It was only a dream...

I took A into the city today. We went to the hospital to visit E (who looks better than his wife at this point, which is another story unto itself), had a nice lunch, and then went to the Merchandise Mart to see the Artropolis Chicago exhibit. Since I'd gotten free tickets anyway, I thought it was something I couldn't pass up. He needs to be exposed to such things.

Since it was an artsy thing, I wore my favorite BCBG dress. It's the coolest item of clothing I own, and if I may say so, I look pretty good in it. And it shows off almost more cleavage than is legal. So I felt great, and had a fabulous time following my 'date' around the various exhibits.

As we stepped onto the elevator on our way out, our blissful little bubble was broken as the man next to me started swearing loudly at his (I can only assume) partner. "Don't you fucking start with me, you piece of shit. Don't start."

The elevator was crammed, and A and I were crowded against the door. I tucked him behind me a bit. The partner giggled, rather insolently, it seemed.

He became louder, and more vehement. "I told you, this is fucking bullshit. I'll fucking end this right here, you fuck."

A man in the opposite corner of the elevator said quietly, "Why don't you just take the drama somewhere else?" It was a ballsy move. I looked up.

And my jaw fell open.

"Dean." I said, almost reflexively.

The angry guy kept getting angrier. Dean, whom I have not seen in almost two years, looked at me. It took a second, maybe two, before recognition crossed his face. Then his eyes widened.

"Well, hello."

The woman at his side turned quickly to zero in on me. I suddenly felt foolish, and hoped to look as innocuous as possible standing there with my eleven year-old son.

The elevator stopped, and I held A against the wall to let the angry guy and his still-snickering partner off first. Then I stepped to the side and waited.

Dean and his lady friend walked out behind us. We introduced our companions, and I gave him a hug.

"You look great," I said. It was the truth.

He and I had dated several years ago. Truly, he is one of the most wonderful men I have ever known - he is sweet, intelligent, funny, artistic, and strong. He called me "princess", and told me that he loved me. He exposed me to a side of Chicago I'd never seen before, and treated me like the most beautiful woman on earth.

But.

but.

In spite of the lavish gifts and the fancy dinners, the nights on the town and the incredible social circles, the hand at the small of my back and the doors opening before I ever had a chance to touch them, I could not stay there. For his sake (and mine), I had to leave.

Because a girl simply can not date a sweet, wealthy man over 25 years her senior without creating a label of "sugar daddy".

He deserves better than that, and so do I.

But it was wonderful to see him. He and his lady friend looked so very happy together. I sincerely hope they are.

Because he deserves that.

He looked great.

This afternoon, I decided to bake some sugar cookies to bring E in the hospital (they've already started chemo - the doctors at Northwestern tend to be fairly efficient, it seems). He likes sugar cookies.

I decided it was time for a new recipe, so I did some searching...and found one that looked fairly interesting. For some reason, though, I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to the size of the recipe. How very unlike me.

I always double the cookie recipes I find, because I hate taking the time to bake and ending up with two dozen cookies. It's really not worth the hassle.

So I made the dough, and threw it in the fridge for an hour. Then I started rolling and cutting. And rolling. And cutting. And rolling. And cutting. And rolling. And cutting.

I somehow ended up with 11 dozen sugar cookies that all now need to be frosted.

I'll be mailing out boxes on Monday. Lemme know if you want some.

*headdesk*

I'm not quite sure how my life keeps getting busier.

I've found it more and more important to take the time to enjoy the perfect moments to the fullest, as I truly believe they are the things that sustain me. They keep me from being completely overwhelmed when I start losing track of all the things I need to do and the places I need to be.

Last night, I had a dinner to attend in the city. Friday nights aren't usually the best time for me, as I'm exhausted from the week and usually just want to go home and collapse on my couch - but this was an important client event to which I felt I needed to go. I had some meetings downtown during the day anyway, so I just brought a little black dress and the accouterments with me in the morning as I left. A would spend the night with his dad.

It was a quiet sort of day, mentally. After the rollercoaster of the job interview and the board meeting the day before, I felt a bit subdued as I plodded through my to-do list. By 4:00, I had mentally checked out. I changed into my dress, put on some cute black heels, and threw everything into my car. I had over two hours before the dinner began, and I headed down Adams Street to meet my friend Greg for a few drinks.

