Natural Ice

Last night, I was called out to a reported "man down" call. It was 0400 and I was a bit tired, but I grouped myself together and got behind the wheel of the Ambulance. Upon arrival of the scene I found two Police Units and three cops standing over a woman sitting on her ass in front of a dilapidated house in one of our more impoverished neighborhoods... 
I get an update from the patrolman while I am asking the woman if she is ok. The officer explains that when they arrived she was asleep on the porch of the house we are in front of. None of the residents knew her and was worried she was dead. She saw the cops and told them she was going to walk home, got up to leave the porch and tumbled down the stairs eventually falling onto her ass on the lawn. This woman was drunk beyond belief. Her vitals were fine overall, but her gait and awareness were below acceptable levels in my opinion. 
We have this weird strategy that has become the norm in my city with PD and EMS. Not one I am in love with, but I have learned I pretty much have to deal with it. The PD often avoids dealing with 'drunk tank' prisoners, partially due to work load of actual criminals, partially due to avoidance of paperwork and general hassles. When they encounter a drunk who hasn't broken any other law besides Drunk In Public, and is not a threat to themselves or others, they call in EMS and we bring them to the Hospital. It's a general pain in the ass, but quite honestly I can also easily say trying to help someone who refuses to help themselves is a pain the ass anyway. Also, the time that call can take up, I might miss a violent call or a puker, so I shouldn't complain. 
So this woman was extremely intoxicated, not a particularly pleasant drunk, and she was more than likely homeless due to her scent of urine, grime and alcohol. Quite honestly, considering her demeanor my partner and I as well as the cops were as nice to her as can be expected. She proceeded to insult my partner and I and then went on to call the cops pigs and liars. We gave her her options.. She is unable to ambulate herself due to intoxication so it was either, go to the ER for intervention or go to PDHQ for registration. We couldn't responsibly leave her to her own accord. She started getting more belligerent, and when we informed her that her two double-deuces of Natty Ice were not going with her to the ER or HQ, she decided it was time to start with threats and accusations of theft (pfft.. like I would stoop to drinking Natty Ice).
So the woman was insistent on going on her own, which was impossible and we let her know that, so she choose option B, the ER. We lead her to the ambulance and I take the roll of being at the top of the two steps in front of her, while one officer is at the rear of the Ambulance cab and the other assists my partner with helping her inside. She gets up one step and stops to turn around, demanding her Natty Ice. We explain that alcohol is not allowed in city vehicles (again) and she is not happy, she turns towards me to go up the second step. She starts yelling at me and then smacked her lips together, looking like she was prepping a gob to spit in my face. As I go to protect myself from the possible loogie she reacts in this totally human and forward way. 
She flinches and says, "what, are you going to beat me up now?" 
"No, miss, I do not beat up drunk women."
I don't want to let her know I envisioned the possibility of her spitting in my face, just letting on to that thought could offend her, but I really did think it possible. I've learned from experience. 


That sits with me, and horrifies me. That this random woman thought I was prepping to hit her, because I was proactively protecting myself from what happens at times. I used experiences I've had to prepare myself for this experience. But then I envision the experiences this woman must have had to say out loud and mentally prepare for what she thought was going to happen... 
Sad to say it, but it HAS to be an afterthought. I can respond kindly to her (and tried) but I also have to be open to change, and protective of myself. I can't let emotions effect me DURING a call. 
But afterward, I am left with the thought that this vulnerable, drunk, (albeit unpleasant) woman thought I was going to hit her.

The Reason

We fail at communicating because
we remember the times our words came back to bite us
Every time we spoke
too soon, too honestly, or spontaneously.
Those times we hasten our reaction,
or our own words spark someone else to
react with emotion
Those pains sit with us, those regrets, those pains
The taught us the wrong lessons so many times.
We all needed to be taught how to respond AND react
and not just how to talk.
So now as near-adults,
when it is our turn to talk
we are so careful
So unsure of every word
The slow, meticulous sentences are just a slow death
The slow talkers come off as if they are thinking too much
As if they have something to hide
The only thing we have to hide
is our scars, our vulnerabilities.
because if you show me yours
and i show you mine
we will both know just where to strike out of anger
All we want is some one who can think
but these cases of thinkers
these 'too-careful', they frighten us
We are all so scared of
that which might comfort us.

