Alki Beach. Seattle, Washington. Future.

A few hours later, when the two of them were back in the car, he held her hand and pressed it to his lips.

The beach was empty, and only the night walked the sidewalks, clothed in all of its darkness.

“You are so, so beautiful to me,” Avgust confessed.

“Stop it,” Jasmine murmured. “You can’t even see me.”

“I love your hands, and fingers, and wrists.”

“Did you notice that one of my thumbs is larger than the other?” she asked. “I did. But I love them nonetheless. Both of them.”

He proceeded to kiss her thumbs.

And she let him.

Once his mouth had grown tired of finding love hidden in the skin of her body, he reached out to grasp her soul, and found lost truths in her divine eyes.

She gazed back at him in sheer wonder. Her soft lips held the sacred, and with her breath on his face, he felt as if he could love for a thousand years.

II

Sometime During the Summer of 2002. Dallas, Texas. Past.

From where she sat near her window, she could see her father’s shadow appear long before she saw his head, covered by an old grey fedora, come into sight.

The blood-orange sun made rainbows of light swirl into existence, reminding the six-year-old Jasmine Milano of the rare springtime rains that fell in Texas.

For a second, she was distracted by the light that fell through that window.

She tilted her little head and finally saw her father step onto the porch, remove his fedora with his left hand, and wipe a bead of sweat with his wrist. He was a tall Spaniard with an olive complexion, a round, happy face, and brown eyes that shone whenever he looked at his “little Jassie,” as he liked to call her.

Jasmine wanted to move away from the window and run towards her papa, but what she saw next, made the intuitive little girl freeze with fear. She heard the front door open and saw another shadow step out. It was mama.

Her father’s usually happy grin disappeared, and the skin on his face became tight with anger. His lips became thin and his eyes became empty. Her mother screamed and yelled words that she did not understand. She knew her mother was especially angry because she shouted in both broken English and Spanish.

Jasmine squeezed the little doll she held in her hand until her tiny little fists became red.

She watched her father take a step back. And then another. He waved his hand, as if to dismiss whatever it was mama was telling him.

She watched papa become still. Something mama said. His eyes dropped, and he slowly placed the fedora back on his head. He turned his back to their front porch and returned to the large, black car that was parked in the driveway.

Moments later, the engine roared to life, as Jasmine watched another face come into view. There, in the passenger seat, was a beautiful woman, whispering something in papa’s ear.

When the vehicle drove off, she heard her mother begin to sob. All of that anger and all of that screaming was just a front, a deceptive façade. Beneath it all, her mother was a frightened woman who knew she had lost. She could scream. She could shout. She could curse the day she married the man who was her husband. But what she could not do is change her skin. She had aged. And the woman he was now seeing was young and beautiful. Everything mama was not.

Mama’s season of beauty and youth had ended; her green spring leaves had given way to the colors of fall.

Following that day, Jasmine would learn what it was to be a woman, and what it meant to be married to a man. Her mother would raise her alone, along with her older sister and elder brother.

Her mother would not need to teach her anything about men.

The little girl of six had seen all she needed to see out of that window that sunny day.

A man marries a woman. She bears him children. Then he finds himself a younger one—and leaves his family behind.

It was this lesson that Jasmine would carry with her wherever she went. In her eyes, she was dispensable. All she could ever dream of becoming unto another man was but a cigarette butt in his mouth. A man smoked a cigarette— then threw the butt away.

But not before crushing it beneath his feet.

The little girl turned from that window and ran towards the porch.

But it wasn’t to hug papa.

It was to wrap her tiny little arms around her mama, who lay in a pile of tears on the wooden floor.

This is how men treated women. This is what marriage meant. And it all ended here, on a lonely porch, with a middle-aged woman crying.

This is the story Jasmine would tell herself year in and year out. I am a woman, and when I grow up, I will be like mama.

But Jasmine refused to be like mama. She had seen what men like papa did to women. They replaced them when they grew tired of their appearance.

In time Jasmine would grow up, but she would do so on her own terms, she told herself.

Or so she thought.

III

August 28th, 2018. Seattle, Washington. Present.

It was the end of August, and the plane that carried Avgust Alexeyev arrived from Atlanta to Seattle on time. In fact, if Avgust’s iPhone was to be trusted in Airplane Mode, it was thirty minutes early.

Avgust was half-Russian and half-Jewish. A mixed mutt who was born in southern Russia—roughly two decades ago—before his parents migrated to the United States, in search of the alleged “money that grew on trees,” as his father liked to joke. The Alexeyevs settled in Atlanta, where Avgust’s father, a Protestant theologian, pastored a small, non-denominational church. His mother, who had a master's degree in history, abandoned teaching high school students

when she became pregnant with Avgust, an only-child. In America, she became a stay-at-home mother and played the role of loyal wife who looked tirelessly after her dva mal’chika (“two boys”).

Unlike Jasmine, whom Avgust was about to meet, Avgust grew up in a stable home, where both parents pledged loyalty to one another, and spent every evening together. His father seldom stayed out later than eight o’clock, and usually was home, caressing his wife and whispering love into her ears, no later than nine. In fact, Avgust did not recall there ever being a night that his parents spent apart.

The pretty flight attendant mouthed something to Avgust, who had headphones in his ears. He removed them and gave her a blank stare.

“They’re waiting for you to leave, sir,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled back as he began to pack his things. “I got lost in thought—and music.”

