It was a year after Miles' ill-fated trip. He had taken his publicist's info to heart, writing a more commercially viable book. Personally, Miles hated it. The whole thing was a cliché-ridden piece of crap that he would have once fought against desperately. It had been on the best-seller list for weeks, and Miles was now a household name.
He was at a book-signing, staring into the eyes of all the brain-dead morons who thought his writing was great stuff. The customers all seemed to blend into each other, each more slack-jawed and dead-eyed than the last. Then he heard, "You know, I didn't think it was all that great." Miles looked up and saw Maya.
They quickly set up a meeting time for later. After the signing, Miles ran over, ecstatic at seeing her again. He said, "You know, I went back to your house, but you'd already moved out." Maya looked at him regretfully. "Yeah, I guess I'm just too impatient. I've been living in San Francisco, trying to find my calling. I've tried painting lately." "Make much money?" "Enough to keep me in waitressing."
Miles returned her gaze. "I'm so sorry about what happened. The idea that we could have been together all this time if I hadn't been so stupid just drives me crazy." Maya replied, "So did you ever open that '61 bottle." "Yeah. It was pretty good stuff." "So I guess I was right about it peaking." "Well, I've never tasted any other samples of that kind of wine, so I guess I'll never know if I waited too long."
He then got up the courage to say, "So listen, I'm going to 'Frisco in a couple weeks on another book gig. Maybe I'll stop by." "I'd like that," Maya replied. They looked down and found that they were holding hands. They stayed that way a while longer, and finally separated. Miles headed to his car, full of hope for the first time in a long ime.
The End