Light in Four Parts

Part 1
Firelight

Once upon all times, on cold winter evenings, in the heart of an ancient city, there stands an old tavern, built only yesterday. Inside, warmth flows from a large fireplace, the firelight bounces off polished wood and brass and sparkles along the rows of gleaming wine glasses suspended above the bartender’s head.

Entering the room, you see the bartender first, since the long oak bar stands close to the front door. The bartender nods as if he knows you, filling you with the odd sensation that you’ve been here before.

With your eyes focused on him, on the spot at the bar he is wiping clean for you, and on the perfectly positioned empty bar stool waiting, again, just for you, you might not notice that the tavern is packed tight with people.

It is only after you sit, after the bartender takes your order, that you sense the waves of conversation, that you turn and see the sea of strangers surrounding you. The sound is strong, but not loud, as if the room is absorbing the highs of anger and lows of sadness, leaving only the comfortable middle of agreement. You see no one you know, you see no one alone, but you do not feel alone.

You turn back to accept your drink and see the seat next to you is occupied by a woman who is not speaking to anyone. The bartender sees this as well. He knows everyone’s name, including yours, and he makes the introduction.

She is dressed for a party. Hair up, earrings sparkling against her long neck, wine dark dress trimmed in satin. Her eyes catch the firelight – but she looks away too quickly for you to determine their color.

You open your mouth to speak, but she holds up a hand.

“Not yet,” she says. She stands and the dress, fitted to her narrow waist, flows down to the floor in a hundred separate pieces, modest only in moments. She melts into the crowd. Disappears.

You turn to the bartender, and he gives you a shrug. “Maybe next time,” he says, refilling your drink, “maybe next time.”

Part 2
Sunlight

A beach reception. A vast tent covers an acre of sand, the waves of the ocean only a memory of sound. You are sweating in suit and tie – but stand barefoot in the sand. The invitation in your hand, “shoes optional,” is from the bride’s father, a name familiar at a distance. You enter the tent and stop to let your eyes adjust to the darkness. The contrast between shade and sun makes outlines indistinct, the shapes of shifting guests blurred by ghostly halos.

An hour passes. You stay near the bar, the bartender seems familiar, or at least is going out of his way to make you feel comfortable. The monotony of soft music and strained monologues is broken only now and then with moments of conversation with strangers. Finally you are able to speak with your host, a man who surely meant something to you once. You intend a brief exchange of words followed by a swift departure. The day ends, the sand grows cold between your toes.

“A mistake,” a familiar voice says behind you. You want to turn, to see the eyes that belong to the voice, but you are unable to turn away from the old friend as he tells you something sad and true.

“I thought – it being on a beach,” the voice behind you continues, “That clothing appropriate to the beach would be in order.” She laughs at herself. A delightful shiver trills along your spine.

“Just one more goodbye, and I’ll take my leave.” The voice moves into your field of vision.

She floats in a waterfall of white, draped shoulder to ankle in a sheer cover-up, hints of the bathing suit beneath revealed when she moves in front of the fading light of the sun.

She embraces the host, kisses his cheek then giggles while she gently rubs away the brief smear of lipstick, she claims isn’t hers.

She acknowledges you with a glance and a smile and the host introduces her.

“But we’ve already met,” you say.

“Have we?” She smiles, apologetic, sincere. “Another mistake, I’m sure.” With a final embrace for the host, she blows away across the sand into the last glare of sunlight.

Part 3
Moonlight

You are in a large, circular, brightly lit room. A vaulted ceiling, lined with massive wooden beams, soars overhead. The center of the room is dominated by an open fireplace, a chimney pulls away the smoke while fans push down the heat. The room’s tired yet satisfied occupants clutch muscle-relaxing drinks in slowly thawing fingers and talk over the beautiful day just ended.

Unable to find the one you want to speak to, you move away from the center, towards one of the many windows and look down. The snow drifts lazily, contrasting with the frenetic energy of the children busily building battlements, men of snow to guard the walls, and stores of snowballs in preparation of an upcoming war against undefined enemies. The sun is fully set, but the lodge’s outdoor lights are not yet on. For now, the yard where the children play is illuminated only by the moon, its strange shadows adding an unearthly filter to the scene.