What the Book Industry should learn from the Music Industry

I do not own a Kindle, Nook or any other e-reader. I am a person who loves to own the material books. Maybe I believe it'll make me look smarter, I don't know.
I can easily compare this to my feelings on music. I love music even more than books, and own alot more records than I do books. OK, I admit it, I am a music geek as well as a record snob. I, like most record geeks, prefer to own my music on vinyl. I can easily see a parallel between the Record Geek part of me and the Printed Book Geek part of me.
Then my ex bought me an iPod. She told me driving around with a 300 CD book of CDs was clutter compared to having one little device to listen to 10,000 songs on. The traditionalist is me fought it, but after she started ripping some of my CDs to my library, I quickly realized how convenient it all was. This could have easily started to cost me a fortune. I could have went out and bought a USB record player. I could have started to pirate MP3 versions of the records I owned. But then a little record company from Omaha,NE did something that quickly started being done by alot of the smaller indie lables that still produce vinyl regularly. When you bought a vinyl record, it came with a download code that also gave you the rights to MP3 (or ACC etc) versions of the tracks on the vinyl. Now I could easliy keep my vinyl at home, but still have high quality, frustrationless versions of the records I own.
As it stands, I do not desire a e-reader. As I said, I prefer the feel of a book in my hand, much like I prefer the sound of a vinyl record. But, if I could get digital versions of my favorite books, just by buying printed versions of books. I might consider having a digital portable version of my book library, like I do my music library.

This is the Still, Life

I want.
I want to run, I want to write, I want to shoot, I want to feel the fog in Meath once again,
I want to talk, I want live music, I want to see more, I want to drive all night. I want to own every album, I want to read every book;
I will get to most of these at a pace that is reasonable; but most of all, tonight, I want to be still.
Mind slow and silent, and accepting.

Since I first remember sleeping, I've been restless; averaging four to five hours of sleep a night.
Always with a defiant desire to get back up and see what the world had in store.
Unless I am tired enough to pass out, or have a lover beside me;
I am resistant to sleep.
I have gone thirty and forty hours without sleep and have thought nothing of it.
The nighttime gives me a new found desire to awaken that is often refreshing, but on nights like tonight, it can also be bland and repetitive. To hear others talk of how complete they feel after sleep, I can not relate. When others complain of a lack of sleep, I often can not relate to them either.
If the time comes when I do feel a doze coming on, it is a chore beyond the normal routine of others' to try and get myself to sleep in bed, a second wind will often come and I have to hope to be exhausted soon enough to lay down again,
but many times I just awaken, just to find out where I finally passed out.

In the Fire

So, this is what it looks like after someone is caught in the fire. The smell comes first and stays with you. The Internet doesn't even have a thesaurus or dictionary big enough to find the words for the smell. No one ever wants to smell it but when they do, they'll never forget it.
Then the sight comes into view. It is inhuman. A mannequin spray painted black. Toes curled tight as if the foot was bound down like an ancient Chinese custom. Splits throughout the skin and then the face. What was once the face will never shake from my mind. Almost with extreme comical exaggeration; the face is horror and humor at once. It is all teeth and skull. No hair, no wrinkles, no real discernible expression, yes the desperation is unavoidable. Breathless and frozen; straining for air and release from the trauma.
The burned have no social class. For there are only slim scraps of clothing left, and the dead have no regard for dignity.
In this case the fist is what will follow me home. Laying there on his back, his arm frozen in the position he was baked alive in. His fist was raised up above his head. Almost victorious; though this day, there was nothing my brothers could do to have his rescue be a success.

