As we walked along the boardwalk a few hours later, my housemates, the Handsome Young Professor, and myself, I realized we had a place to go that night—we were walking up and down. We were going parallel, like everyone else. It somehow felt good, even if I knew our reason was superficial and fleeting. We stopped at a few dive bars to relax and kill time before going to the nightclub. At a bar called “Tiny's” we sat on bar stools sipping bottled beer as the Handsome Young Professor chatted up the bartender. The boys discussed the presidential election; I feigned an interest in listening. Hotel California played on the jukebox as forgettable faces went in and out. Where did they have to go? Were they going to walk parallel? What was there reason? I didn't know. After the bottles were empty, we left.

At the “Wordsworth Cocktail Bar” some young girls giggled in corner while drinking carefully mixed drinks that seemed to take longer to make than to drink. We sat at the bar once again, and the Professor told us to go invite them out. “I don't know mate,” the Englishman said with a good dose of hesitancy in his voice. He grabbed some peanuts out of the bowl on the bar and seemed to be thinking it over. He was by all accounts a hit with the ladies. Yet, he never approached them. Never. I don't know why. Maybe a lack of confidence, or something.
“Fuck you Manning, you fucking mother cock.” The academic yelled at the silent television in the corner.
“Mate, quiet down. You can't yell like that in here. Relax.”
“Manning is such a fucking bitch. Fucking cocksucking little bitch. Can't stand him.”
We finally reached the night club around midnight. As we walked in two oversized bouncers looked at our ID's and then gave us the nod. The light was dim, with flashes coming from all around. I could smell the almost tangible congregation of the human mass reveling within the crowded space. Walking inside I felt both excited and depressed.

So many people.
So many bodies.
So much desire.

And, such deep, inexpressible isolation.

During that second it seemed there were endless opportunities in the world for meetings, conversations, and experiences of all kinds, and nothing for which to breathe all at the same time. How can it come and go so quickly? How can possibility turn to hopelessness in a flash? Why does the abyss emerge amidst adrenaline and people? How can we be so alone when we are surrounded by so many other souls? Do souls ever touch? I wondered about this last question throughout the night. If they do, it probably does not happen in a nightclub.These questions flashed through me like a sudden twitch—by the time you realize what has happened it is all over.

As we sat there, on that log, near the pond, with the frogs chirping and the wind breezing, I realized we were truly all alone. There wasn't another soul near us--not even in the vicinity. I realized we were sitting--in a beautiful place--alone, except for one another. I wondered silently if all beautiful places were solitary places.

After I stopped talking, we sat in silence for a few moments--embracing--looking at our reflections in the pond. It was murky, cloudy water, but it somehow reflected a wonderfully blurred vision of the two of us. The water was still--it was the first time I had seen the water still in that pond.

After a bit, I asked you if you wanted to say anything.

"I love you."

That was all.

We sat--for a long time--at the end of a long conversation, in a beautiful place, silent. We sat without company, at the end of language, waiting for a new conversation to begin.

I didn't mind waiting. It was nice to be alone with you--in the intermittent--in such a strangely beautiful, silent place.

I don't know why that woman bothered me so easily--the woman speaking about the One. I was rather rude to her, and I know it caught her off guard.

Maybe it is because I don't believe like she does. Or, maybe it is because I'm jealous--no, not of her--but, of the One. Maybe I was so irritated because I know I can't be the One; I can't even pretend to be a servant or friend of the One. I can't be the One--I can't save, I can't protect, I can't oversee the moments, or crush the space in my hands. I am not the One--I don't surpass language or time, I don't exceed all excess, or transcend all transcendence. I am not the One--I can't provide, can't shelter, can't promise, can't fix.

I think at times we all try to either be the One or to meet the One. Some of us want to meet the One. Some of us want to be the One.

I think because I don't believe like that woman I know that not only can I not be the One--but, I can't even be your One. I think I know that I can't be the One of any-one--even though I wish I could.

No. I can welcome the moments. I can take the seconds as they are given to me one by one. I can remember certain moments and seconds--certain smiles and laughter. I can remember certain touches. I can long for more. I can try. I can expect. I can hope with you, beyond hope, not for One--but for . . . what? I don't know. Maybe, just another second--to be given one more second--in which to hope. I can hope for hope and no more.

That is all I can be for any-one--for you. That is all I can be for you. It doesn't feel like enough, but, what is one to do?