I don't sleep well that night. I have nightmares, some of the worst I've had in years.

In one, I stand in the parking lot behind my dorm building, watching Ahmir get into his beat-up Toyota and drive away as fast as he can. The exhaust blows grit into my eyes, but I'm already crying. I wake up crying.

When I go back to sleep, I dream of an open green space in the middle of a circle of collegiate brick buildings. I can only see my feet in their ballet flats, step by step along the pavement. And then I see another pair, big white dirty sneakers, and I look up into his face. I smile at him. I know this part. He'll say hello, and ask me for help finding a building, a building he already knows how to get to. He'll say hello first. But he doesn't say hello. After he stops shouting at me, after he stops pleading with me, he doesn't say anything. He's not crying, but he's crying. He never cries, but he's crying, and he's so angry, and I can't stop it. The things I would normally do, I can't, because I'm the reason he's crying. And suddenly we're not in the quad anymore. We're in my room, and I'm handing him a bag of his things, and I'm crying, too. But I won't look at him. I look at his shoes, the dirty beat-up shoes that were the first thing my father noticed about Ahmir. I look at them, and I pretend it's not happening.

I wake up freezing. The clock in the kitchen, which I have to sit up and crane my neck to see, says that it's 2:30. I snuggle down under the thin fleece blanket that smells vaguely of mothballs, curl up into a fetal position until my shivering subsides, and then fall back into a fitful sleep that is, thank God, free of dreams.

I wake up suddenly, hours later. The sun is out, but it's still early in the morning. For a moment, I'm disoriented, but I get my bearings quickly as Mary plunks a mug of tea down next to me. I look up at her in surprise, but she just makes a drinking gesture and goes back to the kitchen. I pick up the mug, test a sip, and then put it down. I'll wait until it's lukewarm to drink it.

There is another blanket on my couch. Puzzled, I separate the top from the bottom slightly with my hands. Yes, there's the teal fleece one, and on top of it is a white and blue comforter. Either I sleep-walked in the night or someone put the blanket on me during the night. I look from the tea on the table to Mary in the kitchen. Being so thoughtful is unlike her, but then, she was always unpredictable.

"What's up?" I ask, rubbing the grit out of my eyes.

"Breakfast." That's all. I don't press it, but I stretch and yawn instead. I don't feel like getting up yet.

"You're up early," I say finally, as the near-silent preparations in the kitchen start to unnerve me. She never makes this little noise.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, eyes fixed on the cutting board, where she's chopping onions. The smell of sautéing onions soon permeates the room. "Nightmares."

"Me, too."

"That's not surprising. Hard to believe it's been over a decade, isn't it?"

I stare at her blankly for a moment. Then, as my memory kicks in, I am profoundly grateful that she's looking at the frying pan and not at me. I have completely forgotten.

My mother died today, eleven years ago. Today is the anniversary of her death.

We have a tradition, Mary and me. Usually, neither of us can sleep on the night before this day, so we get up early and make an enormous breakfast. Pancakes, waffles, omelets, toast. It's the one day a year that Mary lets herself off her constant diet. And she even eats grapefruit for breakfast on Christmas.

I can't believe I forgot. I have never forgotten, not once. Usually, I'm wallowing in misery up to two days in advance. I try to think of a time when I remembered it yesterday, but there is none. I forgot so completely, the remembering of it is painful, a loud echo of what losing her felt like. I am blown back, literally, into the chair. My sternum feels like it's being pushed back through my body to reach my spine, and I sit, completely immobile. Finally, finally, I remember to breathe. Finally, I remember that Mary asked me a question. I have to answer it.

"Yeah."

We sit in silence again for a moment, and I reach over the grab my mug. It's still too hot for me to drink without burning my tongue, but I need it's warmth, in my hands and on my chest.

"Do you need help? I can make the waffles. Or do you want pancakes?"

"You sit. I'll make the pancakes. Chocolate chips?"

"Yes, please. Is there anything I can do?"

"Drink your tea."

In the silence that grows between us, the screen door to the back patio opens, and Ahmir steps in quietly. He turns and sees the two of us, me clutching my mug of tea, swaddled in the blankets on the couch, Mary with her rubber spatula in hand, stirring the eggs into perfect omelets with one hand while mixing pancake batter with the other. His eyes return to me, flicking quickly over the bedclothes on my lap, the down comforter piled in mountains of excess all over me. Then his eyes meet mine, and I think he reads what's on our faces, because he gives a small nod, and I can read something that looks like pity in his eyes.

