It starts with an overture in overdrive, grinding the gears, making the melody respond to each change of tempo. At least that’s the way it seemed sitting there with Francine, the music flowing in a solid line right to our ears. We were listening to Symphony #10 by Mozart when she took my hand and asked me to kiss her.

Let me start a bit earlier. The whole day had no organization; no rhythm. I awoke at 10 past 9, needing some water, sun streaming into the room. I pulled the black sheet off my body, the sheet dark and heavy. I walked to the kitchen, barefoot, and poured myself a glass of water.

I cracked two eggs, let them fry for a bit, then lightly turned them over. I sat having breakfast while looking at the television. It was a morning program where everyone was incredibly cheerful and ready to get their day started. Where did they find these people? People willing to wake up at 4 am to go into work, get in front of the camera, and broadcast cheeriness to the rest of the world?

After eating I showered, put on the deodorant, brushed the teeth, and was out the door by 10:30 on that Saturday morning. My usual bookstore, Kepler’s, had closed down recently, so I went to Smiths (no apostrophe) even though the selection was better and the coffee tasted like someone had tipped the jar of coffee far to much into the machine before hitting the brew button. I sat down with my cup of coffee and started reading Thomas Pynchon’s V, a book I had read much about but had never gotten around to actually reading.

The light was fine and I was just starting to get into a character when Francine, whose name I didn’t know at the time, tripped on a napkin on the ground and was about to fall face forward into my table had I not caught her, perhaps leaving a bruise on her chest.

“Are you OK?” I could already smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Yes. Fine. Embarrased.” She put her hands on my shoulders and hugged me while her mouth worded, “Pretend like I’m here to meet you. I couldn’t bear to have these people think I’m falling into stranger’s tables.”

“Great to see you.” I hugged back. Standing, and reasonably sure she could stand for herself, I pulled a chair for her. She took the seat and started re-doing her makeup in a small compact.

“It’s really quite silly,” applying mascara. “I thought I would sober up enough to drive if I could get some coffee, but then I fell into your table, and I guess it’s a good thing cause I shouldn’t be driving should I?”

“Probably not.” I smiled. She was absolutely stunning, if a bit drunk. Her hair, which was as black as if color had been asked to pontificate, flowed over her shoulders creating a perfect frame her face which was as wise as possible at 10 in the morning in a coffee shop.

“But I really shouldn’t have thought coffee would do anything,” her eyes darted around the table, perhaps searching for a lighter for the unlit cigarette in her mouth. “If anything it wakens you up a bit, but sobering, I think only time can do that, no?”

“I think you’re right.” I palmed her lighter from the table. Even when this bookstore was alright they didn’t allow smoking.

“Anyway,” she removed the cigarette from her lips and held it between her fingers. “I was with my friend Brenda tonight who is two weeks away from finishing her MBA. We were out drinking and then the bar closed and I went back to her place where we listened to some Sex Pistols and then she fell asleep right on her floor and I thought I should be getting back and that’s how I ended up here bumping into you.”

“Sex Pistols? You like them?”I took a sip of coffee, trying not to look at her lips.

“God no. I mean they’re alright, but kind of trite in a groundbreaking way. You know what I mean?”

“I appreciate their music, doesn’t mean I have to like them, does it?” And without a thought her hands were upon mine.

“Exactly! I mean,” her hands were gone and putting the unlit cigarette back in her mouth. “They’re great and all, but I just can’t relate. It’s obviously more than noise, but not so much more that I want to give them a second thought. Brenda though, she’s in love with them. I think she wants to live her life through them.”

“Is she going into the music business with her MBA?”

“More or less. She’s going into the insurance business.”

“And what does that have anything to do with the music business?”

“Exactly.” She let out a laugh, and it was like there was a conducter there, guiding her through the facets of key, her laugh was so perfect. I couldn’t resist, I laughed at the non-joke myself and suggested she buy me some records.

About a block away we went record shopping at an old vinyl store. We seperated, she went towards the blues/jazz section and I went towards the rock section. I was in the middle of staring at “Exile on Main Street” when she ran up to me.

“You need to get this.” In her hands was a Lightnin Hopkins album.

“You don’t even know if I have a record player.”

“Of course you do.” She forced the record in front of her. “If you don’t run a needle on top of it; you’ll get the idea.”

I got the record; I did have an LP player, and I like to think that even if I didn’t I still would have gotten it. Later, we got some food for lunch, sandwhiches which tasted amazing. At the sandwhich shop, she looked through the paper and found the symphony.

“I tried to learn the piano once,” she said while taking a bite. “Didn’t get too far- my timing was all off.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t so bad.”

“You have no idea how off I was. Anyway, I was off. But I still fell in love with the pieces. Let’s go see this sometime.” She was pointing at the symphony.

“Tonight’s the last night it’s playing.”

“I guess that means tonight then.” She was smiling right at me then, and I felt like she should be knighting people, that’s how good her smile felt.

At the symphony we bought a botle of wine and took it up with us. We sat in the booth. The music enveloped us. The music repeated itself every now and then, but at the end of every piece, we remarked on how amazing it was.

Rene awoke to find that time slips back and forth, sand in an hourglass in a dryer. This had been his dream; he had been interrupted not by an alarm clock, but rather by the conclusion of the dream. He had even seen a roll of credits at the end- most of the names were familiar; some were new but he was convinced he must have seen them somewhere before.

He turned to his wife Margaret, who was still snoring softly, a bit of spittle on the white pillow, and looking completely at peace. “Maggie?” He pleaded.

“Huh?” She opened both eyes for a second, then closed the one closer to the pillow. “What is it Rene?”

“I just had the most incredible dream. Time wasn’t- isn’t- linear. It’s just another dimension.”

“I’ll call Hawking.” Margaret said as she turned to face away from him and the sunlight.

Rene was all grins himself. He caressed Margaret through her powder blue nightgown, took a strand of hair, kissed it. “Don’t you get it honey?” He whispered.

A “what?” was muttered from the other side of the bed.

“Not only are there second chances, but you can go back to the time before there were chances.”

They had named the child Rene if it was a boy or Margaret if it was a girl, three months ago. They both wanted to have their name live on. Now they were alone. It had been a tear-filled two months.

Margaret turned. “What did you say Rene?”

“Time isn’t linear.”

“You might be right, Rene. You might very well be the most right person ever. But in this reality, they’re just gone.”

“But Maggie…”

She kissed his hand. “Don’t make me cry Rene. It’s too early to cry, don’t you think?”