He sucked the nectar from her heart like a famished b.u.t.terfly. No nurture, no nourishment left for Kristina.

A vacation is a poor subst.i.tute for love.

Two Hours into the Flight

Albert snored, soft as a hummingbird's hover. His moody smile suggested he'd found his Genevieve, just beyond time just beyond s.p.a.ce just beyond this continuum.

I watched his face, gentled by dreams, until sun winks off the polished fuselage hypnotized me, not quite asleep not quite conscious not quite in this dimension.

I coasted along a byway, memory, glimpses of truth speed b.u.mps within childish belief, almost ultimate almost reliable almost total insanity.

Daddy waited in the dead-end circle, reaching out for me.

I couldn't find his embrace find his answers find his excuse for tears.

Faster. Faster.

He'd waited too many years for me to come looking.

Hadn't he? I needed to see needed to know needed a lot more.

Hot Landing

Hot runway.

Hot brakes.

Hot desert sand outside the window, wind-sculpted crystalline slivers, reflecting a new summer's sun.

Good-bye, young lady.

Good-bye, Albert.

Good-bye, toupee.

Good-bye, dentures.

Good-bye, in-flight glimpses of a soul, aching, and dreams, fractured, injuries only death could cure.

Have a nice vacation.

You too.

You relax.

You pretend to have fun.

You share a toast with me: here's to seasonal madness, part-time relatives and subst.i.tutes for love.

The Prince of Albuquerque

June is pleasant in Reno, kind of breezy and all.

I boarded the plane in clingy jeans and a long-sleeved T. Black.

It's a whole lot hotter in Albuquerque.

I wobbled up the skywalk, balancing heavy twin carry-ons.

Fingers of sweat grabbed my hair and pressed it against my face.

No one seemed to notice.

I scanned the crowd at the gate.

Too tall. Not tall enough.

Too old. Way too old.

There, with the sable hair, much like my own.

How was it possible?

I thought he was much better looking, the impression of a seven-year-old whose daddy was the Prince of Albuquerque.

I melted, sleet on New Mexico asphalt.

Mutual a.s.sessment

Daddy watched the gate, listing a bit as he hummed a bedtime tune, withdrawn from who knows which memory bank.

"Daddy?" Roses are red, my love.

He overlooked me like sky above a patch of dirt, and I realized he, too, searched for a face suspended in yesterday.

"It's me." Violets are blu-oo-oo.

Peculiar eyes, blue-speckled green like extravagant eggs, met my own pale aquamarine.

a.s.sessing. Doubt gnawing.

"Hey." Sugar is ... Kristina?

He hugged me, too tightly. Nasty odors gulped. Marlboros. Jack Daniels. Straightforward B.O.

Not like Scott's ever-clean smell.

I can't believe how much you've grown!

"It's been eight years, Dad."

From daddy to dad in thirty seconds. We were strangers, after all.

I Got in a Car with a Stranger

A '92 Geo, pink under primer, not quite a princely coach. Dad and I attempted small talk.

How's your sister?

"Gay."

Sequestered on a California campus. When she outed, I cringed. Mom cried.

You called her queer.

How's your mother?

"Older."

Prettier, gift-wrapped in 40ish self-esteem, a wannabe writer and workout fanatic, sweating ice.

How's what's-his-name?

"Indifferent."

Either that or flat in my face, yet oddly always there exactly when I need him. Unlike you.

And how are you?

"Okay."

Near-sighted. Hormonal.

Three zits monthly.

Often confused.

l.u.s.ting for love.

"You?"

Same.

Small Talk Shrank to Minuscule

Hot? Not! Wait till August!

The carriage burped. Screeched.

Hiccupped. I tightened my seat-belt, like that could save me.