Avgust grabbed his carry-on, and stepped out of the plane, along with the other slow-moving passengers. Today wasn’t a particularly good day. He had just returned from Atlanta, where an ex-girlfriend of his had turned him down. He had wanted to reconnect with her.

“I’m back in town. You available for dinner?” he had texted her. She had replied with, “Sorry, already made plans. But thank you.”

She was being nice, he thought to himself. But a turndown is a turndown is a turndown. And it always hurt him like a bitch. His father, of course, would not approve of the language. But, unlike other pastors, he understood that the pain of relationships—or “relationshits” as he secretly liked to call them—was never something one took lightly.

“Son,” he’d say, with that thick-Russian accent of his, “there’s no valid compareesons ven it comes to suffereeng. Sheet is sheet.”

“Dad, shit is shit,” Avgust would repeat, correcting the pronunciation.

“Bullsheet,” his father would reply with a sly grin.

Once he had stepped into the confines of the busy Sea-Tac Airport, an elderly woman who observed his dark complexion, commanded, “Cheer up, young man! When one door closes, another opens!”

Avgust smiled at her. It wasn’t a real smile, but he wanted to make the woman feel as if she had brightened his mood. She hadn’t. But in his heart he felt like it was the right thing to do—for, at the very least, it was she alone who had noticed and commented on his state of despair.

Avgust returned to his small apartment near The Landing in Renton, Washington. He had only recently moved in here, being a young twenty-two-year- old travel nurse with only one year of hospital experience.

Back in Atlanta, he had gotten bored with his life, and wanted to try something new. It wasn’t long before he started looking for jobs out of state. One

thing led to another, and before he knew it, he left Atlanta Medical Center for Swedish Medical Center, a hospital that was located in the heart of Seattle.

Once he had unpacked his things and placed them where they each belonged, he grabbed a book off of the shelf, quickly scanned his tidy apartment, and headed out to a coffee shop. Here he lived alone, and he found that concentrating within the silence of four walls was mostly unbearable, especially when one was depressed. He could read perfectly well in a noisy room full of lively people. He sometimes preferred crowds. And today, especially, was one of those “people bath” days, as his one-time idle, Soren Kierkegaard, called it whenever he went for a stroll through nineteenth-century Copenhagen.

I will have my people bath today, he told himself. And if shit hits the fan, and my emotions get all out of whack, I’m going to drink some Highland Park scotch and call it a night.

He got into his little Toyota Prius, barely squeezing his six-foot-six body in. It was on days like these that he hated going green for the planet. Maybe he should have purchased a gas-guzzling large truck instead. He wasn’t particularly well-built, but he did have some two hundred odd pounds of slim muscle mass to deal with, and it was hot summer days like these, when he was already irritated with being in cramped spaces, that he cursed under his breath and said fuck-you to the air-conditioning, the steering wheel, and the non-existent convertible roof.

Fuck, I swear, if this shit doesn’t cool down to sixty-degrees Fahrenheit in three seconds, I’m going to convert to Islam, he muttered to himself. And I swear I’ll be praying to other gods if that shit don’t work.

He had no idea when he had become so sacrilegious but it must have started when he was a senior in high school. Being the son of a respected theologian and pastor, he was taught to say “Thank You” when he wanted to scream “Fuck You”; “You’re Welcome” when he wanted to yell “Give That Shit Back To Me”; and “Yes, Ma’am” when he wanted to pull the bitch’s hair out.

Sometime in high school he had contemplated the meaning of life and decided that the only meaning life had was one that you gave it. Some people gave their lives meaning by throwing themselves at the feet of some god, usually one they were raised with; others gave their lives meaning by destroying all gods and temples. And then there was another type—a Type-Three—those who usually found meaning in different gods, but they were gods nonetheless. For Avgust, he met his god in the third grade. Well, she wasn’t really god but a sort of goddess. Her name was Sarah. She inspired him to write third grade poetry that could put Dr. Seuss out of business. And it was Sarah who gave Avgust’s life meaning. Why? He didn’t know. But he let her. And, my god (or was it “my goddess”?), did he love her.

He loved her forever and ever and ever. Or so it seemed. For an entire week, that is.

But in the third grade, a week was a long time. It was almost as long as a tenth of summer break. And summer breaks were ages unto themselves.

In other words, Avgust wasn’t sacrilegious in the usual sense of the word. He didn’t hate god or curse religion. He just worshipped at the altar of another god. Err, goddess. For him, he was inspired and moved by women. Not all of them. But every once in a while, he would come across a girl that would make his eyes go ‘round with curiosity, and his words would wax poetic, and he would feel the whirlwinds of romance and lust swoop through the barren fields of his mind. His life would take on new meaning and he would write poetry like a mad Greek possessed by some romantic demon.

He rated his loves based on his poetic output. He measured it in several ways. On the one hand, there was the issue of quantity. How many poems did he write? He never wrote that many. Poetry was a sacred, divine act; it was like fasting for forty days or refraining from having sex for religious purposes, as Paul wrote to the Corinthians. For Avgust, writing poetry wasn’t something that he did naturally. It wasn’t something that he did during an ordinary weekday, when boredom reined freely and the state of absolute mundaneness saturated every fiber of being. It was something that happened to him. It came from somewhere else. It was magical. It was supernatural. It was religious.