Except I don't want his pity. I never have. I look away, finally unable to bear the sympathetic disinterest I see there, and shift the mug in my hands. If it were cool enough to drink, my looking away would be less rude. As it is, it's clear that I don't want to make eye contact with him. I don't care. I don't want him to look at me at all if it's going to be like that. I'd rather he never look at me again.

Ahmir makes his way up the stairs. When his back is turned, I sneak a peek at him as he climbs. He's sweaty from running; he must have been up disgustingly early.

I take a searing sip of tea. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

When I finally drag myself up off the couch, after I've eaten my weight in greasy breakfast foods, I go for a walk. This is another anniversary tradition. Suddenly, I feel the need to make sure that every single one of my traditions is observed to the letter. I have to suppress the desire to go overboard. I feel like I should be spending my entire day crying. Like that would be the only real way to do justice to my mom. But I have to function, I have to do something with myself and my day. I've had enough of wallowing.

It doesn't help that guilty feeling.

My walk is long, from along the beach to into the downtown area and out to form a large loop. As I'm passing the rundown shack that calls itself the Taxi Paradise, I hear a shout from across the street. I look up from my shoes, and see the blonde man from the beach, the one who gave me my tee-shirt back. He is directly across the street, and he is waving at me enthusiastically.

Okay… I stare at him quizzically, and then offer a wave of my own in return. He makes an elaborate bow to me, and I smile. He looks like he wants to come talk to me, and for a moment, I panic. Today is not a good day for me to meet people. I pretend to answer my phone, and hurry down the street. Smooth.

When I get back to the house, it seems deserted. I let myself in the front door, and stand in the middle of the quiet, empty kitchen in indecision. What do I do with myself now?

I hear the faint sound of voices from outside. I go out the back door, and follow the sound down the rocky path that leads to a little ocean view. As I get closer, I recognize Ahmir and Harry's voices, raised an arguing. But as I recognize their voices, it's too late to not hear what they're saying.

"…I just think you need to take this slow, Cap—" Harry is saying.

"What do you think I've been doing, Harry? Have you seen me with her?"

"Yeah, I have, which why I'm saying this. This entire thing is messed up—"

"And I've messed it up?"

"Yeah."

"What do you want me to do? You want me to serenade her, or something? Get down on one knee?"

"Dude, calm down, okay?"

"Fine. Fine. What should I do then?"

"You should tell her the truth. Tell her how you feel. Treat her like you feel something for her."

There is a scoffing noise, and I back away quickly, blushing. I just eavesdropped on a completely private conversation, and my survival instincts combine with my sense of propriety. I don't want to intrude on their privacy, and I definitely don't want to hear them talking about Lou, or his feelings for her. Maybe I read him wrong. It has been a long time. Maybe he's just more careful about how he shows his feelings. I wouldn't blame him if that were true. I did destroy him once.

I run up the path to the house, and slide the back door closed quickly behind me. From there, I flail helplessly for a moment, trying to figure out what to do that won't make it seem like I'm waiting for them to come back. I have nothing. There's no TV, which normally wouldn't bother me as much, but here seems like a death sentence. I hear them coming up the path, closing in on the back door, and here I'm standing, like a fish out of water. I notice the newspaper, but too late, the mad dash would be obvious through the screen of the sliding door. I've just given up hope when there's a knock on the front door. I dive for it a little too enthusiastically, and I stand aside to let Ben in just as Harry and Ahmir are reaching the back door.

"Ben!" My voice is too high pitched. I take a breath, and say, attempting nonchalance, "what's up?"

"I thought I'd bring this over," he smiles a sad smile down at me, and holds out a thin paperback book. He is very close to my personal space. "It has some fantastic poems in it." The sliding door closes behind me as I look down at the cover.

"Laurence Hope?"

" She was an English woman writing under a pseudonym in India at the turn of the century. It's a little…advanced for the times, I think." I raise an eyebrow. "But she's good, I promise. I had it lying around since…and I thought you'd appreciate it." He finishes, shrugging.

I smile, a real smile, and shrug, too, turning away. "Yeah, who doesn't appreciate the occasional colonial sexy poem?"

He blushes, and Harry clears his throat. I jump internally, realizing that Harry and Ahmir have been there the whole time, and they witnessed everything. I am momentarily embarrassed, and want to assure all and sundry that nothing is going on between Ben and me. But then I remember that there is no one in this room who really needs to hear that, or who even cares. So I don't tell them. It's really none of their business, anyway.

Mary, Charles, and Charlie come back half an hour later, followed closely by Lou and Hen who were shopping at the outlets. It starts to rain, a slow, gray, depressing drizzle that makes the house humid and freezing but makes leaving it almost unimaginable.

