Her heaven crashed down around her and she let out a soft sigh. She’d reached Nirvana and in the blink of an eye it was gone again. That’s how it always was, though; a lot of build up to something amazing and then the world reverted back to exactly the way it was before the whole thing started. She stretched liberally, her arms reaching high above her head and her body arching the way a dancer’s would. Through the corner of her eye she watched her lover, the newest one, dress slowly and walk over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. That was how it always was, too. When the whole thing was said and done, she was left alone in the bed, on the sheets that had grown cold so quickly, her body mourning the loss of warmth. And this was always when she started to cry.

Her lover came out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his bare shoulders, and looked at her scornfully. “What’s the problem now?” he asked, the voice that had once been so sweet now so filled with disdain.

She turned her back to him, letting the tears roll down her cheeks. She didn’t cry because she was sad, exactly. At least, when she cried, she didn’t feel sad. It was more like something was missing, like her spirit was mourning something the way her body mourned warmth. And every time her lover, whichever lover it happened to be at the time, asked with the same disdain in his voice, “What’s the problem now?” she always answered the same way: “Nothing. Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you something?”

This she said to her newest lover (God help her, but she couldn’t remember his name), speaking broken words through broken sobs. She felt the mattress shift as he sat down on the bed and for a moment she fooled herself into thinking that he was going to extend his arm, reach out and comfort her the way no one ever had before. But it was only for a moment, and instead of reaching out for her, he reached out for the remote, turning on the television and flipping through the channels. “That would be great,” he told her, “Got any pasta? I could really go for some pasta right now.”

She moved off the bed slowly and pulled her dress over her head. The television blared loudly against the silence, different voices shouting through the room to buy this or what have you done or won’t you stay the night. The kitchen was dim in the grey morning light, and without saying a word she pulled out a box of pasta, the cheap kind they sell by the dozen for a penny each. She was still crying, though she hardly noticed now, and certainly wouldn’t make anything of it, as her lover was only expecting her to make him pasta.

Before she could put the pot on the stove, though, she felt a hand slip around her waist, and she was pulled back against her lover’s body. He nuzzled her neck and his voice dripped with honey again. “Hey, you know, I’m not really hungry for food. Why don’t you come back to bed?” She shrugged her shoulders and turned around. “Oh, come on,” he continued, kissing her with a new gentleness, “Why don’t you come back to bed? Or…I can just leave. Do you want me to leave?” She shrugged her shoulders again, pulling away from him and returning to the pasta.

“Are you sure you won’t eat anything?” she asked, reading the instructions on the box, like she did every time she made pasta. “I can make you something. It won’t take very long.” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer before turning on the stove and pouring the pasta into the pot. She focused all of her attention on the boiling water and so paid no heed when she heard the door open and then slam shut, leaving only herself and the blaring television (guaranteeing to help you lose twenty pounds in ten days).

The words from the television crashed around inside her head, and it occurred to her then that she was alone again. All of the sudden she was terribly tired, and without bothering much over the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, or the pasta now sitting limp and soggy at the bottom of the pot of water on the stove, she crawled into her cold bed and drifted into sleep.

Hours later, she woke up to the sound of traffic outside her apartment. The dawn she had moved through earlier had been replaced by a dusky sort of orange glow, announcing the quickly descending night. The night was always a promise to her, the darkness erasing her memories of the night before and the bright lights of the city bringing fresh hope for the coming night into her spirit. She showered and dressed slowly, planning mentally with a sort of listless excitement where she would start that night. The people in most of the local cafés knew her by name already, and she doubted that there would be any new faces; there hardly ever were these days. But there was supposed to be a new book store opening a few blocks away from her, with some sort of hip poetry reading where there was bound to be fresh meat hungry for one thing or another.

She made up her mind to walk the few blocks there, and was in the middle of painting herself like a china doll when the phone rang. With her eyeliner tucked behind her ear, and lipstick in her other hand, she picked up the phone and answered with a bored, “Yeah?”

“Lamb? Lamb, is that you? I wasn’t sure if this was the right number…you never left one with us, but it has to be you, I know that voice anywhere.”

“What do you want, da? I was about to go out.” She continued painting her face while listening to her father’s words. They seemed to drone on, suspended in the air between the receiver and her ear and she hardly paid attention as she put on her eyeliner.

“Aren’t you happy to hear from me? What happened? How come you never called us?”

“I’ve been busy. And I’m busy now, so can you make this short?” First the lower lid of the left eye, then the top…

“Ah, I suppose my daughter must be busy, living in such a big city. I guess I can keep this short. Lamb, listen, I have some bad news.”

“What is it, da?” Then the lower lid of the right eye, then the top…

“It’s your mother, lamb. She’s had a stroke. She’s in the hospital.”

“Yeah? How’s she doing?” Blending it with her free hand, she was careful not to smudge the precise lines…

“She’s in the hospital. Aren’t you listening? You’re mother’s in the hospital.”

“I know, I heard you. How’s she doing?” The eyeliner in her hand had been replaced with eye shadow, one sweep over the left lid…

“She’s not doing well, little lamb, not doing well at all. She can’t speak a word to anyone, though the doctors think she can understand perfectly fine.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s good I guess.” One sweep over the right lid…

“Why don’t you come to the hospital and pay your mother a visit? I think she’d really like to see her only daughter. I think it’d be a comfort to her.”

“I don’t know, da, I’m really busy. I’ve got a lot going on these days.” She put down the eye shadow and touched up her hair, pushing loose strands back into their proper places.

“Listen, child, your mother is in the hospital and I know she would like to see you. Show some respect. Make some time.”

