The dancers' caress

struck a chord,

trembling,

within me

I began to dream

Their upturned hands

stroked the air above their heads

and I longed for that touch -

or, specifically, for yours

Spinning

Winding

Climbing

I am lost

in imaginary warmth,

encased in an embrace

the real world can't feel

My eyes begin to spill

and I am on my kees,

before them and as a part of you

I depend on this shivering moment

to last me through another winter

"You're drunk, aren't you?" I giggle as Robbie staggers towards me from out of the mist.

"Now, that's no way to greet a man," he says mildly, kissing my cheek with a rough sort of sweetness as he seats himself beside me on the roof.

"But you are, though," I protest with a mulish pout, "Right?"

"I might be or might not be," he says as he settles down, leather jacket creaking as he moves.

"Lies!" I crow, cackling as I lift my arms towards the sky, leaning to rest my back on the ground. I continue to cackle as I lie there, twisting from side to side to make the stars dance.

"I've had a few swigs, sure," he says with an amiable shrug. "Sounds like you've had a pint too much, though, Char. What'cha been guzzling anyway?"

He inspects the beer can standing next to me, and turns to me with a disapproving frown when he sees the label. "A Red Bull? Come on, girl, I thought you had better taste than that!"

"It's really not too bad," I chuckle, sitting up and reaching for the can. But Robbie holds it away from me, tutting like a concerned mother.

"Oh, no, sweetie - you've had enough of this shit to last you an evening."

This wouldn't have bothered me near as much if he hadn't taken a swig of it upon this instruction.

"Come on, Rob, that's my drink!" I whine, holding out my arms and pouting like an indignant toddler. "Give it here!"

"No can do." He sighs contentedly, leaning back on his elbows and taking another deep swig. His boots hang carelessly over the edge of the roof, and I have half a mind to push him off. Beer-snatching jerk.

"Fine," I say, as loftily as I can manage. "I'll just have to get myself another then." But upon standing up, I find that I really have had too much - the world teeters around me and I end up right back on my ass.

"Whoa there, tiger," Robbie laughs, his smoker's teeth flashing in the light from a spectacular Harvest moon. "Tell you what - I'll get us both another round, and you'll sit here and do your best not to ralph. Sound all right?"

"Perfect," I giggle; he kisses my cheek again, scruffy beard scratching my face as he stands and makes his way back into my apartment. I can hear his boots clicking all the way into the kitchen, where they stop as I picture him perusing my stock of alcohol. Nosy bastard.

Nights with Robbie are often like this, especially since we've gotten older. I've known him since we were both country bumpkins growing up in Louisiana, and haven't shaken him off since. He's older than me - a good ten years or so - but he doesn't mind. He's always thought of it like my education, him teaching me the ways of life. And that's how our friendship runs, most of the time. I ask for advice and he gives it. Rarely is it ever the other way around.

He clicks back up the stairs to find me puking my sorry guts out over the side of the roof, down into the unfortunate alleyway below. Chuckling to himself, he walks over and rubs my back, pulling my hair back and leaving me most of my pride. As soon as it's over, he says affectionately, "Just like a college kid at her very first kegger."

"Hey, watch it!" I say, wiping my mouth and opening my next beer. "I am a college kid, Robbie."

"Sure," he allows, "but I took you to your first kegger, and it was way before you ever got to college."

I chuckle, acknowledging this, and we ease on into silence. Each of us sips our beers and thinks, staring up at the sky.

"Hey, Char," Robbie says, turning to me and gesturing towards the apartment with his beer-free hand. I wince, hoping he's not going to ask the question I know he's going to ask - "How's that man of yours? Noticed he's not showing his sorry ass around here tonight. What's he up to?"

I turn away, uncomfortable. I'd been hoping this subject wouldn't come up, but I should've known nosy Robbie would bring it up anyway.

"Have I said something?" He asks gently, putting a hand on my shoulder. Though Robbie's usually your typical insensitive man, he can be a real Southern gentleman when the time is right.

I murmur, "He won't be showing his sorry ass around here ever again, Rob." My eyes fill with beer-infused tears that I try to hide, even knowing they'll be pouring down my face in waves soon enough.