The Pallbearer

For some reason I remember the weather that day as sunny and cold. Paterson, New Jersey. In a Roman Catholic church I know I have been in a lot, but only remember break-dancing at the summer cook outs they had behind the school. Like most churches, this one was usually filled with elderly people, begging for mercy in their final years. Before they ascend into the fictitious hell or heaven they believed in. Today was slightly different. There was a very mixed crowd. Their ages ranging from three to eighty-three. All of their faces familiar. Some of them close family members; some of them I knew were related to me, even though I can’t remember how or when I last saw them. I was standing on the right hand side of the aisle. Six of us lined up, casket in hand.
Usually, when our family has these gatherings it would be the six brothers: my uncles Art, Jim, John, Mike, Bob, and my father, Tom. Today, I was promoted to pallbearer. The last time the brothers lined up like this my grandmother was between them, inside. That was seven years ago. This time Uncle Mike, Fat Mike as we called him, was in the center being carried. And with him passing in his sleep, I was promoted.
Most of the memories are a blur. I remember it started to rain when we finally drove to the church. A large dump-truck was driving in a rush and hydroplaned into the procession line, almost taking out Uncle Jimmy’s car.
As I stood in the aisle, I was uncomfortable, as I always am when I am around my father's family. I looked around for support. Most people just prayed there, looking up, probably asking God why he would take away Uncle Mike at such a young age. I glanced over at my grandfather. Surrounded by my aunts, he barely had any expression on his face, besides obvious grief. Much like how he looked when Nana passed away. I felt so frustrated for my grandfather. Your children should not pass-on before you do, especially when they’re only in their early-thirties.
The coffin was heavy, and cold. I think one of my uncles nervously made a joke about Mike’s weight. As we all did throughout his life, but only after he would have a comment for us.
The organ started. We all jumped slightly, knowing this would be the last contact with Mike we would have physically. Every one in the pews slowly rose. We slowly headed towards the double-doors. I hated the thought that this was the only way the family ever got together, yet I knew it to be the entire truth. I hardly ever saw my father, let alone the rest of the family. Everyone was quiet among the pallbearers. Except Uncle John, who quietly wept, almost letting go of the casket entirely. We struggled to keep Mike up as someone gave John a few words of support. We got to the stairs and paused to make sure everyone was ready for the last of the haul. Slowly the people from inside filed out and spread among the grass and sides of the staircase. We slowly positioned the coffin into the back of the hearse. As we let the car take on more of the weight I realized just how heavy it was. I heard my father weep something to himself as we pushed. When the end of the casket was in, I backed away.
My father turned to face me. I reached up to him and hugged him. My father rested his head in my shoulder and cried ‘God Damn It!’ We stood there for a minute or two. Now calm, my father let go and walked over to his other brothers. We then went to the graveyard and the party afterward. Most detail after that becomes a blur.
That was the first time my father ever cried to me like that. And the last time I can remember hugging him.

Do You Remember the Face Before You Were Born?

I had a dream, before I was born, of a face; the face of love and trust. I saw our lives, both apart and together; it was great and smelled like summer.

She took steps to understand me. She asked questions, and never expected. I felt safe with her, in her arms; she smelled like musk and tea tree.

I try to see the face now, I close my eyes, and although I can sense her,
even remember the touch I have never felt; I cannot see her face in my mind.

I know she exists here, she told me she would find me, if only for a moment.
I imagine how I will find her, where we will meet. I have often thought it would be shopping, for food or books.

I recall being in those places, suddenly feeling like I was being watched. I would look up and see someone walking away from me. As if, she might have just turned around. I wondered if she might be her.

There have been a few times; I was even convinced I found her. I would look into the eyes of my lover, in bed, or walking in sunlight. Trying to see if she would remember what she might have promised me before we were born. One thing was always missing; the touch, or the questions, or the smell.

I cannot imagine her face, and do not yet know her name. I am not even sure if it was just a dream. Nevertheless, I will continue on, walk with my head high.
Peeking around corners; not really looking so much as being aware, and hoping.

The Cards Would be Good for Shaping Lines.

She was in the living room, watching The Sopranos. I felt uneasy, jittery, and I wanted to do something else, but knew this was what she wanted at that time. I got up and paced a little. I walked past the laptop and realized I could do something to cheer her up and help her.
She had been trying to build up her business and she was working from home. She moved recently and never got new business cards. I decided to take the initiative and get some business cards made for her from a place I knew that did it online for a decent price. I used an old card she had laying around as a template and built her a card from the ground up. I used a good picture of her I took recently and updated her info on the card.
I waited until the episode she was watching was over and then I called her into the office to look at the laptop. She came over, asked what it was. I explained to her that it was her new business card. That she had been saying she needed new ones. She asked how much they were and I told her price wasn't important, because I was going to have them made for her. That it was my gift to her in the name of helping her continue to build her business up.
She looked at the screen some more, asked to change one of the colors; I did this with a click. Then she stared at the screen for a minute or two. I watched as the expression on her face changed. Tears welt up in her eyes and she asked me why I did this. I told her because she was important to me and I wanted to help. She became more upset and got up and hugged me, saying that I was too good to her and thanked me. I felt so good to make her so happy that she cried. It wasn't until later on, a couple of weeks later that I understood why she got so upset.
She wasn't crying because she was happy. She was crying with guilt. I was good to her, and did a nice thing. Meanwhile, when I was not around she had been lying to me about who she was with, what she was doing and where she was going. She was using cocaine. She was cheating on me with a person she claimed was a good friend. She was breaking my heart. To see proof that I didn't deserve this; that the guy she was taking advantage of and deceiving was actually still really into her and being good to her, while she was not good to him. Well, the guilt overwhelmed her at that moment and she got emotional.
To realize this later on ruined that memory. I had thought I made her that happy, happy enough to cry. Instead, I made her realize her guilt.