We all sit down to dinner. Since no one wanted to cook, we order pizza which comes appropriately greasy and artery-clogging. I'm starving, despite my enormous breakfast, and long after everyone else has eaten their fill, I reach across Hen to grab a fourth slice of pepperoni.

"What do you have there, Anne?" Hen asks, pointing at the book Ben gave me, which is behind me on my chair seat. I bring it out, and explain it briefly. Her eyes light up, and she sits up straight. "Dirty poetry?"

"No, it's not—" Ben starts, obviously bothered by the misunderstanding. I shoot him a wry glance, shrugging. Hen claps her hands. "Let's hear some!"

"Please, read some," Charles. I try not to blush, because I remember the one other time I read out loud to Charles, and I remember what happened afterwards. I avoid his gaze, but I open the book. The truth is, I'm curious, too. I flip to a random page, and start reading.

"And under your kisses I hardly knew
Whether I loved or hated you.

But your words were flame and your kisses fire,
And who shall resist a strong desire?
Not I, whose life is a broken boat
On a sea of passions, adrift, afloat.
And whether I came in love or hate,
That I came to you was written by Fate."

"Ooh!" Lou says, smiling her old smile. "That's wonderful!" The rest of the table nods silently. I look across at Ben and smile my thanks at him. He smiles back. "I knew you'd like it."

"I do, but I gotta tell you, man, you should read something other than lovesick poetry every once in a while. This stuff gets heavy after too long."

I immediately realize that I've overstepped. His face closes up, and he says, formally, "What would you suggest?"

"I hear those Harry Potter books are really something," I joke, making my voice and face as earnest as possible. "Though they're filled with youngsters in peril. And then there are those faaaaaaabulous vampire books—"

"Okay, enough," he stops me, laughing. I smile back, and pick up my slice again. As I chew, I look down the long table to lock eyes with Ahmir. He's not looking at me with pity anymore. There's something else in his eyes, something unreadable. I frown, trying to understand, but this time, he's the one who looks away first. I stare at him a second longer, still trying to read his facial expression, but I'm distracted by Lou and Hen's conversation about a reality show.

"…But it's about body pride," Hen says, gesturing vaguely with her left hand.

"But isn't the point to get them to not be obese? Isn't it like, a deadly level of obesity?"

"Yeah, but you have to start with body pride, though. You know, 'we're all beautiful.'"

"But why, if they're just going to make them change their bodies later anyway?"

"Because you have to love yourself before you can make good choices," I put in quietly. It doesn't matter, the whole table was listening to them anyway. "The reason they start there is because you can't do the right things for the right reasons if you don't know what the right reasons are. If you learn to love yourself more than an idea or an image, then you do the right things for yourself."

There's a small silence. Then Charles, in a voice full of almost insulting surprise, says "That's very wise, Anne."

"Well, sure," says Lou, turning to smile at me. "Anne probably has a lot of experience with that kind of thing. I mean, her mom…" she trails off, her eyes going wide with horror. My own face freezes. There is a terrible, nasty, silence suddenly hanging over the room, like a cloud. Charles clears his throat. Mary has gone rigid. I turn from Lou, and put down my slice of pizza. Lou says, "Anne, oh my God, I am so sorry. Mary…" but she trails off again, mortified. I have no energy to comfort her. I get up and start clearing the plates. I turn the coffee maker on, and put the kettle on for tea. Lou excuses herself and goes running from the room, followed closely by Hen. The rest of the group breaks up awkwardly. Ben makes his goodbyes and goes home. Charles goes out to smoke a cigar as far away from the house as he can go without being out of earshot.

I turn on the dishwasher and then lean against the counter, drying my hands on the dish rag. It's only then that I realize that Ahmir and I are the only ones left in the room. We watch each other for a second. He leans on the counter, too, at the very edge, and he fixes me with a calm, sympathetic eye.

Finally, he says, "My grandma died."

"What?" I breathe. "When?"

"Three years ago."

"Oh, Ahm—Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

He shrugs. "I didn't tell you." We sit in silence for a second. Then he says, "I'm not trying to undermine your sadness or get sympathy points or anything. I just know what it feels like to have the woman who raised you and nurture you disappear. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorrier than I can say" It could have sounded stiff or stupid or manipulative. Instead it sounds sincere, and my heart jumps, and I'm falling again.

This is a good man. My mind tells me. He takes the time to try to make you feel better even when he doesn't like you. This is a good man. He deserves good things.

I'm in love with him again. I've fallen in love again. But this is the kind of love now that's hopeless, and so it's distant, and slightly sad, and oddly formal. Lou may love you completely, it says, but I love you more and I loved you first.

And now I know, at last, what it feels like to have all that idiotic, unfounded, unwise hope disappear. Now that it has, I'm sorrier than I can say.