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Of course the local classical Muzak station is playing Mendelssohn, specifically String Quartet No. 6, and suddenly I’m in Cafe Nondescript in a provincial town of an European flavor, and I’m engrossed in reading materials and pamphlets of a Revolutionary Nature, and, without warning, the click of her stilettos on the cafe’s cold worn marble floor draws my attention to her as she joins me at the intimate round table as I rise to greet her and she’s now sitting across from me, the blue smoke of her cigarette wrapping itself lovingly in her raven hair illuminated by the slatted sunlight leaking through the plantation shutters, and she asks how I’ve been, and I say well, and I tell her she hasn’t changed from three years ago, and she ignores me and motions to the waiter, and she orders a cappuccino and a Sambuca, and we make pleasant conversation that has no meaning, no significance, conversation of a nature that one might forget with a certain ease, and we both strain to hold onto a memory we both share, a memory the two of us formed, she and I, and yet the memory now eludes us and she snuffs out her cigarette in the ashtray and tells me this was a mistake, and she stands and leaves, and I don’t go after her.