The Voice of an Old Friend

When you hear the voice of an old friend, you are with them. You can taste them, smell them once again. You can feel the blanket under your back as you lay together staring into wishing flowers floating in the blue above. You can feel the blades of grass poke you on your side as you lean towards her. The smell of her hair and perfume mixes with the smell of the phone in your hand. You instantly feel younger again, the world is newer. You remember the time you got caught doing things in her back yard. Water balloons and garden-hose fights. You can taste the cigarette on her breath as you kissed her for the first time. You can remember when you first placed your hand up her shirt and how embarrassed you were that your pants were sticking out that way. You can feel the tingle that dances up your back in the form of goose bumps when she didn't laugh at the bulge and instead placed her hand on you. You can remember riding your bike for miles to see her, sneaking behind the church to look and touch at each other naked. Remember how the phone calls were so long thy blended from one day to the next. Remember her other lovers' names. Wonder if she remembers what you were like then as much as you remember her. The world felt small then and you were never going to lose touch. Everything silly you did then would be more silly now; but it wouldn't mind being sillier now. If that meant being with her, to feel younger again. To feel the energy of the newness of it all. To forget the stress of life, and how you must be careful with everything. You were innocent devils sinning all the way the basement for clumsy lust. Clumsy lust that weren't ready for, but gave you stories to brag about to friends drunk. Wonder if they count you as one of the ones that mattered or another name rewritten into every new address book. Just in case, they need to call and remember, like this.

Kind and Denied

I was in the DMV. I had been sitting there for a little while. This was my first time in the new DMV. This era where you are only there for an hour or less. I was used to the stereotypical image of back when it was a prison term to have to go there.
I brought a book of my own, expecting to wait for a while, but I ended up people watching. I've always enjoyed looking at strangers. Guessing their stories and histories, and studying their behaviors.
There was an African-American woman with an infant who had come in and sat down close to me. I saw her and thought to myself how annoying it was going to be to have a crying baby screaming across from me. I got a look at the baby's face. The little girl was beautiful; with huge and curious eyes and cute chubby cheeks. She was very small yet alert, looking around at all of us admiring her. I watched her movements. How her mother held her close and with pride. Kissing her every so often, and constantly primping her collar or bonnet, not coming off as slightly annoyed for having to sit here. She had her child to distract her from the scene.
An older heavy set man with a red face and too much clothes on came walking in, heading in our direction. This was fall, a slight chill in the air, yet this guy looked like he had enough layers on to march along the Northern Swiss countryside. Well overdressed for the season; he took off his outer jack and hung it over his shoulder. He had a red face, you couldn’t tell if was red from the cold, or from alcohol. He walked passed us and went to sit down.
He noticed the little girl and stopped. She turned and looked at him and he gave a little wave hello. Her mother’s face beamed with pride that her child was such a beacon for such attention. He asked how old she was, her mother stated 10 months.
‘She is adorable’ he said and he leaned over and touched her sleeve to tap her and play with her. He mothers face suddenly turned into a look of discomfort. He made giggling child-like noises as jiggled her arm though the coat. Then he went to touch her face and her mother’s arm intuitively shot up and covered the child’s face. The only word she could get out of her mouth was ‘No’! The old man’s arm flinched back towards him. “Oh, I’m sorry; I just wanted to touch her…’ He motioned to touch the infant’s face again and the woman turned her body away from the man, covering the child’s face entirely ‘I said no, NO’. She then reached for the man’s arm with her forearm and looked up at him in disgust. ‘Are you crazy? You don’t go just touching people’s face’.
He stood there, awkward and uncomfortable. ‘I just… I’m sorry… I…’ and he turned to look for the seat he was about to take. It had already been taken. He gathered himself together and walked around the other way and continued on out of my vision.
The woman sucked her teeth and looked around for support and amazement. The people around us all seemed to give off the attitude that they also found his actions to be unusual.
I felt bad for the guy. I fully understood where the mother was coming from. People don’t just go putting their hands on the faces of stranger’s infants. But I think he was just naive in his actions. Obviously the woman was well within her right, but I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for him.
The image of a stranger appreciating a child’s innocence and beauty quickly changed into an act of some kind of accidental bio-terrorism.

