl next to me represented was an idea: She was the solution to my problem and the answer I needed to the question of life. I realized that after this trip, I had no home. To go back and live the life I'd once lived was to give her up; but to stay meant I was escaping life itself. I had a life to live in Kentucky and a soul to seek out in London.

Time was closing in. It was coming, and I now came back to reality as I glanced at the small clock next to the bed. My mind was racing. I'd forgotten all the work for college I was meant to be doing, as well as the notification I was supposed to give work. What was it like to be stressed... to have doubt and fear? Were these two weeks a chapter in a book that was mine or hers at all; or were they an allegory for something humans had forgotten?

She'd spent two hours napping, and there were parameters to the time she'd just used. Two hours neither kissing nor holding her. Fourteen hours until my flight. Five more months apart. Facts and figures came back into my head. I loved it and hated it—this positive catharsis that tasted like rain and deceptively smelled like those immigrant's chestnuts. Forever together, and she began to stir in bed.

"Yuckkkkkk," she let out as she wiped a bit of drool from her hair. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Ten hours. It's time to go to the airport and say goodbye."

"Heeeyyy," she played as she looked at the clock. "Where's dinner? As an American, you're supposed to benefit me with obesity and take away."

She was my best friend, and in thirteen hours I'd be leaving her.

"No, I can't really cook. But I got you this instead."

As I gently placed my lips on her forehead, I slowly moved down the side of her face. Softly and slowly, I pressed my lips to her cheek, only to grab her waist and roll on top of her as I met her lips with mine. The passion she kissed me back with meant much more than the Soho service she'd been talking about. We had no experience, but I felt this was natural in a sense—the way she felt me and the way she kissed me back. I could hear her soft breathing as I moved down her neck.

Her deep gasps and the sighs that followed were sincere, but there was a grave overtone shadowing what was happening. My lips found themselves on hers, and I remember waiting for her as she brought herself back to reality. She trusted me.

"You're right after all, let's go find Tesco," I said.

"What's this?" she said, regaining her humor. "I'm pretty sure I'm the one meant to dress up in sexy clothing and leave you begging for more. This isn't how the game is supposed to work. Ben, it isn't fair."

"Only it's not a game, and we're both starving right now," I reasoned. "Besides, fairness isn't something we're used to anyways."

"Yeah-yeah, no one likes a tease," she grinned at me. "Let's go."

In short time, we'd made our way to the lobby of the hotel. The Express Tesco was at most a five-minute walk from the tube station and had everything we'd need. Set on the corner of a street opposing a small, college building, it was all too lonely. I'd complained of being around people for two weeks, but here I was longing to go back to that place.

"What are we even looking for?" I asked as we walked through the automated, sliding-glass doors. The small storefront was quiet, and I got an eerie feeling as we glanced at the security guard standing next to the doors. No one was here except for the cashier; but what else could I expect on a Thursday night?

"Birth control and pregnancy tests," she snickered. "Okay but really, is there anything special you'd like for dinner? I'm okay with anything, yeah?" she'd finally asked after ten minutes.

"I don't care... those maybe?" I said, pointing to the shelf of sandwiches and drinks. "I think it's kind-of closing, you know?"

"Meal deal before we say bye?" she rhetorically asked. "That sounds quite alright to me."

When I'd arrived at London City on Monday, the airport was crowded with scores of tourists and business people alike. The sun hung in the sky that day and painted bright colors into everyone's lives. But now, the mist and fog that hung over us as we walked foreshadowed the hue coloring this scene. Sliding her arm between the space created from my hand in my pocket and the opening left over, she pulled herself closer as we made more small talk.

The elevator ding, the silence as we entered the hotel, and the click of the handle as we opened the door resonated with me in a different way. It was weird knowing that this person who'd been my world for the past two weeks was now slipping from my grasp and—over the course of many months—would slowly be slipping from my memory. Like sand she fell through my tightened fingers, and I felt the hourglass wasn't large enough. Entering the room, we took out what we'd bought, and I sat at the wooden desk as she sat opposing me in the comfortable chair. I was admiring her from afar and, recognizing the transition that was taking place, leaped off my chair to sit where she was sitting. Suddenly, her face lit up in surprise as she looked at her phone. As I asked what was wrong, she laughed.

"My mum asked to see what the room looked like!" she'd smiled.

"Oh... Well, that's great," I added sarcastically.

Earlier in the week with intentions of visiting Paris, her mum had helped us by giving us listings of twin bedroom sets. She enjoyed telling her mum that she wasn't paying for the beds to be separated. We jokingly moved the pillows to opposite ends of the bed and split the remaining bit into two sections. The picture appeared as if her feet were meant to lie next to my head as we slept, and mine next to hers.

