Monica's gliding toward me like a ghost; her coat billowing behind her. She's cupping her hand to a candle, and between its glow and that of the moon and stars, she looks like an angel. Perhaps she is. I should have met her years ago, when I still believed in magic. No, I never believed in magic. I should have met her years ago, when I still believed in people. Maybe if I'd met her then, I'd be whole now. Maybe I'd be home.

"Let's see it," she says when she's before me. She lifts her chin. "Turn around."

Gladly. I love the command. I'd like more of them from her.

"Hold this." She hands me the candle and lifts my blouse. Goosebumps spread over my back, both from the cold air and desire. "Your slacks are hiding it," she says, pulling a bit at my waistband.

My slacks are riding too low to be covering the tattoo. Aren't they? The feeling of her fingers on my back at the waistband renders me incapable of logical thought. "Wait." There's only one button and I undo it. The pants still don't give very much - they're tight - so I move the zipper down a bit. "Okay."

She pulls the waistband slightly and I bend. I hope my legs don't shake. She takes the candle from me and holds it near my back. It's so close that it burns me, but I don't say a word, because I'm propped up on the parapet in the dark with a beautiful woman kneeling at my backside, candle in hand, pulling on my pants, staring at my tattoo. The smile on my face is very wide.

That is, until she starts tracing the tattoo with her fingers. Oh, this night. My legs do start shaking now, and I only hope that she doesn't spill wax on me, because I'll be in real trouble then.

"It's horrible," I think she says.

"What?" I twist, trying to see her.

She stands, but stays behind me, still looking at the tattoo. I twist more. I think that's disgust I see on her face. "It's horrible," she says. Her body is angling toward me now, and my back's going to break if I don't turn around. But I'm very aware that my pants are still unbuttoned and that her hand still rests on the tattoo and I don't want it anywhere else. For now. "Evil," she whispers.

I think I detect a glint of mischief in her eyes, but it's hard to tell in the dim light. "Yeah? Well where the hell were you five years ago when I was picking it out?" I manage to turn a bit, sort of facing her.

Her thumb traces the ouroboros. "You should have it removed."

Her hands are occupied - one on my tattoo, the other holding the candle - and mine are empty. I could take her before she blinks her eyes. I could have my hands up that skirt, in that small blouse. I put them on her hips instead and turn completely to her, and we're so close that our bodies touch.

"All that evil follows you," she murmurs. She holds the candle between our faces, and I blink at the sudden light.

I need her so badly that I can't breathe. "What do you want, Monica?"

Her eyes close and reopen slowly, and even in candlelight, I can see the blush cross her face. She rubs her bottom lip with her tongue.

I put my hand on hers and draw the candle closer to my face. We hold it, my hand over hers, near her breasts, cupping the candle so that I won't get wax on her. I blow the candle out and set it on the parapet. And now my right hand's in her hair, the left on her waist. Her thumb's still tracing my tattoo, but faster now, the tiny circles. "Tell me." I whisper.

The awful thing about being short is that you can't just kiss a tall woman nonchalantly. You have to reach up on tiptoes, hold her for support, stretch your back and crane your neck. It never looks suave. It always looks desperate. And that I am. I look up at her eyes and wonder if I dare stand on tiptoe and make the bold move.

I do dare. I reach up to kiss her, but she draws back, and I say it again. "Tell me what you want." She utters something, but it's so low that I don't hear her. I pull her neck down with one hand and run the other up her side, close to her breast. "Hmm? What?"

"You're just…" Monica's trembling.

I nudge my knee between her legs and press her against the low wall. I place her hands on my hips. "I'm just what?" Her lips are moving closer to mine, but not close enough. I go bolder with my hand, move it up to her breast, and rub her blouse there. Her eyes flutter shut and she moans. "I'm just what, Monica?" Her breath catches, and my hand's inside her blouse, teasing her nipple. "I'm just what?"

Her eyes are closed and she shivers. "You're…" Her tongue runs over her lips.

I press closer, touching her cheek, moving my other hand from her breast to her face, to her mouth, tracing her lips. I want to kiss her so badly. I run my fingers through her hair, down to her neck, pulling her down, down-

"You're playing me."

The words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I jerk back, away from her. Her eyes open slowly. "What?" I whisper. Surely, I'm misunderstanding something. "What are you talking about?"

Monica blinks and looks sad. "I know what you want." She looks down. "It's not what I want."

I try to breathe, but I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. What have I done? How could I have misunderstood? "I'm-" I swallow. "I'm sorry, Monica." Oh, God. The overwhelming feeling earlier - the panic that I would have to love her from afar - returns. But this feeling's worse. She's so sensitive. I've embarrassed her, embarrassed myself, and tears are filling her eyes. Oh, what have I done? "I'm so sorry." I back away from her and then turn and zip my pants and I have to get the hell out of here.

I'll make it to my car. I'll make it to my car and I'll drive out of here. My legs are numb and I'm hurting so badly that I have to lean against the stairway door to open it, grip the handrail as I move down the steps.

I make it to the underground parking deck before I realize that my coat is at her place. I'd leave it if it weren't for my keys. No keys, no money, no cell phone on me. No way to get home from here, and it's much, much too far and cold and dangerous to walk.

I'll just have to get myself together and go back. I need to breathe. Everything's okay. Everything's exactly as I expected; I didn't think I had a chance with her anyway. I'd already thought of this likely scenario - rejection - and I'd already decided that I could love her from afar.

I've waited all of my life for her, and the knowledge that I've found her is enough. I'll never be less than grateful for her existence, because my feelings for her have forced a mirror in front of me, and suddenly I know all of the things I am. I know that I'm more than my job, more than a mother, more than a daughter, a sister, a friend. I'm someone who's been asleep for ten years, and I'm waking up, a newborn. I'm emotions, tender and fragile, but they're pure. I know that I'm capable of selfless love. I know the woman of my dreams exists and she's close enough that I can be a part of the background noise in her life. I can be her fan, silently cheering her on.

It is greater to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yes, I know this as well.

I square my shoulders, gather my courage, and march back up the stairs. I'm a rock, impenetrable, silent and unmoving. But her face appears, unbidden, and I clutch at the handrail and stifle a sob. It's not my love for her that breaks me; it's the knowledge that I'll never love anyone else.