Then there was a perfect moment, where everything clicked. Where the powdered playa was not an issue. Where the heat had subsided. Where I forgot I was hundreds of miles from any city, how much my feet hurt, how dirty I was, or what stresses I may return to when I get home. I sat there in the open playa, and watched a desert sunset with a wonderful person I only knew for a few days. We watched the sun progress closer to the mountains. Then it slowly went behind them, throwing color everywhere. We kissed there, and rain began to fall.
That was my beautiful moment.
To kiss in the desert, at sunset, in the rain. Of all the things I am sure and unsure of, that was the one moment certainty didn't matter. I am left with questions, yet the mindset of knowing I shouldn't question anything. Logic vs Love, in a sense. Responsibility of life vs responsibility of self, in a sense. I love the questions and the uncertainty of it all, it is already not easy, but it is not trouble, or difficult. It just is, and its wonderful

This Is Me

I need a catalyst. Something to get the water running under my bridges again. Somehow I got so caught up in getting my life in order, that I lost something that kept my mind in order, writing. This is my attempt the bring it back in close.
While rolling down the stairs of the internet I found a site on blogspot about a band I like. I wanted to chime into the conversation being had about the band and I needed to sign in to comment. After commenting I followed some links to my profile on here and realized that not only had I had one already, having a Google account, but that I also started a blog I had forgotten about. I hadn't really done anything with it yet, and felt maybe me rediscovering it was or a reason. I know I wanted to bring writing back into my everyday life and the coincidence was too much. So here it is. This may end up with some photos on it, it may end up with a list of things I need to do to get a task done. It may not be what you expect, but then again, are any of us?

