We head down a surreal path: This isn't my hometown anymore so Brian does the driving. We end up in the nieghborhood I grew up in at a crowded bistro backfilled into the suburban sprawl as one of the upshots of imminent domain.

I try to remember what this was before. The building is old, funky, the exterior ancient stucco of a style not made anymore, made for a building that no longer serves its original purpose.

"Was this always here?" I ask him.

"Yup." he replies, leaving me to remember what the hell it was.

That's it, I remember now -- community swimming pool down the hill. The neighborhood association owned two. Probably lost their asses on the insurance, maybe defaulted, went bankrupt like so much else.

Christ I know a lot of people here for a town I don't live in any longer, almost like a party held by a friend. Nobody here is from here, at least amongst those I know.

There's Greg and his wife, Georgia and a ton of people I don't know.

I spy my brother hanging out in a knot of people on the patio and excuse myself to say hello making polite greetings to aquaintances as I go.

I feel rude for ditching Brian but see he's doing well with our table-neighbors and resign myself that he is having a swell time without me.

"Heyhey!" my brother explains when he sees me. "What's the haps?"

This is his wife's crowd, it turns out. He's friends but kind of outsiders. We rap for a bit while I survey the place.

Dark.

Moody.

Perfect for a night like tonight.

On the distant patio a glimpse -- an old flame. Beatrice.

Can't be. Too many coincidences tonight already. I've worn them all out. I dispell the illusion simply by looking away, not believing she is really there.

It works well until she comes up behind me.

At this point I have a decision to make. I can pretend I didn't see her, ignore her, hope that she will just go away.

I imagine that this is probably not the case, however. From the gloom she mirrored me, peering as if to see -- really? Him?

This is a small state, though, and if I run into her now I'll run into her again and if I go the punk route I will spend the rest of my days fretting over the next such encounter.

After a moment's deliberation, her standing behind me sort of hopping from foot to foot I decide to take the straight route.

I turn: "Bea, how are you. I thought that might be you."

"Yeah, its me." More mature now. Heavier than she was when we went out. Far heavier than the last time I saw any picture of her.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, it clear that I was far from home with no good reason to be here.

"Layoff party," she said, throwing her thumb back the direction she came. "This is middle ground between us and our co-workers."

Yes. The strange middle ground in the 21st century where people working on the same project in the same region are separated by just enough hours to make phone calls and emails the only way to do business. Just far enough to create divisive lines that would normally be dispelled by a jaunt down the office. The sort of business that dooms relationships, ends calls in an ugly fashion, kills product lines.

We are then at the awkward impasse between smalltalk bullshit and the "sorry" that I'll never receive.