I found him at a crowded little Irish pub full of young people skipping out of work early. The bartender was a cutie - he laughed heartily when I insisted that since I was dressed in a terribly girly manner, I needed to have a terribly girly drink. Greg shook his head and ordered me a blueberry cosmo, which fit the bill perfectly. We drank and talked for a long time - he seems to be doing relatively well, in spite of everything he's been through lately. It was good to see him.

At 6:00, I realized that I'd had three of the blue monstrosities, and I was drunk. I had to be at the dinner by about 6:30, and couldn't show up stumbling. I drank a glass of water, gave Greg a big hug, and decided to walk east in lieu of taking a cab. It would help tremendously.

The rain was still threatening, but hadn't yet started to fall. It was warm and windy, and the alcohol kept me from feeling the crunch of my toes in the pointy shoes. I made my way toward Millennium Park, where I sat on a low wall for a few minutes as my brain came back into focus. All that was left was a warm glow by the time I walked in, took a glass of wine to nurse for a while, and began schmoozing with the crowd.

I'd been in the building several times before - it's a gorgeous old Gothic gem right off of Michigan Avenue. My client's wife called me Carol all night, the manager of our banking team on the account never looked higher than my collarbone, I sat next to the banker I hate with the passionate heat of a thousand suns, and everyone at the table hassled me about how poorly the markets have performed this year (as if I control stock performance from a little lever in my office) - but I was unruffled. I maintained an uncharacteristic serenity throughout dinner, as I watched the lightning begin outside the stained glass windows. The ambiance of the room with its stone archways, high, dark ceiling, and view of the lake were enough to make everything okay. I did, however, leave as soon as dinner was finished.

As I stepped outside, the rain still hadn't arrived. It was 9:00, and I still had a faint alcoholic taint in my head. If I took a cab back to the office to pick up my car, it might not be the best idea to immediately get in and drive...so I decided to to walk the mile or so through the city, instead.

The wind was pouring down Monroe Street like a flood, but it was still quite warm. I started west through the nearly-empty streets, and was reminded of another night, several years ago, when I headed alone into the streets of downtown Memphis. There is something so liberating about the quiet of urban streets at night, when you feel as if you have almost the entire city to yourself. Last night, as in Memphis, I threw my head back, closed my eyes, and held out my arms to the darkness. I was alive.

After only a few blocks, it began to rain. It was a light mist, which didn't seem worthy of my umbrella. I thought about grabbing a cab, and decided against it. It was warm, and I would be fine.

Slowly but surely, the drops grew larger and heavier. I contemplated the umbrella again, but figured the wind would make things far too difficult. I kept walking.

After a few more blocks, even the panhandlers had scooted off beneath awnings and overhangs. They didn't bother approaching me. The few other people on the street were either wrestling with unruly umbrellas or running for their destinations. I refused to change my pace. I was over halfway there, and had no inclination to rush. I wanted to savor each second.

By the time I reached the river, I was soaked. My hair was plastered against my face, and my toes were developing wet blisters in the pointed tips of my shoes. My dress was drenched, and my umbrella still hung from the strap of my purse. But I was content with the world on a level that I simply don't have the words to explain. The smell of the city, the sound of the el trains, the glow of the lighted signs, and the hypnotic tapping of the rain all combined to make magic. The wind tossing my hair, the splash of passing cars, the flash of distant lightning...all both humbling and empowering, really.

When I reached the parking garage, I thought about grabbing my dry work clothes and changing back into them before getting into my car. I decided against it. I climbed in and pulled my hair behind my ears as I started the engine. With a smile, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. My chin dripped rain onto my lap.

Then, suddenly, I was back in the real world. My night snapped back into its normal, predictable pattern. The moment was gone.

But this morning, as I placed my dress into the dry cleaning bag, I lifted it to my face. It still smelled vaguely of rain.

It made me smile.

I think four year-olds are a lot smarter than we give them credit for.

Of all the people in the world, I honestly believe they do one thing better than anyone else - they know how to love.

Think about it. When you're four, you're not afraid of telling people what you think. If someone you love hurts your feelings, you can tell them that they are making you sad. If they do something nice for you, it makes you the happiest person in the whole world, and you don't think twice about throwing your arms around them and saying thank you. There is a simplicity to your actions...a lack of hidden agendas and worries.