"Alright, that will do," she laughed as she sent the picture to her mom. "So much for that."

"You know, I was kind-of getting used to the idea of splitting the bed up. You want the head or the base?" I grinned.

"Umm yeah, okayyy," she emphasized.

"I love you," I couldn't help but say as I grabbed her waist and playfully threw her to bed.

"Well if you really loved me, you wouldn't leave me."

"If you really loved me, you'd come with me," I mimicked.

"Ohhhh, touché. But you're meant to treat me like a princess."

"Yeah okay, true. Let me just come back next week and take you to dinner, right?"

"That sounds nice."

"Well actually," I reconsidered, "you owe me a trip. So, when you come to my place, I'll drive you anywhere you'd like to go."

"Okay," she said happily, "I'm just coming for the car anyways."

"Whatever keeps your plane in the air," I said.

She was looking at me intently, and her face showed the largest smile as I brought my glance back to her. I'd been looking out the window, staring at the airport across the road.

As my eyes met hers, she asked me kindly, "Kiss?" as she puckered her lips with innocent, opened eyes. It was time.
The End

We'd arrived at the airport with an hour and a half to spare. For the first time, we weren't living in the moment, and time was truly running out. With every minute, we realized the end of an unknown chapter in a book to be or not to be finished was quickly ending.

The people around us were going about their normal business—obtaining their boarding passes from automated kiosks and checking in bags as attendants hurried them through lines. The title "British Airways" now loomed above us on the wall overhead the baggage check-in. This must've been what it felt like...to arrive at Alcatraz or any other prison. I wasn't ready for this unsure sentence; and I'd done nothing to deserve the time. The only thing incriminating me now was my nationality.

We'd arrived late, and I only had sixty minutes before the flight began to board. I was having problems printing my boarding passes, and the check-in was taking longer than I'd anticipated. A small dispute between the airport staff and another flyer broke out at the counter and brought me to a panic as I thought about the time this argument might cost. It seemed as if seconds were coming to represent days of our time; minutes became months; and hours years. Less than twenty minutes now.

"Hey, you've got plenty of time," she tried to reassure me.

"I don't know, I think we're cutting it close," I replied nervously. "Like, I don't want to miss this flight—but would it really be the worst thing in the world?" I tried joking.

The twenty-four hours taken from us each day gave us a taste of what it felt like to transcend time; only to harshly and suddenly be given back two weeks later. Life's currency had been put in my account every day I was with her—monies non-transferable to the next day. With my bag checked in (thanks to the help and kindness of a handsome, blonde British gentleman) and my boarding passes tucked beneath the pages of my passport, we headed up the stairs to the only security checkpoint.

"Am I allowed up there with you?" she'd wondered.

"Yeah. The only place you're not allowed is past security."

People of different cultures and ethnicities were now caught up in the same race to pass us. They were all hoping to reach their destination before their time to say goodbye to this reality ran out. They anxiously stood in line, so ready to leave. And I hated them for that. In their rush to leave, I wanted nothing more than to stay put—trapped in time forever in this place with this person.

We reached the top of the stairs to find a set of tables for discarding things security wouldn't allow. I placed my backpack on one of the tables and took her hand as I swung her around to face me. I wanted her eyes locked in mine.

"I have something for you that mom got. They were proper worried about what you might enjoy, so they bought you some London-ish things," she led. She broke the silence to ensure I wouldn't be first to let a tear fall.

From her bag, she handed me some souvenirs to take back to Kentucky. A tea set, a London-themed bottle opener, and a school set of London pencils and erasers made up the gifts she now put in my backpack. These items were neatly enclosed in a gift bag painted with the images of all the places we'd been the days before. It was all too much: Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, red buses and black cabs, and even the red telephone booths. I'd been dreaming all along and was quickly beginning to wake up. Unfortunately, this was a dream I couldn't fall back asleep to. This beautiful illusion was slowly becoming a dreaded nightmare hidden within another false reality.

"Okay, you'll have to tell them I say thank you so much," I smiled through glossy eyes, fighting back the tears I knew would come as we parted ways. "I've got some things for you as well."

As I unzipped my bag to return the courtesy, I wondered if what I was about to hand her would be enough. I'd sent an image of the things I'd prepared to Aaron the night before, only to be reminded that the real "enough" had been built the many days before in the hugs and kisses and trust and loyalty. From my backpack, I took several letters and placed them in her hands.

"Here... take these," I said as she grasped the thin sheets.

"Every day, I tried to write you a letter so as time goes on you might have a little summary of what we did. I had a lot of fun here, and you deserve to be reminded of that. I think I may've missed a day or two because we didn't get back until late, so I'll have to make up for that later, right?" I tried to wink through shuddering flood gates.

"Aww," she smiled, "that's really sweet Ben."