“Yeah?” She was hardly paying attention to what her father was saying. Already she was planning the rest of her evening, wondering what fresh faces would be there, wondering how quickly she could get back to her place with a nice body trailing at her arm. To her father, she said, “I guess I can stop by tomorrow. Where’s she staying, anyway?” Her father gave her directions to the hospital, during which time she wondered where she’d put her shoes. When the conversation finally ended, she slipped into her shoes and out the door.

The evening was cool and dim, the lights just beginning to blink on from inside frosted windows. There were people all around her, huddled inside their jackets and scarves, and she passed them quickly without taking much notice. They were just people; they were always there and there was nothing special about them. All she could think of now was her destination, which approached rapidly as her feet pounded the pavement.

The inside of the bookstore was warm and the atmosphere was cozy and quaint. The place was small, much smaller than any bookstore she’d ever been in, and the cluster of chairs and people near the far wall made it seem even smaller. Almost everyone in the room was holding a cup of coffee, and had their heads tilted slightly, enraptured with the lighted figure before them spilling his words into their empty minds. The whole room seemed to be focused on him, his dark hair and skin illuminated by lights placed strategically around the room to do exactly that. With all the poetry readings and open mics that she went to, she had never seen this being before. He was beautiful. He was an angel. She had to have him.

She made her way through the shelves of books, her eyes always on the beauty before her, and settled herself between two awestruck young men on the floor, who both pulled out of their dazes long enough to give her a sidelong glance. She pretended not to notice them, though, and put all of her attention into the man in front of her, in his easy manner, in his eyes, in his deep voice, in the words that she wasn’t really listening to. She could have sworn she caught him looking at her once or twice while his mouth shaped meaningless words, and she gave him the most sensuous look she knew how to give in return. He read a few more poems and then sidled to the front while people were still applauding and whispering, slipping out the door as though he didn’t want anyone to follow him. She followed him anyway.

She caught up with him just as he was turning the corner into another street. Her hand touched his elbow gently and when he stopped and turned around she felt a little shiver go through her. He was even more beautiful than she thought.

“Yes?” he said, and she nearly sighed at the sound of his voice.

“Hi,” she said confidently, “I was just in the bookstore, listening to you read your poems, and I must say, you are an amazing poet. I’ve never really heard anyone put words together the way you do.”

He didn’t seem too interested. “Really,” he replied, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He turned to walk away, but her hand grazed his elbow again and again he turned to face her. “Is there something else?” he asked, and his voice was less than pleased.

“Well, actually, there is. Do you think that you could...” she broke off, feigning embarrassment while she continued, “Oh, I feel so silly asking you this, but I’m working on an epic, and I was wondering if you would take a look at it?”

Her angel paused before answering her, frowning slightly, and she thought that even the frown was a beautiful gesture on his face. After a few moments he said, “I guess I could. Why don’t we go for a cup of coffee and you can show me your work?”

“That would be great, but I left all of my poetry at my place, so do you mind if we just go there? I could make us some coffee and maybe something to eat.” He nodded and motioned for her to lead the way.

“By the way,” he said, “I never got to introduce myself. I’m…”

“It isn’t too far,” she interrupted him quickly, hooking her arm through his as they walked, “My place, I mean. Just a few blocks away.” Hearing his name would ruin the illusion that he was her angel, her ethereal being who could perform ethereal tasks.

“Alright,” he said somewhat uncertainly and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

She couldn’t help but inwardly gloat about the catch she’d made. She smiled broadly to herself while they climbed the steps to her apartment, overly pleased that the piece she had hanging at her elbow was one of the most beautiful anywhere.

Her apartment was exactly the way she had left it the night before; dirty dishes, pasta, and all. Her angel crinkled his nose when he walked in, and said, “Don’t you ever clean this place? I’ve seen addicts with cleaner apartments.”

She didn’t pay any attention to his remark, offering him coffee instead.

“That’s alright,” he dismissed her easily. “So let me see your poetry,” he continued while he made his way to her bedroom and sat down on her unmade bed. “That is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

She smiled what she thought was a seductive smile and climbed onto the bed behind him, rubbing his back. She needed to turn on the charm or whatever it was that made these guys go gaga if she wanted to get her way tonight. “I guess, if that’s what you really want,” she whispered into his ear.

He stood up quickly, as though a shock had been sent through his spine. “I knew it,” he spat, “I knew it. You couldn’t have wanted an opinion on anything, the way you were acting. I doubt you even write. I saw the way you were looking at me while I was walking out. I’ve never seen anything look so lustful.”

She sat back on the bed with her legs folded underneath her and pondered his reaction for a few seconds. She wasn’t used to this at all. Usually within the first five minutes of being invited in, men were eagerly tearing off her clothes. What had she done wrong? She didn’t understand at all, but wouldn’t let this minor setback ruin her plans. She looked up at him, keeping her seductive smile, and said, “So? Is it all that bad for a girl to get a little lustful every now and then?”

He just stared at her, his mouth hanging open slightly.

She leaned forward. “I mean, isn’t that what humans are, anyway? Lustful?” And here she took a long shot, “Isn’t that what you wrote in your poetry? About how humans sin and just can’t help themselves because it’s all they know?”

“That’s complete bullshit. I bet you weren’t even listening to me back there.”

She shrugged. “Does it really matter? If you knew what I was after, why’d you bother coming?”

And he couldn’t answer her, which was just as well, as she was tired of all this talking and speculation. Words wasted so much of her time. But this was the signal that she knew she had him, that she was going to get her way. She moved off the bed and stood in front of him, wrapping her arms around him. But he pulled away. She stepped towards him again, and he stepped backwards again. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. The more she moved towards him, the more he moved away, until she had him backed against the door. His eyes were wide like he couldn’t believe what was going on. He opened his mouth slightly to speak, but no words came out. He put his hand on the doorknob and in another second he was gone, his feet echoing in the stairwell as he ran.

She was alone again, left with a silence that pounded against her head.