August 18, 1998
Tuesday
5:00 p.m.

– Kann ich mit Ihnen sprechen? – the guttural speech drew me away from my decisions.

I turned and froze. Not daring to blink, I stared at the woman who had come so close that my sense of smell exploded. I remembered that magical scent, belonging to her, to her and to nobody else. Her gray eyes like two partisans hacked through my consciousness and scattered the pieces of my thoughts. With gestures she was directing a man on the far side, two or three meters away. The man with a television camera on his shoulder fussed and adjusted for the light. She articulated into the microphone with a slight accent:

– Excuse me, young man. German television, ARD. Might we ask a few questions?

What was she saying?

I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t understand. 

What do you want, my soul?

– Young man, can you hear me?

What? What is it? Ah, yes.

I nodded.

– Would you mind if we asked a couple of questions for television?

– What questions?

– How do you feel about the default? – she asked.

– I don’t.

– A bad angle, – she muttered, and turned to the cameraman in a stream of German gibberish. He panned the camera off my face and onto the pompous building behind me.

– Can you explain?

I looked at her, devouring her with my eyes. I wanted to gorge myself on the mere sight of her. That alone would be enough for happiness. If only I could keep from looking away, keep staring, keep staring harder, layering her reflection onto my retina, image over image. Ah, if only I could stuff the entire space of my skull with her image, then plug up my eyes, ears, and nose, and live stuffed full forever!

– Hello? – she touched my shoulder.

The spell broke. I came back to myself

– Yes...

– Would you mind riding with us to the Kremlin? Not too much trouble?

– Me? No.

My soul! For you, anything you say.