A Memory Remembered Of A Number Lost

I was with Debbie; we were going into Brooklyn to visit a friend of hers to celebrate his birthday. We went to a quiet chill bar somewhere. Although I am usually reliable to remember where things happened, was it East New York, was it park slope, or was it Canarsie, etc. For some reason I cannot remember where exactly in the city this bar was for the life of me. Either way, we went. I only knew two people there: Debbie and her guy friend. Now at this time, things were good with Debbie and me. We were trying to talk out our issues and had been staying happy. Anyone who knows of how this relationship was overall, knows that it wouldn’t last like that for long.
Either way, I met a bunch of interesting people and if I was the person I am now, then. I would have probably started a bunch of new cool friendships, but I was much more introverted and quiet and felt I had to keep my guard up alot, especially when dealing with people I met through Debbie. The party died out somewhat early, but there was a few of us left. I remember a the birthday boy, Debbie, myself, and I think Elizabeth, one of the guys friends. We went out front of the bar to smoke a cigarette.
The conversations were going all over. At one point me and the guy was talking, at another point me and Debbie was, at another point me and Liz was, etc etc not atypical to any group of people hanging out. It turned out that the girl wasn’t dating the birthday boy, as I thought she was, but that didn’t matter to me at the time, I was with Debbie, and convinced that eventually we would be happy and ever after, all that stupid shit.
The girl and I hit it very quickly and easily. We ended up having alot of in common and spoke alot. I felt a connection to this girl but only saw it in reflection. I had no intentions with the person other than having conversation.
On a related, but off topic note, I recall having a few conversations with friends of mine about how we can behave as humans. How we can be so shy and guarded, but once we are in a contented relationship, we seem to come out of our shells. We feel more confident, almost like we think 'i have no one to impress; I’ll just be myself; or something of that ilk. Which is why, when we have a significant other, we often end up attracting others. You know how it is, you finally have a bf/gf and suddenly all of these people come out of the woodwork, trying to gain your interest. Where were all of these people before?.. yadda yadda yadda, i digress, slightly
That was how I guessed I felt. I felt like I can just talk to this woman, and she will know I have no intentions. Because I am there with someone and I am just looking for conversation. All of us spoke alot and the four of us ended up closing the bar, and eventually Debbie and I left. I remember her mentioning to me that I spoke to Elizabeth alot. She didn’t say it in this accusatory way that she often had, jealousy and control being her popular motives. I reassured her I did not get a number, I did not have any ill will, I was just making friends while we were there, which in a sense was true.
Six weeks later, I broke up with Debbie. Things had, ironically, taken a significant turn for the worse and beginning of the end took too long, and we ended it in my jeep, in a church parking lot, late one cold autumn night.
Debbie and I spoke off and on, mostly just 'Are you ok?' 'How are you doing' types of calls, but I recall getting one particularly odd phone call from her. She said that she remembered how well Elizabeth and I got along, and that her friend mentioned to her (Debbie) that if she were ok with it, Elizabeth would like to get in touch with me, beings that we are no longer together. Debbie insisted I called Liz, that she saw a magic between Elizabeth and I. I know of only one person on my friends list who knew Debbie anything close to as well as I did, and even he would have to say that the idea of Debbie having this conversation with me would be very out of character. I took the number down, but was left very troubled.
I held onto that number for a month. I could never call. (In hindsight, I do not think I should have called her with anything other than platonic intent at that time anyway. It took a long time for me to settle my heart about my relationship with Debbie ending.) However, even then I felt like I did get along with this woman very well. I felt like she might’ve been someone special. I also felt like it could be a trick. I felt something so odd about an ex trying to hook me up with someone, that I wrote it off. Maybe she found out the girl was as treacherous as she was. I dunno…
But as I thought about this memory today, I thought, maybe Debbie was aware of something. Maybe she wasn’t pulling some scheme. Maybe she really did just see something special. We never did get back together in a committed relationship, so maybe she did actually think this woman would be a good idea for me. I cannot change anything about it now. But to think that If I had just done something for myself then, instead of thinking of many trivial ways in which it was wrong, who knows what could have been?

Gamestop

I opened the door and looked up, seeing a familiar face, but not placing who it was. I thought nothing of it and went to continue walking. Then I felt something, a twitch or a sense coming alive after a lapse. I looked up and saw her. The chances were ridiculously against this, meeting up so far from our homes; not knowing how close a place comfort was. My stomach was suddenly full, my heart fell and I got dizzy, excited, and scared all at once. Then we spoke, I said hello to what was a familiar face, now recognized as her father. I spoke to him and her about the randomness of this meeting. Meanwhile, I had visions of the movie, ‘The Last Time I Committed Suicide’ where Neil and Mary were at the dinner table having conversation with her family while they were trying not to make it obvious how much they just wanted to stare at each other, how this close wasn’t close enough.
I looked in her eyes, wonderful as ever. Her hair had been lightened a little; I remembered it being darker and shorter, but not by much either way. And we stared, although it was obvious to me we were taking turns, her staring at me as I looked away, and then reversed.
God, I was nervous. I could not get words out I was so awestruck. I felt my throat get dry and had to stutter and clear it a few times. I had been in situations like this before, but never like this. I never felt like this; excited that it happened. I hardly felt awkward, if you ignore the lump in my throat and down to my stomach. However, that was enough to make me nervous. Enough to make me think ending the conversation was maybe best; Not because I wanted it to end, but because I did not want it to end at all. I was afraid I might make a fool of myself in front of her father, the way my stomach was dancing around, to match all of the words and feelings bouncing around in my head. So, we ended the conversation. I walked to my car, conscious not to look back until I sat down. Not wanting to make it obvious how awake I suddenly felt. I sat down and took a long breath. Amazed, I started the car, and the radio kicked on, giving me another jump. I had left the iPod on and on random while I went into the store and it was mid song. A song that always made me think of her. A song she loved the first time I shared it with her. It only made the situation make more sense, the coincidence. It fit. I back out of the parking spot. Purposely going the long way so I could face right into the store I just left, the store they were in. She was in the front door, on display, pretending to look at the racks with her father, while she looked out at me. I got to the front of the store and turned toward the exit. We looked at each other and waved at each other. I was curious if she felt anything I did. I was curious if this was random, coincidence, or fate.