On the other hand, there was the issue of quality. How good were the poems he wrote? And this, too, could help him measure how close he was to meeting the love of his life. If only he could get this poem published in The Paris Review. And if he could, he knew it would be her. It had to be her. And there were

simply not enough Hers in this world. At least not for Avgust. He had only come across one or two in his life. And both turned out to be...well, how did one put it? Wrong. Of course, romantics hated being wrong. But such was life. Most loves turn out to be delusions of lovability anyhow.

And so it was on this day—an ordinary August 28th—when Avgust was supposed to be reading some stupid book written by another—yawn—boring author, that he became ambivalent with his life decisions. It was his day off, and he was uncertain about the coffee shop. He pulled into his usual place, found on the southernmost tip of Lake Washington, climbed out of the car, and began to walk to the café when an idea struck him.

Go walk amongst the yachts and boats moored at the Kirkland Marina.

Hell, he was having a shitty week—another muse, another ex-girlfriend that didn’t want to see him—what could go wrong at the Marina? It sounded like a wonderful idea. In fact, it was marvelous. Why didn’t he think of it right away? He was dumbfounded by his own stupidity. Was his depression talking to him? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was god.

He was about to open the door to that coffee shop when he turned on his heels and returned to his now-cool Prius.

IV

Thirty minutes later he parked his car near Zoka Coffee Roasters, located two blocks from the Kirkland Marina. He had been there once or twice before and did not mind their coffee.

I could grab a cold coffee on my way to the Lake. The sun is out. It’s probably going to turn into a hot latte by the time I get to the beach. I might as well save the planet by carrying ice around on a hot day. Maybe that would help with global warming? I could even get cold coffee twice. Now that would prevent sea-levels from rising.

Out of habit, he had grabbed the laptop out of his car and carried it, along with the book, when he walked into the coffee shop.

Now, if I really want to change the world, I could get three cups of coffee, cool the planet, sit by the Lake, write a few awful lines for Karina, the love of my life, and hope that I win her back. But fuck Karina. Shit. It wasn’t going to work between us anyhow. I don’t think she ever understood my poems. I’m positive she flunked out of English Literature 101. Does she even know who Fitzgerald is or Pablo Neruda or Jack Gilbert? And even if the—

He was contemplating the validity of his love for his ex-girlfriend, Karina, when the doors to the coffee shop opened in their entirety, and a soft light fell into the café. Almost immediately, and without hesitation, all thoughts of Karina came to a standstill.

His eyes followed the sun’s light, and the light came to rest on the most beautiful girl he had seen in a very long time. Maybe even in his entire life. And

already he could feel his heart contract in his chest, and his fingers craved to type out poetry. For her. He wanted to breathe but that would be to waste energy on the ordinary. Before him was something extraordinary, something that occurred only once in a lifetime. He didn’t even look at her eyes yet, or her face. All he could see was her dark brown hair, and her small fingers wrapped gently around a pen, writing meticulously.

He walked to the register and ordered his latte. He didn’t know if or when he paid, all he knew was that this was it. This was the girl he had been waiting to meet all of his life. This was the girl who would make it into The Paris Review. He was sure of it. All he had to do was go over there and sit beside her.

He looked at where she was sitting.

Okay. Middle of the room. Nobody sitting next to her. Holy Fuck. Jesus Christ. Shit. She is so beautiful. She doesn’t know what’s coming. She hasn’t seen me yet.

He turned around and faced the cashier. The cashier gave him a puzzled look.

“Are you going to pay?” he asked. “Cash or credit?”

“Credit,” Avgust mumbled. “Sorry.”

Okay. How do I do this? Okay. Just be yourself. Play it cool. She’s probably married. She’s way too gorgeous and lovely and beautiful and absolutely wonderful to be single.

He turned to face her again.

She looked up from her computer screen for a split second before resuming her work.

Holy shit. She’s prettier than I imagined. Okay. She’s definitely married. But she’s too beautiful to pass up. Just sit next to her, Avgust, and make no eye contact, unless you are ready to hit on a married woman. No. No married woman for me. That would be unethical. But is she? Well, maybe she’s not. I mean, why would she be married? Look at her. She is so lovely. She—

He approached her table and carelessly laid his book down.

Fuck. I can’t believe I brought a copy of John Green’s An Abundance of Katherines. She’s never going to speak to me. She’ll think I am one of those romantics. I’m not a romantic. I’m, like— Fuck. What am I? I’ll be whatever she wants me to be.

Avgust straightened his back out—giving himself good posture—took in a deep and carefree breath, before asking, “Is anyone sitting here?”

The girl looked up at him. She removed one headphone from her ear. He repeated the question.

“No,” she replied. And then proceeded to put the headphone back into her ear.

Oh. My. God. She is lovely. And her eyes are so soft, and brown, and caring. I could look at her forever and not give two fucks about global warming and John

Green books, and marinas. I could just sit here, right here, across from her, and be a happy man.

He sat down, pulled out his laptop in the most nonchalant of manners, and pretended to type something. Mostly he was looking at her. Not staring, but looking at her ever so slightly.

Okay, you dumbass. You are fucking staring at her. Stop fucking freaking her the fuck out. Get your shit together, dumbass. She’s got (a) rings on her ring finger and the “other” ring finger (so she’s a solid no-go); and (b) she put the headphone back into her ear, you dumbfuck. She’s not going to talk to you. And, finally, (c) your dumbass looks like shit right now. You’re wearing flip-flops. And girls hate flip-flops.