There she is. The one adult among the children. The glass of the window fogs under your breath, you rub the spot clear with your hand, just in time to see the wind snatch the hat from her head. She laughs and the children scream with reflected glee and join her chase of the errant article. Her loosed hair streams behind her, shimmering in the moonlight, seeming to float among the snowflakes.

All day, you’ve been struggling to catch her eye, to share a word, a thought, an idea, to tell her, something. But she’s been consistently unapproachable. Then as now, she is surrounded, directing, protecting, corralling the little ones, allowing the adults to have their fun, free of guilt. But now the mothers have decided it is time to feed their offspring. A door opens, one name after another is called, and soon all the children are rushing inside.

As she herds them along, she looks up to see you staring down. She stops, and while keeping her eyes on you, scoops up a fist full of snow and packs it tightly. Propelled by her perfect pitch, the missile smacks into your window just at eye-level, obscuring your view. You move to another window, expecting to see her grinning up at you, hoping that now, finally, you can have your talk.
But it is not to be. The cold moon’s light and sharp shadows are all that’s left to play with the glittering ruins of the abandoned battle.

She is gone. Again.

Part 4
Candlelight
The end is the beginning.

You return to the impossible tavern, but this time the bartender doesn’t nod in greeting. This time he points with his chin, towards a door on the other side of the room. His brows tighten over a glance that says, she’s in there, she waiting, and something else, a warning? But of what? For whom?

But you have no time to interpret the looks of overworked drink peddlers, she’s waiting. Finally.

You cross the room in a single step and bound through the door. The room beyond is darker, quieter than the one you’ve left. The only light comes from the candles scattered across the dozen or so tables that crowd the small space. Not all the tables are empty – a couple sits together at one, a single man sits at another. And there, against the far wall, a woman alone.

She turns at your entrance and stands with a smile. She wears a gown of depth and darkness, of ageless calm and raging storms. It shimmers around her, gathering the flickering candlelight into itself and reflecting it back to your eyes a hundredfold. It hides and reveals in equal measures. When you tell her she is beautiful while you embrace, it is, at that moment, the most truthful word you’ve ever spoken.

Dinner proceeds. You eat and talk and drink and laugh. It is a dream, and it is happening, and she is lovely, and you are wise. The light of the candles gives the entirety of the evening a glow of perfection.

But the beauty in candlelight is in what it hides,
in its secrets,
its fears,
in darkness darkly reveled at the edge of flames lies.

Plates are cleared and you reach your hand, slowly, steadily, carefully navigating past cutlery and glassware towards hers.

Somewhere, some when, a minor chord is played on a quiet piano.

She pulls away.

“This is the end, you know. The last part,” she says.

You smile. “You are wrong, my dear, this is only the beginning. Our first conversation.”

“First or Last. It is all the same.”

You smile again, but sadness has invaded the scene and will not be deterred. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know.” Across the table, her eyes dart wildly, like birds in too small cages. “The candles burn out, the sun and the moon set, the fire dies. Darkness always wins,” she says.

“Ah, but darkness can be revealing in its own right,” you say. “Touch and taste don’t require the light.”

“The dark is the ending. Every moment must end for the next to begin. The beginning is light.”

“And so, we will meet again,” you say, smiling this time in anticipation of anticipation.

She leans back, her eyes escape the light, “Yes, and not know the end.”

You stand to take her hand, to lead her elsewhere. In your mind, you delight in the possibilities of the coming moments. But her hand dissipates as she fades into the pocket of darkness. You are left with the end of a perfect moment of reality and an imagined moment of perfection. In a place between dreams and desires. A land of fairy tales and stories with always happy endings.

And we begin again.

Entering the room, an odd thought floats through your mind: The beginning is the end. You shrug away the lingering sadness, step up to the bar and into the next moment.