When you're four, it's okay if someone doesn't make total sense to you. You accept that people do funny things, and look stupid every now and then. You don't feel the need to question their motives. If your friend is mean, you tell them that they're being stupid - and then you make up and forgive them when it's over. You trust that the people who care about you will always be there when you need them, and you make them hand-made gifts to bring a smile to their face when they are sad.

You hold someone's hand when one of you is afraid, and you have no qualms about giggling with them until you fall down when they say something funny. You curl up beside them when you are cold, sleepy, or just happy, and you aren't worried about what they're going to think if you tell them your deepest, darkest secrets. You share your cookies, remind them to say please and thank you, and kiss their cheeks whenever the mood strikes you.

There is an innocence to the love of a four year-old. An enthusiasm. A lack of fear, and a sense that no matter what happens, everything is going to be okay.

So many situations require us to be adults. Jobs, finances, responsibilities...all of these things force us to weigh the risks and benefits of every choice we make. Love, though, is an anomaly. It's not meant to be measured or calculated. It is the simplest, most basic human emotion there is.

So today, at some point, why not indulge your inner peanut? Choose one person that you completely adore, and just tell them that you enjoy them as much as a fudgicle on a hot summer day. Forget about looking dumb. Never mind feeling embarrassed. Just abandon the stupid protocols, and make them smile for the pure joy of bringing happiness into their life.

Go ahead. You'll be amazed at how good it feels to be four again, if only for a moment.

I know that in your eyes, I am likely much too much.

I think, I feel, and I do too much. I risk and I ask too much.

I give more than you think wise, and I take more than my share.

I hope too much.

I dream too much.

And I want too much.

I have more faith than I should, and I believe that you can never have enough belief.

I am too naive, and yet too afraid.

I can understand why you would think those things, of course. I am a lot to handle.

But please, regardless of what you may believe, do not accuse me of loving too much.

Because that, my dear, would be far too much. Even for me.

F came over to my desk this morning and invited me to join him downstairs for a cup of coffee. Since my caffeine supply was running dangerously low, I gratefully accepted.

I was people-watching as he generously paid for both cups of Starbucky goodness. Putting his wallet back in his pocket, he asked if I wanted to go straight back upstairs or sit in the restaurant area for a bit.

"Let's stay here," I said with a grin. "I kinda want to perv on that guy who just walked by for a few minutes."

F looked over my shoulder, and his face turned red. He started to laugh - that "I can't breathe or I'm going to make noises that are going to turn every head in the place" kind of laugh.

I was confused. I turned to find the aforementioned pervalicious hottie...

...with his arm around another vision of manly beauty. He then leaned over and whispered something into Mr. Sexy's ear before laying his head on his shoulder in apparent contentment.

I sighed.

"Sorry, sweetheart," said F. "Looks like you're perving up the wrong tree."

The wrong tree, indeed. I took my coffee and went back upstairs.

I may never live this down.

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No, you can't afford me. Sorry. Click anyway.

I hereby officially declare that it is spring.

My crocuses and daffodils are in bloom, my lilacs are budding, the grass is turning green, and the rabbits have eaten all of my tulips.

Oh, and I have ants invading my kitchen. But that's another story. As with any insect that invades my space, they will die. Most likely in a horrible, tragic way.

I also have the world's cutest bird nest in my back yard. It seems the chickadees like the lilacs as much as I do, and they have made a little home out of twigs, grass, and salvaged raffia and Christmas tree tinsel. I'm looking forward to watching them throughout the summer.


As a bonus, M took me out for my birthday last night - it was a welcome break in my routine. It seems like it's been forever since I've left the house on a purely social mission - a few glasses of wine, great food, and laughter will cure a lot of what ails you. As, of course, will winning two out of three games of gin rummy (this is a total coup, of course. Either he threw them to make me feel better, or the luck of the Polish was with me. I don't anticipate a repeat performance any time in the near future). Between being sick, working like a mad woman, and being on a worrying streak, I've not been terribly much fun lately.

Today, I feel fun.

I'm going to grab a book and lay outside in the sun until I get sleepy, and then I'm going to come inside and take a nap on my couch. After that, I'm heading over to pick up the boy, where we will eat pizza and cake with his dad, share a little birthday celebration (Mark's was this past week, too), and play some Guitar Hero.