"Oh, honey." Robbie's other arm wraps around my shoulders, and I can smell the familiar tobacco on his breath. That more than anything makes me miss the good days, when Robbie and I pranced around my backyard like we owned it, when the days burned and the nights were cold, when boys were icky and girls didn't matter. Nostalgia washes over me, and so do the tears.

"Why does that have to happen?" I shout, my crying hysterical now. "Why do people come and go like that, one second here and beautiful, but the next second calling you a bitch and walking out the door? I mean, what a waste of time! I'm twenty-one years old - how much time is left in my life anyway? What does time even mean? What does it - "

Robbie's smooth, quiet voice interrupts my fervered ranting. "Sweetheart, you don't know the meaning of 'running out of time' till you hit thirty. It's like - I have ten years till I'm forty, twenty till I'm fifty. What do I do with what's left of my life? I'm a smokin', drinkin' cowboy with no woman to share my bed and no steady job to support me. Only company I've got around my house is my dog. Tiem is a miserable, life-suckin' thing, honey. Can't live with it, can't live without it. You just keep on goin' till it slaps a blindfold over your face and calls it done. That's the so-called miracle of life."

My nose running freely now, I cry, "That's it? That's how much time I've got to find a soulmate, settle down, start a family, and make something out of myself? Nine more freakin' years?!"

Robbie nods. "Sounds about right."

"Well, shit!" I shout, standing up and swaying drunkenly on the lip of the roof. Robbie, sensing danger, stands to pull me from the edge, but I rip my arm from his as soon as I can manage.

Quieter now, I say, "What can I do to not end up like you, Rob? How do I find myself in only nine years? How is it even freakin' possible to do so much in so little time?"

I'm beginning to get frantic again, pacing in zigzag lines across the cement, but Robbie stands still as a statue as he muses.

"Going to college probably helps," he starts. I pause my crazy pacing to stare at him for a moment, and he continues. "Well, there are plenty of good men in college, so there's something. It's all about choosing the path of your life, Char. It's gotta mean something! You've gotta choose a major you're happy with, but it's gotta earn you enough money that you don't end up a bum like my old man. It's life-changing, honey, and you're right here in the middle of it. Are you gonna try and tell me that doesn't mean you're doing something already?"

I bite my lip. "Going to college helps," I say, trying that on for size.

"Right." He nods, hands in his pockets, as he looks out to the moon again. "That's something I never did, so I s'pose it should help you turn out better than me."

"That makes some sense." Pacing some more, I ask, "How can I tell if a man's a good man, huh? Bet that would save me a lot of time."

"Hmm." Robbie thinks on that one, pacing lightly as he does. He strikes an impressive figure in the orange October moonlight, with a cigarette dangling from his lips as he searches for a lighter in his pockets. "Make sure he doesn't smoke," he says, pointing the cigarette at me to accentuate his point. "That marks a healthy man. Oh, and he should be smart - pick a man in some lofty major like Business or Law."

I can't help laughing. "Should I be writing this down? I'm afraid you've caught me without a pen."

Robbie shrugs, grinning his lovable crooked grin. "Just trying to find a man who deserves you, Char."

"Aww," I tease as he walks toward me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist. I whisper in his ear, "You're a sweetheart, Robbie Stone. You're a good man."

I see him blush as he pulls away, and he knows it - he rubs at his face with chagrin, complaining, "Char, see what you did? Why'd you have to go and embarrass a man like that?" He takes a drag from the cigarette and grins at me, showing his gratitude for my compliment. He knows I meant it.

He seats himself back down on the edge of the roof, and I sit beside him, take a drag from the cig to clear my head. "Time doesn't really matter," I breathe out with the smoke, "So long as I've got you."

He doesn't bother to remark on the corniness of my comment, just wraps his arm around my waist again, taking another swig of beer. This is what my life is composed of - nights spent with Robbie in a drunken stupor so thick I can't remember half of it when morning comes. We've been plagued by the same question for years, just in different contexts. It's a picturebook of us, in this same place, this midnight hour of beer and laughs and the smell of cigarette smoke - the things that unite us. The things that brought us together, and the things that keep us that way. We're all right. We're really all right.

As midnight chimes in the church across the way, I'm falling asleep with my head on Robbie's shoulder, enjoying time in all its forms as it moves its way around us, and through us, and even within us. I'm enjoying the journey without considering its inescapable end. I'm content just to be, however that may be. In this darkest hour of my imaginings, I am finally content.