He began to write a poem. For her. He noticed a large, amethyst ring on her ring finger. He had a hand fetish. And this girl, with her pretty hands, was everything he wanted Her—with a capital H—hands to be.

This was his Her. This was his woman. This was the girl that would change his life. This was the girl he would raise children with. He was already reaching for his phone to call his mother. He would tell her of this very moment, of this very girl.

But she was married.

He kept fake-typing. No real poem was coming. He was in a public place— and the sacred refused to come out in public. It could only be done in the quiet hours, in the dark hours, when one was alone on a shore or mountain top. Here,

in the midst of a thousand people, no poem would be born. Besides, his mind was racing with thoughts of Her. His her.

Okay, Avgust. Be a gentleman. Do not reveal a thing. She cannot know that you are nervous, or that you are already seeing her as the mother of your children. All that she needs to know as of this moment is that you don’t give a damn about her. So, act like it. Girls want what they can’t have.

He shuffled his feet and looked at her again. She lifter her eyes from the screen, met his gaze for a moment, and smiled gently.

He pretended not to care. He smiled a little. Maybe he didn’t. But his heart was hers the moment she looked into his soft green eyes.

Though the stars were not yet shining in the sky, they were going to be; though the moonlight was not yet touching her olive skin, it was going to; though the Milky Way had not yet come out of hiding, it was going to—and when it did, it would splash its waves of light on the two of them kissing between its constellations. Already he could see her holding his hand, laughing at his inconsequential jokes, and standing on her tip-toes to kiss his mouth.

He could see the two of them riding in a car, listening to music—say, eighties rock—with her hand in his. From this day forward, he would always have one hand on the steering wheel and one hand holding hers. She wouldn’t even need to say a thing—and he would already know. She’d think a thought—and he would know. In fact, in his mind, she wouldn’t even think anything. And neither would he. They would think thoughts together. It would be love—the kind of love

the poets had spent their lives only dreaming and writing about. But here she was, fully clothed, wearing her white shirt, and her black yoga pants, and having her hair in a messy bun. She looked angelic. Her brown, Spanish eyes, as romantic as any poem Neruda ever wrote. Her perfect brows and her black eye lashes. He wanted to kiss her. He could kiss her full, round mouth with her pink lips. And he would savor her tongue before taking her breath away.

“Would you care to watch my stuff while I used the lady’s room?” he heard someone say.

Avgust looked behind him. Had the barista just asked him to watch her stuff? What stuff? Was she crazy? No, of course he wouldn’t watch “her stuff.” He was too busy falling in mad love with the most beautiful girl that ever existed that was created before time began and before dark matter began to fill the dark void of space and the universe was nothing but a small dot in the hands of god. So, no, he was not going to watch anybody’s stuff. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to write poetry, and to love this...this—how could he put it?—this gift from the gods, this precious treasure he had found while digging through the ruins of a shipwreck he had accidentally discovered while diving off of the coast of Spain.

No, no, no. Avgust. You must be losing your mind. Of course, the barista did not ask you anything. It’s her. Look straight ahead at her. Yes, brown-eyed Spanish girl with olive skin and lips you could kiss forever. Yes, her. That her. She—the very Her—is speaking to thee.

He cleared his throat. And opened his mouth. He paused. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to pause, but he paused nonetheless. “Of course, I can watch it,” he replied, coolly.

She nodded her beautiful head and stood up. She was tall. And, my god, was he in love with her already.

V

Jasmine went into the bathroom and looked at her face. She pulled out her makeup and quickly went to work.

Wow, he is so attractive. And his eyes are so intense. And his gaze. My god, I am struggling to breathe. And do I want to go through this again? I just had Gordon chase after me, all the way from Texas. And I turned him down because I can’t do a relationship right now. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Truly. What am I thinking? But his eyes, and maybe his smile, and maybe I am already going to say Yes to him. Yes, I will. I will say Yes to him a thousand times over. But I hate this shirt? Ugh. Alexis would scold me for wearing this today. Of all days, why did I choose this? Why, oh, why, oh, why? Truly, this day could not get any worse. What if he’s taken? Oh, you know it, Jasmine. You know he is. There’s no way he isn’t. He’s probably a writer. His fingers were typing faster than any I’ve ever seen. And I wonder what else his fingers are capable of. But it’s too soon for that, Jas. You need to quit. Quit right now. If you do this, you’ll flunk out of your

undergraduate neuroscience program, and you’ll be an epic failure, and your mother, and your absentee father who throws money at you instead of attention, would be very ashamed and mad and angry. And who wants to spend time with a man who could write a poem about you, or write about you and all of your failures and, I don’t think this would be a good idea.

Jasmine looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She checked her old and worn Fossil watch. Seven o’clock. She should get going.

She liked old things. Something about things that last. New things—ugh, she hated them. She liked old and worn and torn, and things that had character. Scars she could trace on the body of masculine men who could tell her stories of their past glories and fights and wars. She wanted a man. A real man. Not a writer. Not someone who could understand her. She didn’t want to be understood—for she was afraid of what understanding could lead to. She could actually fall in love with understanding. And she didn’t want to end up like her mother. Abandoned. Alone. Divorced. Unhappy. Depressed. Calling her children ten times a day to get the attention she would have been getting from a husband had she had one.