This evening, I'm going to open keep all of the windows open and light a hundred candles in my house. I'll pop in Dave Brubeck's Time Out, pour a glass of wine, and futz around the house.

I'm due for a couple of great days, damn it.

The evil day is past, and I am done moping. In fact, I am baking today.

Lemon bars and chocolate angel food cake. With homemade chocolate-cinnamon whipped cream.

You know you want it, baby. Come on here, and I'll give you a taste.

Yep, it's that day.

When I turned 30, I was so traumatized that I had to leave the state. Luckily for me, the Alzheimer's is already kicking in and I can't quite recall if I'm supposed to be upset or not. So maybe it's just Sometimers. I am not entirely sure.

I do tend to retain a sneaking suspicion from time to time that the world will come to a violent, molten end on my birthday - and at 4:30 this morning, I was more than a bit startled to wake up convinced it was finally happening. I awoke to feel my entire bed shaking. I was all like, "Yay!" until I noticed that I was still the only person in said bed. Then I was all like, "Boo!"

Is it a coincidence that the earth trembles in fear in a 5.4 magnitude earthquake within 30 minutes of me actually turning 35? Or simply a strange twist of fate?

You decide.

I'm off to paint my toenails a freakishly girly shade and head out to a funeral.

I'll be drinking tonight. Stop over and throw one back with me, eh?

Countless moons have
graced our star-crossed skies
my Prometheus,
drawing chariots brimming
with your forbidden gifts
in their wake.

Whether borne of vengeance
or beneficence, it matters not.
You have brought to me
the warmth of the gods.

And I, your unlikely Pandora,
hold fast to my prize
as the winged scavengers
churn the clouds above
in pursuit of carrion.

These deeds, gilded in iron and salt,
will long outlive our fragile aspirations.
Neither our misgivings
nor our postulations
will be the stuff of history.

And yet my love,
as the stars wax and wane
oblivious to our intentions,
forsake with me
their burdensome fortunes.

Our redemption, in truth
lies not in their cold condemnation,
but within the vessel which
I offer you this pale night.

Come, my clever Titan.
Let us brave the uncertainty
of a final endeavor together.

For beneath your spark
and behind my clasp
can be found the singular
purpose of this struggle.

It is neither flame
nor any hope
But salvation.

Today, A and I took the train downtown to see Wes and his wife, who were in town from Cincinnati for the weekend. As always, it was great to see them, and a bit humbling to have A hear stories of some of the stupid things I did in high school. Wes is the only person I still talk to from those days, but he has enough stories to bring me down in a serious way. Thank God he's benevolent enough to refrain from doing so.

Although my ears were aching from the wind by the time we got back on the train (still not feeling 100% after the crud yet), it was a beautiful day. We ate pizza, walked and talked, and generally had a grand time.

Except for one little thing that bothered me.

And it bothers me more and more as I think about it.

As we were walking to lunch, we were talking about how nice it would be to move into the city. I mentioned that after A gets out of school and moves out, I'm seriously considering doing so. Find a nice little northside neighborhood, move out of the burbs, live the city life for a while, blah blah blah...

And out of nowhere, A hit me in the head with a frying pan.

"I might be gone sooner than you think! Maybe at high school!"

My head whipped around. "What? Where do you think you're going?"

"Dad wants to move to Las Vegas. Maybe I'll go with him! By the time I'm 16, I can drive. Then I can just go be there with him and live in the desert!"

I paused.

Now, the man has mentioned his desire to move to Vegas. It's not been a secret. A time frame has never been discussed, but I've always assumed that it was several years down the road. And the topic of A leaving me before he's out of school has never, ever come up.

Ever.

I brushed it off and kept walking. Of course it's not going to happen, right? That's dumb. My ex never follows through on what he says he's going to do. It's the nature of the beast, and one of the reasons we're divorced. What a silly idea.

pffffffft.

But on the train, A started talking about it again. It seems that serious thought has already been put into this without my knowledge. They're talking of leaving me.

He figures he could come visit me for a while over the summers and on holidays. I won't miss him too much, because I've already had him living with me most of the time for years. It would be nice if dad could have his turn, you know?

No, I didn't know. I guess I do now, though.

I've tried to call his dad twice since we got home. He's not answering.

We need to talk.

I'm sorry about Friday.

