What I remember most about that night were his eyes. They were hollow, empty searchlights with no piercing or discernable direction, it was just two big holes where eyes should have been and his beautiful face in my direction and the collapse of my ability to remain cool.
If I tried to hold his gaze it didn't work and I could not muster a gesture that might convey that I wanted him to come near me and I was paralyzed by the fear that he thought I wanted to talk to someone more than him.
And so, somehow, we managed to make each other nervous enough to become strangers again, just like that, figments of our imaginations, images that didn't stand the test of reality; simply cardboard cutouts.
As I lick my figurative wounds (for on the outside all seemed fine and well) I wonder what to do now, whether to carry on with the building, to forage for yet more timber and bark to fill out this fire.
Or really, to admit that there isn't one at all.
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