But men. Fuck men.

Anger began to swell in her, so she took a deep breath to calm herself down.

What am I thinking? What was I doing? Ah, checking the time.

She looked at her watch again. It was seven o’clock. The timepiece appeared blurry. She had tears in her eyes. She wiped them away and looked closer into the mirror.

I look like a toad. I look like a toad. Why would he even look at me? I can’t do this. I can’t. It’ll be an epic fail. And he’ll abandon me the moment he learns about my insecurity, and how I don’t trust men, and how I was abandoned a year ago, right before my engagement. Jasmine, don’t do this to yourself. You know what’ll he’ll do to you. He’ll love you for three months and then replace you. Like that cigarette butt. He’ll leave you and you’ll never hear from him again. Oh, but, truly, he had kind eyes, and his smile was trustworthy. And the way he said— what did he say to me?—whatever he said, I liked hearing his voice. It could be it. This could be it. Maybe he’ll marry me someday and maybe I’ll never have to worry like mama. And maybe when I grow old I won’t have to worry about who’s going to carry me around when my arthritis kicks in.

She wanted to sing herself a song. Something to get the nervousness out of her head. She began to hum Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. And it was to the lyrics of the song that she returned to her table, and her dreamy eyes beheld the stranger once more—and maybe she loved him already.

“Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining. Players only love you when they’re playing,” she sung in her nervous head.

The stranger looked at her once more. She could feel his eyes observe her. He was careful with his observations, she was certain of it.

Did he look at my hands? Is he looking at them? Why my hands and why today? Doesn’t he know that my nails don’t see a nail salon until tomorrow!

She ran a hand through her hair and looked at him.

Her heart stopped for a second.

She was sure of it this time. He was looking at her. And she felt a blush come over her face, and her cheeks. And her neck became warm with blood.

Focus. Focus. Focus. You have to write. Write all of the lecture notes down. Okay, so, where was I? The mesolimbic dopamine system. What did the book say?

She began to rewrite everything from out of the book. She was reading Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst by Robert M. Sapolsky. It was one of the assigned texts.

In her notes, she wrote the following: “Once reward contingencies are learned, dopamine is less about reward than about its anticipation.”1 And: “Anticipatory dopamine release peaks with the greatest uncertainty as to whether a reward will occur.”2

She had left her headphones off on purpose. She wanted the cute stranger to speak to her. She wanted to hear his voice. She wanted him to ask for her number.

1 Robert M. Sapolsky, Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst (New York: Penguin Books, 2018), 70.

2 Ibid.

“You have beautiful handwriting,” she heard him say.

Is he really speaking to me? Oh, I hope he keeps talking! What do I tell him?

Oh, thank you! I’ve never had anybody tell me that,” she heard herself say. “I’m glad you think so.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

Shoot, shoot, shoot! What was I thinking? Am I going to be open-ended at some point, or am I always going to drop the ball like this? First, he is talking to me. And, second, he is so intense and the energy between us. Sparks. Phew. I’m feeling hot. Am I blushing again? Oh, I wish he would look away. I know he knows that I’m into him already.

“Are you in nursing school?” he asked her.

“No, no,” Jasmine shook her head. “I’m in my third year at the University of Washington, studying neuroscience with a minor in psychology.” She attempted an easy smile. She was nervous, so it was anything but easy. But she tried. For him she would always try.

VI

Avgust examined her closely. He was playing it cool now. He was nervous but he wasn’t showing it. It came to him naturally. The appearance that he had

no anxieties, that he had no worries. Everybody always thought he was arrogant, proud, and full of unending confidence. He had a hard time convincing anyone of his insecurities and his mistrust of human beings in general, especially girls.

But he knew he had to play the game to get the girl. And this was one girl he had his mind set on from the get-go.

She was a goddess. She was Spanish. And he was in love with her before he even laid eyes on her. She was perfect. Everything about her was perfect. Her hands. And her fingers. And how one thumb was larger than the other. And how her wrists were delicate and fragile—just the way he liked them. Her voice was a stream that flowed through a garden. And when he looked into her eyes, all he could think of was, “This woman is going to be the death of me, and I will love her ‘till the day I die—if only she would let me love her.” And he loved the way her hips swayed when she walked, and how her hair fell over her shoulders. And when he took a deep breath, all he could smell was acres and acres of jasmine. And he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her grace and possess her forever. Already he was protective over her—if anyone even fucking dared lay a finger on his queen, he would fuck shit up so fast they would not know what the fuck hit ’em.

“Psychology and neuroscience, eh?” he said in his most nonchalant voice. “Why?” He saw the question caught her off-guard.

“Oh, I just love the way humans think and behave,” she replied after a momentary pause.

He noticed the rings on her fingers again.

Is she married? I hope she isn’t. How do I find out?

“That’s wonderful,” he heard himself say. “I’m a travel nurse at Swedish. I work in the neurosciences department, so I have a mild interest in neuroscience too.” He winked at her.

She smiled. “Are you from around here?”

Avgust thought for a second before replying.

Psychology. Hmm. She must have daddy issues. Why else would a girl study psychology? And neuroscience? That’s also brain-related. Why the fascination with brains? And human behavior? Somebody must have fucked this beauty up somewhere. She’s going to be difficult. But, my god, will she be worth it.