Sometimes I don't handle the stresses as well as I should.

I'll try to do better.

Love,

C

I don't do these very often - but if you live in Illinois, click here.

I'm really surprised that I hadn't heard of this before...but glad it came up.

Now go save a life.

Go!

His name is Jason.

He's a very sweet, handsome, funny young salesman whose booth was next to mine at the conference at which I was an exhibitor last week. He's also a freshly divorced (from a rabid drug addict) father of a three year-old. He lives contentedly in a tiny little town east of Indianapolis.

I had a client who was looking for the type of service he provides, so I gave him my card and my cell phone number, telling him I'd follow up this week to make an introduction.

He has already contacted me four times. Since Friday.

One of those instances was a voice mail message in which he expressed his dismay at not having the nerve to kiss me before he left town.

*sigh*

Part of me is quite flattered by the attention. After all, it's nice to be wanted. But another part of me is at a loss. If this poor sap had any clue how utterly hopeless his odds are, he'd run away screaming with his tail between his legs.

If you know me at all, you will not be surprised at my take on the situation. This is wrong on so many levels. Yet another excuse to reject a guy based on trivial details? I don't think so.

Go home and find yourself a safe, pretty little farm girl, my friend. Trust me when I say that not giving you a chance is the kindest thing I could ever do for you. I am not who you think I am.

I got chunks of guys like you in my stool.

...or another installment of What I Should Have Said.

I seem to be a grand accumulator of such occasions.

I was kicked in the teeth today by something unexpected and disturbing. Very little in the workosphere surprises me these days, and yet I found myself leaving the building with my composure in tatters. I turned to one of the few people in the world that would understand why I was so upset. Because I didn't need sympathy. I didn't need pity. I didn't need to be patronized. It was what it was, and it couldn't be changed, fixed, or mitigated.

I just desperately needed someone to understand.

That need was fulfilled.

At the end of the conversation, I said "thank you", but I know that I didn't manage to express how much I appreciated the empathy and reassurance. I fall down in this category a lot - when I'm overwhelmed, I can't find the words to express what I really mean to say. Over the next hour or so, I figured out how that conversation really should have ended.

"Thank you. You have no idea how important you are to me. I wish you could see how much good you do, and know that you make a difference in my life. Your patience and kindness have pulled me through so many times that I have lost count.

Knowing that I can come to you without fear of judgment or ridicule is something I value beyond measure. You have always, without fail, been there for me when I needed you. I will continue to be your biggest fan - not only because I absolutely adore you, but because you give me countless opportunities to laugh, and just as many to not cry.

If you could see yourself as the magnificent, brilliant (respected) person I see, then every little thing in your life would be different.

Thank you. For listening, for understanding, for helping.

For being."

It's just too bad that I'm much better at writing than I am at speaking. I'll have to work on that, as painful as it may be.

Because some things deserve more than a blog entry.

By request, this is under construction.

It's funny, though. Just wait until you read it.

Driving down the road with the windows open, wearing jeans and a t-shirt without a jacket - no make-up, hair flying in the wind - eating cookies and listening to Trent Reznor sing about what he'd do (like an animal) if he were fortunate enough to meet me.

Yeah, spring is here :)

Oh, and in case you were wondering...

The only thing hotter than Trent Reznor is, of course, Trent Reznor with a beard. Zoinks.

This, by the way, is my one hundredth post on this blog. I'm not sure that's a relevant number considering how much I lost forever in the transfer from the old digs, but it seemed worth mentioning. I've grown to love writing here, and hope to find more bloggable events as time goes on. Thanks for reading.

For me, the toughest part of attending a conference is spending the entire day 'on' in a cave-like exhibit hall under the buzzing, harsh overhead lights. I always try to get out as often as possible, just to breathe a bit of fresh air and feel like a part of the real world for a few minutes before heading back in.

It turned out that today, as luck would have it, I had the opportunity to skip a luncheon and have three straight hours in which nothing in particular was expected of me. Really, there wasn't a choice to be made. The luncheon was out.

I spent the first hour in the hotel lobby, sitting in an oversized chair overlooking the river as I returned phone calls and answered e-mails. When I was caught up enough to ease the mildly encroaching feeling of panic, I headed outside.

