"Sunsets" by Michael Chin

I come from the city of Possibility , in the state of Mind. The population of this city varies a great deal from day to day. Sometimes I'm not sure if I live there, or if I ever did. I like to think it his my home, though, for it is certainly a good place—a magical place, even, if one is inclined to believe in such things.

It was in Possibility where I once met a girl. I won't describe her physically for two reasons. First, it is possible that you have seen her outside of Possibility. If you were, then, to recognize her from my words about the perfect curves that were her cheeks or the perfect turns that twisted her hair, you might be able to steal her away from my memories, trapping her in one of the many cities of the Real. My second reason for not going into detail about her appearance is that she really was not physically remarkable in such a way that I could describe with words. In Possibility, such appearances are not necessary. She was a girl who might have had snot in her nose at times, or worn the crust of dirt on the bottoms of her feet, from walking without shoes. She was human, and had no need to be more than this in order to steal my heart.

Hearts fly quickly in my home city. Having spent much of my childhood in cities of the Real, elders had exposed me to the idea that a heart is not something with which one should part easily. Second to the wallet, I learned it was perhaps the most essential item to protect from the fingers of pickpockets. However, in Possibility there has long existed a class of people so apt at the theft of hearts that any security measures are inadequate. They can pick a lock off of a heart in seconds, and reduce a steel chain to dust if it stands in their way. In Possibility, we call these people girls.

Ladies. Women. Sluts. Prostitutes. These are names oft applied to these girls in cities of the Real. In Possibility we call them girls because that is what they could be—just girls with a magnetism for a good man's heart—not a conscious will to steal the heart away. Even in the city we know that it naïve to think this way—but we set that knowledge aside. Selective consciousness is the basis for much of our happiness.

The girl's name was Emma and had spent much of her life moving from place to place, but I suspect that when I met her it was not her first time in Possibility, or at least not the first time she'd been seen there. Indeed from the moment I heard her voice, heard her laugh, saw her eyes—I knew that she was a girl who had been through our city a great many times.

So taken by this girl was I, that I did not hesitate in inviting her to join me for coffee—skipping even the most brief formalities of early courtship that we generally practice in Possibility. Much to my delight, she came along, equally uninhibited.

We sat on opposite sides of a circular table, my cappuccino warming my already sweat-bathed palms. Emma sipped her hot chocolate with the great care of a child, dreading the prospect of singing her tongue with that hot liquid. It was there that she told me of her life—the mountains she'd seen, and fields where she'd made love. She spoke of the family for which she cared so deeply, but from which she was estranged at the time. She spoke of possibilities realized in her past, as well as the opportunities she had allowed to slip from her hands, into the blackness of unrealized potential.

I, in turn, told the girl about my life. I fear that my tales lacked the beauty of hers—or perhaps I merely lacked the appropriate tongue with which to tell them. Nonetheless, I had had far less experience in the cities of the Real, where all of the best true stories develop. My anecdotes from a life lived in Possibility seemed childish—though she listened with a great interest that I can only say she might not have feigned.

It was acceptable for her to feign interest, because if she took the care to put forth such a façade, it must have meant that she cared about me . When the stories were finished, I offered to walk her home. She insisted that we continue our discourse at my abode. Such things are possible in my hometown.

We did not talk along the journey home, but it was not the sort of awkward silence that so often stifles men and women in cities of the Real. We were surrounded by the quiet of thought—pleasant thoughts made all the better because we both surmised that our thoughts were mutual. They were pretty thoughts, which did all they could to manifest themselves. My right hand slid from outside the cover of my coat pocket. Her arms unfolded, and her left hand swung out in the open air. Soon those hands collapsed upon one another, forming an imperfect ball of flesh and bone that was the physical expression of every idea running through our minds. The ball swung back and forth, like an aimless wrecking ball sailing through the air. We destroyed nothing.

Our fingers remained intertwined all throughout the night, keeping sweaty palm against sweaty palm. I forgot my right hand, though, as my left explored the terrain of her wonderful hair, and then felt the smooth hot surface of her back while I kissed her upon my bed.

Oh, how we kissed. I considered closing my eyes, so that I could focus on the feel, and the sound, and the scent, and the taste of sweet Emma. But then I hated to rip my vision away from that girl. I hated those briefest instants when I so much as blinked, for those were moments when I was removed from the sight of her skin. She whispered that she loved me, and all that I could reply was that I felt the same as we came closer and closer to melting into one another. Finally, I could not tell where I ended and she began, as I mentally blessed Possibility for allowing me to meet this girl.

Emma fell asleep before I did, and snored softly, resting her head on the pillow of my chest. I don't know how many hours I lied there, only watching her. Time moves differently in Possibility, and a minute can seem to last for days, while a month might move on with the urgency of a second. Lying motionless with that girl, I had thoughts of rising early so that I could wake her with the sight of fresh-picked flowers, or perhaps the aroma of fresh-cooked breakfast.

I do not know when my thoughts merged with dreams as I faded into slumber. I recall seeing roses and pancakes in the eye of my mind, before waking to find myself alone.

That was the last that I saw of Emma.

I had been ready to offer Emma more than flowers and food. I was prepared to extend her my body, my soul, my labor, my writing, my life—whatever she might desire to take from me. Yet when I awoke I found that she had not lingered in my bed. Nor had she even lingered within the city. Emma disappeared without a word of goodbye, and only took my heart with her.

The city of Possibility is filled with artists—artists who can paint sunsets with colors more beautiful than most men have ever seen, because sunsets that offer these hues only exist in the eyes of men from this city in this state of Mind. The city of Possibility has many writers—some who write poetry and others prose. I am among these writers. I spend my days writing about girls I wish I could know both inside and outside of this city—and girls who I wish would come back to Possibility.