“No, I’m from Atlanta. And where are you from?” he asked.

“I’m just a gal from Texas,” she said. And then let out a little laugh.

“You live alone?”

“Uh-huh. Well, in an apartment with a roommate, Alexis.” She nodded.

“I see.”

Avgust studied this beautiful creature some more. He was fascinated by her.

She’s not from around here. She didn’t say she had a boyfriend. So, she isn’t married. I could definitely ask her out. My god, I think I am going to ask her out.

“By the way, my name is Avgust.” He stretched out his hand and held it out to her.

She put her hand in his and smiled. “Jasmine,” she whispered. “Like the perfume I’m wearing.”

He laughed. “I noticed. I love the scent of jasmine,” he confessed. “So that was August but with a v?” Jasmine asked.

“Yes. I’m originally from Russia,” Avgust replied.

“Oh, so you’re Russian?” Her eyes widened with curiosity.

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m part Spanish and Italian. And I do speak both languages fluently.” Jasmine was attempting a mild boast.

“Then I guess I’m fluent in Russian.”

“Tell me something,” she whispered.

He leaned in and whispered back: “Ti samaya krasivaya devushka na sveti.”

Jasmine blushed. It was the first time anybody had said anything to her in Russian. And she loved it. “What does it mean?”

He looked directly at her with those sea-green eyes of his and whispered in perfect English, “You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”

Jasmine began to feel the heat rise in her cheeks, and her neck—and she wanted his lips on her burning skin. And maybe even his teeth biting into her.

Oh, please tell me this man, this Avgust that I just met, will ask me for my number before he leaves tonight. I know I don’t do this often, but I am begging for it. God? Jesus? Please. Anyone? I need help.

On most days, Jasmine was a theist. And today she was certainly a Christian. She believed in God, especially when she wanted a man. In her mind, she wanted a Christian man, a godly man. Someone who would keep her ‘till death did them part; someone who would pray with her; someone who would never leave her.

“Thank you,” she heard herself say. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you. But I—”

She wanted to say something silly, like, “My clothes are awful, and my nails are not done. And I didn’t do my hair today. And maybe I look like a toad, like one of those toads from a cartoon Disney movie.”

“You’re very welcome,” Avgust replied.

“You’re making me blush, Avgust.” She laid an emphasis on the v. “So, what are you reading?” he asked. “Or should I say writing?”

She smiled. “Well, I was doing some neuroscience homework when a certain someone interrupted me.”

He waved a hand. “Well, if you enjoy learning Russian, I could interrupt you again, say, next week?”

Jasmine paused.

Is he really asking me out already? But I’m not even that pretty. And my hair is—

Avgust cleared his throat.

Maybe she doesn’t want me, he thought. Or maybe I’m coming off too strong—

“Of course, you can interrupt me! Next week?”

“I’d love to. Interrupt you, that is. A lot.” He laughed. “And the book?” “It’s called Behave. Have you read it?” She placed a hand on the cover. “Yes,” he replied.

“Well?” she said. “What’d you think?”

“What part are you on?” he asked.

“Dopamine section. You remember it?”

“Of course. Favorite part.”

“Why?”

“Because humans are monkeys. And love is monkey business.”

She looked surprised. “Why do you say that, you romantic?”

“Romantic?” He raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that about myself. But we are talking about monkeys, if you will.” He laughed.

She smiled. “Monkeys,” she repeated after him. And then giggled. “So, explain yourself,” she added.

“Well, okay.” He placed both hands in the air, and began to wave them around as he spoke. “If you look at the way the dopamine system works, it’s actually quite fascinating. I mean, think about it: nothing feels as good as the first time. Like, the first time you go to Hawaii, or the first time you kiss. Everything is good the first time. You have the experience, dopamine is released, and you get X amount of feel-good stuff. Now, do the same experience again. Now, you get maybe the same level of dopamine release, but now you don’t feel it as much. It’s not that great. You do it again and again—and the wonder fades. Kissing the same girl ten thousand times doesn’t mean as much as the first kiss. Isn’t it true?”

Jasmine listened. “I don’t know. I guess it’s true. But I would like to believe in something greater than just dopamine. I don’t know. Maybe a human soul? Or something like that...”

“Something like that,” Avgust repeated after her. “But think about it. Think about the last guy you dated.”

Jasmine froze. She shuffled her feet uncomfortably.

Avgust waved his hands around. “I’m not going to offend you, or maybe I will. Nevertheless, I’m willing to bet he was an asshole. Like, some football player dumbass who only knows how to react to whistles and Gatorade. Am I right?”

Jasmine laughed uneasily. “Maybe.”

“And I bet he treated you like shit. And you probably adored him. And when he left you, which you knew he would--for some cheerleader of sorts—you spent twelve years getting over him. Right?”

Jasmine quickly looked away, ran a hand over her forehead, before looking back at Avgust. “I guess,” she mumbled.