Her face was glazed over as if she was trying to adjust back to the mentality I'd so-well disrupted. But she seemed happy; almost as if she was slowly coming to the conclusion she failed to realize earlier. And I couldn't help but feel secure. We'd exchanged each other's souls to become the perfect whole.

As I reached in my backpack one final time, I was struck with a moment of panic. This was it. This was goodbye and we both recognized it. I'd thought about this scene and played it in my head for weeks before leaving the States. With the black box in my hand, I opened the face of its rigid side to reveal to her a piece of jewelry I wanted her to love.

It was a necklace; but represented at the end of the silver linkage was something much more sentimental than dollar or pound signs. Dangling beneath the sterling chain were four amethyst stones so perfectly cut and shaped that they shined of her resiliency. At the heart of the smaller jewels was a larger amethyst stone with its smaller orbiting images each aligned from one another at ninety degrees. I wouldn't see her for my birthday, nor would I see her six days later on Valentine's Day. And most importantly, I wouldn't be with her a day after Valentine's Day on her birthday.

She looked at the box for only a moment before sitting it on the table beside us. With soft-but-sure arms she wrapped herself around me and stood exactly as she had the first day, slowly taking in everything that'd been, and all that was to come.

"Thank you so much... for everything," she if but whispered to me.

"Kyah, I really don't know how we did this, but this is all so incredible."

"I really do like you Ben," she sighed, looking away.

"Hey," I smiled as my fingers pulled her chin back to my eyes, "This is a happy moment, not something sad."

We'd done it. We'd persevered and done exactly what we were supposed to. It wasn't easy, but it was rewarding in a way neither of us had anticipated or could explain. There were fights and there were times of turmoil, but knowing the other was happy was all worthwhile. Peacefully we'd died, yet excitedly we'd be reborn. Endless possibilities were being renewed.

"Look, we can do this," she assured me one last time.

"I know," I smiled as I blinked, only to reopen my eyes and see again. "I've never felt it wouldn't work."

Never having been in the situation, I was unsure of what to say next. The book was becoming less and less our story. I grabbed her in my arms holding her—holding myself—one final time. Running my hands over her back, I slowly twirled her hair as I had on Primrose Hill. I wanted to feel it—to grab its autumn color and hold onto it as it slowly slipped through my hands to give way to a white and grey color. In another part of the world in another one of time's many zones, I had a reality in which to land.

Kissing her softly as her presence began to escape me, I pulled away as I said, "Kyah Mia, I love you."

"I know. But you have a plane to catch, isn't it?" she whispered back as she famously winked at me one last time.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," I smiled through eyes that were now fighting to keep afloat.

"Bye Ben," she managed, hugging me one last time.

"Goodbye pretty girl," I said, determined to watch her walk away.

If just for a second—an infinite year—she'd caught my attention. With her arms gone and her words cemented in my memory, I caught a sneak peak of the beautiful red hair as it swayed back down the stairs, once again fading into the world of millions. This was the beginning to a new end; but happily, also the end to a lovely beginning.

Tears of sadness now muddled themselves with the smile of happiness on my face. We'd done it; and thus, it was time to go back. I walked down the terminal to board the casket from which I'd earlier come. Finding the gate number on a large board that stood out along a row of shops, I realized I was next in line to find my place in the sky.

I entered the holding cell that had thirty or so other prisoners seated in comfortable chairs and wondered about their condition. They probably didn't know any better, or much less care for that matter. Their reality was tempered through different experiences than mine; and the spirituality they'd use to respond learned through different mediums. Yet, here we all were in this instance we'd created—this present tense of life.

On a train going one way, she skimmed the letters, while in a different place I was boarding a plane that'd take me the other. A teary-eyed American now smiled kindly at the flight attendant giving safety instructions as the shaken British girl glanced at the ticket inspector. Glancing out the window, I noticed that the sky was clearing up; and that the weather back to Ireland would be as nice as the day I arrived. The sun was bright, and the glass now amplified its strength. With the hotel we'd stayed at teasing my view, I couldn't help but be jealous of the view from the other side of the water.

I saw what it was I wanted from the rest of my life, and the emotion that so unquantifiably and unexplainably grips all of life had taken over my present state of mind. It wasn't because she was British; nor was it because she was so secluded. I'd found a touch of myself in another person whose upbringing was so different than my own—and only then did it seem I was being called to live in the moment each day.

I enjoyed all that wasted time; all those fulfilling moments I'll never have back living a normal life. This was never intended to be some fantasy we could escape to at the end of each difficult day. This was just a part of my story. And likewise, this was just a part of her's. Insanity was my temporal mistress and my seasonal lover's name... to have it all back now, oh how I'd fly to that timeless train.
