Will you follow me home on the wrong road that I led you through?

He was the most peculiar man. That's what Mrs. Riordan said and she should know, she lived upstairs from him. But she never told us why she thought him to be peculiar. Maybe it was understood. He had no friends. He seldom spoke. And he lived all alone within a house, within a room, within himself. He died last Saturday. And on this cold cold night, I am snuggled up in bed and listening intently as Simon and Garfunkel lament this most peculiar man.

I should be sleeping. Wrapped up in layers of quilt, I should be dreaming. But I am afraid to sleep because when I do, I dream of you. And I am tired of wasting my dreams on you. What if we could? I was always weary of life's sense of humor. It's wry. Very dry. Bordering dark. But it's been here for a while and must be getting bored. Come, let's put it on hold.

The light is dull and pouring out from above me. A tiny lamp placed over my bed. It has thrown the rest of the room into darkness. And in it the blinds crash against the open window. I get a feeling that the wind is trying to tell me something. That it wants to let me in on a secret. That it feels it can save me from myself. Oh how sweet.

I dream of white kitchen walls with a thousand windows. I am asleep but I can hear the piano. There is coffee being brewed and late morning light caressing my bare shoulders. And there is that sound of you making breakfast before noon. I am lost in a mangled mess of white bed linen and the phone won't ring. There is no knock on the door and the alarm wasn't set. And there is no reason to wake up from that dream. No reason to remember that I don't own a coffee machine. Or a piano. Or that I live alone now. Oh how did we end up here? I was never good with directions but what is your excuse?

Remora. How beautiful it sounds. Re. Mo. Ra. It could be the name of a mistress. A delightfully passionate lady who smokes thin cigarettes and reads Emily Dickinson poems out loud in her Italian accent.

Silky voice and scarlet lips. She drove him mad with her twirling hips. And then he made the fatal mistake of believing that she could be possessed. That she would want to replace his wife. That she would feel honored to be more than just the mother of his bastard child. Remora. An obstacle, hindrance or obstruction. The word is obscenely beautiful to mean any of those. But it is best not to doubt the dictionary.

Drive. The movie. There is something about him. His silence. His smile. The slightly furrowed eyebrows when he gazes at her. At her son. The way he holds the steering. The way he keeps an eye out for trouble when he is but the only trouble. I am finally going to stop mistaking him for Ryan Reynolds. There was something calming about him even when he was covered in blood.

There is a beautiful visual moment that the two share. It's night time, they are in his car, he is driving and the silence between them is natural. And just as naturally she slides her hand on to his, the one that is gripping the gear. And he acknowledges it by lightly lifting his fingers so hers can entwine with his. No words pass, no smile, no glances. None that I can remember. Second chances are rare and they are worth celebrating.

1:20 am. The wind is getting fierce. And the glass is being knocked on. Repeatedly. Is this a plea? You have accused me often of not caring. Not understanding. Of never seeing the signs. Where do we go from here? Why does your heart beat? How could I let it go? And now, why do I feel? And would you walk your cool walk the next time you walk away? Swaggering your way out of my life. I couldn't have imagined it any other way.