“Don’t be sad!” he exclaimed. “Hell, god knows I’m not immune to abuse. We all secretly love it. It’s the uncertainty that plays a role. A monkey always loves most the parent who loves it least. A wife always goes back to the husband who abuses her. A child loves the absentee father, the drug addict mother. We’re all the same. Monkeys. When it comes down to it, we like to get that dopamine high from uncertainty. Give a monkey a raisin and it gets, say, 10 units of dopamine released. Give it two raisins, and now you’re at 20 units. But do it again and it all plateaus. But give that same monkey a raisin every other time—with the elements of ambiguity, surprise, and uncertainty added—now that monkey is very happy. It’s happy because the anticipation is greater than the reward. The uncertainty is like gambling. One second it gets a raisin. The next second it pulls that lever, it gets no raisin. Same with humans. Give them their fucking raisins. But don’t let those raisins be reliable. Don’t let the raisins come every time. Make

it random. Slap the person. Then say you love them. Keep them guessing. Now you have an addict. Now you have someone in an abusive relationship. Trust me, the wife of a normal husband is not as addicted as the wife of a chronic abuser. And it’s the addict who believes they are happy. And the normal person who believes herself to be unhappy.”

“So, you think we can’t be in love with normal people?” she asked him.

“No, we can be. It just takes time. Maybe some growing up. It’s why we love games so much. Like, when you text someone and they take three days to reply. Now there’s an addict! Now you think the person who is responding three days late is important. Of course, you don’t think, say, the guy is an asshole, or is just seeing somebody else. But if you get yourself someone stable, someone reliable, you’ll think he’s too boring for you. He responds in time. In fact, he may reply right away. That means he’s not worthy of your time. It means he’s probably a loser of sorts, someone who sits on his phone all day, waiting for you to call or text him. Hell, he’s probably a psychopath. These days you can’t even be normal. You have to be crazy in order to get any results.”

“So, you’re a pessimist? And here I thought you were a romantic...”

“Yeah, I’m romantic. It’s just that I am also a realist of sorts. I know the world is fucked up. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, partially lost in thought. “I guess you may be right. But I don’t believe in games. I reply right away. I mean, I guess I try to be as normal and as authentic as possible.”

Avgust rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe it.” “Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Because?”

“I’ve never met a girl who didn’t like being abused,” he muttered.

She frowned. “Why would you say such a thing?”

His face softened and his voice grew quiet. He thought for a moment. “I don’t know, but it seems to me that the kindest souls in this world have the most difficult time. Have you read Dostoevsky’s The Idiot?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, in the novel there’s the main character, Prince Myshkin. And he’s the kindest soul in the world, who lacks any sort of deceit or guile or evil. He is kind and generous and loving. And you know what he is? He’s deemed an idiot by everyone. That’s how it is with romantics in this world, with anyone that is good. They are not deemed evil per se—they are simply deemed idiotic. You can’t be a good person in a world consumed by sin. It’s not possible. You have to be an asshole to get anywhere. I mean, think about it: have you seen a really kind and honest and good person climb some corporate ladder? Let’s be honest. It almost never happens. It’s always the sleaziest of politicians who gets to the top. The same in relationships. Or, relationshits, as my dad likes to call them. It’s the

asshole who gets the girl. They love assholes. Always have, and always will. Monkeys. Dopamine. Uncertainty. Addiction. In that order. Just like that.”

“Well, sheesh, that is dark, Avgust. Don’t you think?”

Avgust nodded his head and then grinned. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I went from Russian romance to existential angst pretty fast, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Jasmine laughed and waved a hand. “But it’s okay. I’ve always admired a man with a head on his shoulders.”

“But to return to that dark subject for one last time before we begin discussing your impossible beauty—” Avgust began with a smile.

Jasmine blushed. “Thank you.”

A glow returned to Jasmine’s face when she heard him call her beautiful. She hadn’t heard the word in a while, and she needed to hear it.

Avgust continued: “I guess what I mean to say is that a romantic who acts on his romantic inclinations—say he writes poetry, treats a girl well, takes her out for romantic dinners and walks along shorelines—will be deemed not bad, or even evil, just an idiot. A girl will always prefer a man who pays her little to no attention. She has to drag it out of him. And I have a theory for it. You want to hear it?”

Jasmine nodded her head. “Sure, go ahead. And, by the way, you talk a lot!”

“Do I?” Avgust laughed. “Do you mean to suggest that I should stop?”

“No, I don’t mind you at all. I actually find you faintly interesting.” She smiled.

“Just faintly?” he asked, flirtatiously.

“Well, more than faintly. But I’m trying to be modest,” she shot back with a grin. “So, what is your theory? I am curious. Very.” She leaned in to listen.

“So, here’s how I see it when it comes to love. People receive the love which they believe they deserve. So, if someone doesn’t think they deserve much, they’ll settle for less, or even settle for shit for that matter. They’ll lick love off of axe blades. But notice that it’s all about belief. I think the world lacks belief in love. People don’t believe in it. Hence why they don’t receive it. You raise a girl with a dad who wasn’t there. With a mother who never told her she was beautiful. And you know what you end up with? You end up with a girl who’ll lick anything on anyone for any reason just to hear those three words. She won’t respect herself. She won’t love herself. She won’t have any sense of security. And if a normal guy comes around, and tries to love her in a romantic and normal way, she’ll run. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because humans only understand what they’re familiar with. The girl who wasn’t loved as a child can never find love as an adult. Why? For love is not something she is familiar with. Give her abuse. Give her inattention. She’ll take that shit any day. But give her a normal man who treats her right, and she’ll find a reason to leave him. She’ll say it was too good to be true. She’ll say things didn’t

feel right. She’ll say he was too clingy. She’ll come up with anything and everything just to run back to her last boyfriend who treated her like shit. From shit you come and to shit you shall return.” Avgust shrugged his shoulders. “I wish the world wasn’t that way. But, unfortunately, it is.”

