I arrive at a large brownstone that is in a more upscale neighborhood than mine but could still be considered a bit shady. The building towers in front of me, the lone proof of great architecture gone out of style. Gargoyles line the roof, ancient protectors in an ever-evolving metropolis. As I appproach the front door, I can smell the ingredients of food from countries that make this world so diverse. I can hear music in several different dialects radiating from open windows. I stop, close my eyes and breathe it all in. For some reason, all of this has a calming effect on me. I don’t feel the insanity of the world bearing down on me; nor my dreams. I take my time and breathe it in deep. After a few deep breaths, I make my way into the brownstone. As I walk through the dilapidated halls, I notice the chipped paint and distinct smell that can be found in a public bathroom. The flickering lights throw eerie shadows in corners and hallways, making my walk all the longer. Finally, I reach her doorway and I can hear her singing. Her voice is warm and soothing. I hate to interrupt the melody coming from inside, but I knock anyway. Seconds later, the door opens and there she is, my musical nymph.

   "You’re here". She seems surprised that I actually showed up; that makes the both of us. "Of course. I wouldn’t miss your cooking for the world". Words fail me at this moment. I’m nervous. I haven’t been this nervous since high school. We lock eyes and my breath catches. I don’t think I’ll ever forget those eyes. The way she’s looking at me makes me wish she could look at me all day like that. Our silent communication ends and she escorts me inside. Her apartment is the complete opposite of what the outside would imply. Large, high windows give a view of a violet skyline lit by the lights of the city. Tall bookcases line the walls, shouldered by colorful abstract art. The lighting is soft and inviting, hitting hand-made sculptures that I would like to assume she made. But the centerpiece, the piece a la resistance is Helena herself. Hair as wild as ever draping over her shoulders, contrasting with the ribbed v-neck brown turtleneck she is wearing and her beige skirt and thigh-high brown boots that gives tribute to days of peace, love and revolution. I take in this little piece of art for a little while longer and move on. My eyes fall on the small round dinner table that is lined with dishes ranging from soups to pastas. "You have quite a lot of food here. Were you expecting more people?" She is quick to answer. "Oh, no. It’s just you and me. I wasn’t sure what you liked so i made everything". he’s blusing so bad her cheeks have turned fire engine red. Part of me id a little sad about causing this, but the other is quite pleased at causing it. I will be having quite a bit of fun tonight. "Well, let’s begin". We sit at opposite ends of the circular table, never taking our eyes off each other. The entrees she has created are extravagant, each one more intricate than the next. We take the normal awkward first date conversation. We talk about politics, the weather, even the flight patterns of birds. Anything but the pink elephant sitting at the table with us. That could be because we have no idea what the elephant exactly is. It could be the fact that we hardly know each other even though we’ve seen each other every day for the past year. It could be the fact that we are speaking outside the bar about things other than my drink order. These are all good reasons, but the truth is, it’s the sexual tension. It’s deciding who is going to take the first move. It’s deciding do I fuck her right here or take her to the bedroom.