Spring in Chicago is a time of tender hope. The cool breeze that sighs along the river smells vaguely of growing things - it is fragrant evidence of the tentative tulips, the struggling-to-be-green grass, and the tiny buds breaking from their sleep in winter branches. The newly returned birds chirp their surprisingly chipper songs. Faces turn up to the soak in the first hints of warmth.

I wanted to move. To walk. To melt into the crowds as another anonymous face on the street. To be one with the city. To thrive on the contrasts of urban life, and feel the vibrant hum beneath my skin.

Up Columbus, with the sun on my back. With my light coat buttoned to the top and a flimsy scarf wrapped around my neck, I wasn't even the least bit chilly. Down Ohio, through the shade past a crowded Thai restaurant. Up Saint Clair, passing a Starbucks I can remember visiting long ago (though I can't remember why). Left on Ontario, then suddenly finding myself swept into the madness that is Michigan Avenue at lunch time.

It wasn't until I turned north there that I realized where I was going.

Jostled by the crowds, waiting for crosswalk signs, watching the wide variety of characters with whom I shared the sidewalk, I found it easy to feel comfortingly isolated within the crowd. Men in suits, women with collagen addictions. Babies in strollers, men led by seeing eye dogs. Girls in skinny jeans and skinnier heels, boys with too many tattoos. Homeless folks propped against lampposts holding cardboard signs. Street musicians with open suitcases slowly collecting loose change.

And me.

I passed by the Coach Store. Tiffany. The Pottery Barn. None drew my interest. Nike Town, The Apple Store. Saks Fifth Avenue. I crossed the street at the Water Tower, and kept north. Another block, and I was standing before one of my favorite places in the entire city.

Tucked slightly back from the street, the quiet stone building is easy to miss if you're not looking for it. With its arched walkways, grassy courtyard, and heavy wooden doors, the Fourth Presbyterian Church stands in stark contrast to the sleek, fashionable towers surrounding it. The outer door, open to the vestibule, invited me in.

I graciously accepted.

I stepped inside, and allowed my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. It was warm - more doors, more stone. Chandeliers designed to mimic elaborate candelabras, the intricate pattern painted on the sloping wooden ceiling.

There were perhaps ten people in the church as I walked slowly up the aisle. My heels clicked against the floor in an all too loud rhythm, breaking the muffled silence that filled the space. Carved, winged angels peered down from above, and I slipped into a pew to gather my thoughts.

God and I haven't spoken much as of late, it seems. It's not as if there is any animosity between us - it's just that our schedules just haven't seemed to coincide very well. I knew, though, that a Presbyterian Church was as good a place as any to find him. I leaned back in the pew, closed my eyes for a moment, and said hello.

He didn't immediately reply, which is generally his way, but a church is generally an easy place to open your mind and invite the big man in for a visit. I sat quietly, waiting patiently, and opened a bible to see if he was hiding in there.

I didn't find him in the book of Job, the Psalms, or even Isaiah. So I looked around me, wondering where he could be.

To my left, a man with a heavy winter coat pulled tightly around him huddled in a corner. At the altar, a man in a Chicago Bears sweatshirt turned toward me and walked down the aisle. In the very back, a woman stood with her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer. A girl with a heavy backpack stood looking up at the windows.

Nope, not there.

But off to the right, at the far end of a pew halfway up the aisle, sat a couple. Both were dressed for the cold - he in a camouflage coat and stocking cap, she in three coats and a scarf. He was propped against the wooden edge, leaning at an impossible angle. His arms were wrapped gently around her shoulders. Her head rested against his chest. Both of them, as judged by the sounds of quiet snoring, were fast asleep there, at noon, in the Fourth Presbyterian Church. In his sleep, his lips curled up into a smile.

My phone began to vibrate in my pocket, and I hurriedly stood to make my exit to the vestibule, where I could answer. It was my friend Greg, politely declining my offer to buy him lunch. He had meetings scheduled all day, but asked if we could get together next week. It sounded like a plan to me. I walked out, also smiling.

I walked south, back among the throngs. The sounds of the street enveloped me again, and I thought about how lucky I am to have such good friends. It wasn't until I was almost back to the hotel that I realized that I had indeed found God there on Michigan Avenue, after all.

He was lurking in what really should have been a very obvious place - in two very different smiles, on the faces of two people whose paths will likely never cross again.

He's sneaky like that, I guess.