Jasmine exhaled a long, slow breath. She was puzzled. “Have you been hurt by a girl before? I’m genuinely asking...”

Avgust looked away for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders again. “Maybe.” He paused before adding: “But it doesn’t matter—”

Jasmine reached across the table and laid a hand on his.

He looked at it. Then looked up at her. “What?”

“Of course, it matters,” she whispered, tenderly. “Of course, it matters.”

He brushed her remark away. “Let’s talk about you,” he said, changing the subject. “I’ve been talking this entire time. And I want to learn a little bit about this beautiful, Spanish girl that I have not taken my eyes off of for—” He glanced at his watch. It was nine o’clock. “For two hours.”

Jasmine sat back in her chair and relaxed for a moment. “Well, I was born in Texas. And my parents divorced when I was six. My dad left my mom for another woman. I guess she was his mistress.” She took a deep breath. “I went to a private Christian school growing up and then came to Washington for my undergraduate studies. And now I’m here.”

“Did the divorce affect you?” Avgust asked gently.

“Oh, of course,” she replied, softly. “But you were six you say?”

She nodded her head.

“And you remember?”

“Of course, I remember. It’s something I’ll never forget.” Inside, she winced. It was a touchy subject for her.

Swirls of light. A window. A porch. Papa’s fedora. Mama screaming. A large, black car. A young woman. Mama sobbing. A little girl. A little Jasmine wrapping her little arms around her mother. How could she ever forget the way men treated women?

In her mind, she had built a reality. And in that reality, all men were evil. Not just evil, but unreliable, unavailable, cheating, and prone to abandoning her. And when she looked at Avgust, despite all of the budding love she may have felt for him moments ago, she had convinced herself that he, too, participated in the category of MEN.

And this meant that he was not to be trusted.

He’s smart and intelligent. And he’s a nurse who may be a romantic. And maybe I’ll like him. And it’ll just be one date. But I don’t know if I can go through this again.

She thought of Jason, who had abandoned her, right after they had looked at engagement rings. She thought of her papa. She thought of all of the drunk

girlfriends who had spent endless nights crying on her shoulders from “Why did I trust him?” to “All boys are dicks.”

Jasmine wanted to love and be loved—but she didn’t know if she could ever go through with it. Every other time for her had been nothing but a great deception.

But I like his eyes! And maybe he won’t be like the others. And he isn’t a Spaniard. He’s a Russian. And maybe they really are different...

“I’m sorry to hear that,” a voice said.

Jasmine came back to reality. “Did you say something, Avgust?”

“I’m sorry about the divorce. I can’t relate, but I’m sorry nonetheless.” “What about your parents?” she inquired.

“They’ve been married for ages. Twenty-five years. Still going strong.” He didn’t want to rub it in, but he didn’t know what else to say. She asked the question.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she whispered. “Could we talk about something lighter?” she added.

“Of course!” Avgust replied. He sat up straight in his chair and smiled. “So, you said you’re Spanish, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Jasmine nodded. Her eyes were now-glowing. “Do you like Pablo Neruda?”

“I don’t know him.”

“What?” Avgust asked with surprise. “Like, how? And here I thought you were literate!” He said the last sentence with faked disappointment.

“Oh, tell me about him!”

“How about this. Let me make a proposal. May I?” He announced this with visible hope and excitement.

“Sure,” Jasmine replied.

“How about I take you to The Fair next week. And I could bring one of his poems and I could read it to you in broken Spanish. Would you be interested in that?”

“That sounds like a treat!”

“Wonderful.”

“Indeed!” she exclaimed.

“It’s getting late,” Avgust stated, looking at his watch. “Let me get your number and I will text you next week?”

“Sounds good.”

She tore a leaf of paper from her notebook, jotted down the number, and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, while gathering his belongings. He stood up to leave.

“You’re welcome, Avgust,” she said, gazing at him with those large, caring eyes of hers.

“I’ll text you, Jasmine,” he told her before leaving.

She smiled at him, and he felt like a part of him would follow her wherever she went. He could never be whole again. Little bits and pieces of him would remain with her, even after he left.

Avgust smiled to himself as he walked out of the café that night.

With her on his mind, he could smile for innumerable infinities. And with her he would always be smiling. He liked everything about this girl. He hadn’t liked a girl in a long, long time. No, all of his other loves were mere infatuations. He had never told a girl that he had loved her. And he knew, immediately when they met, that someday, someday soon, he would tell her that he loved her. No, not only that. He would tell her I Love You in the most dramatic and epic of fashions. He would publish a poem for her in The Paris Review. He would win a Pulitzer Prize for a collection of poetry that he would write for her. He knew what he knew.

And he knew she was his Her.

VII

Years before, when Avgust was a young man of eighteen or so, beneath the weight of celebrated night skies, he would dream the impossible. He’d imagine a girl as radiant as the blossoming of a daylily, beckoning him to come to her from across the lake. He dreamed her up one summer evening after a night of alcohol and lovemaking.

And it was not the girl lying next to him, naked yet distant—and wholly unfamiliar.

The toxins were floating off into space, his head was spinning, and his soul was suspended near the gates of a place called god. Even as he kissed her naked and youthful body, he took in nothing but mouthfuls of a primordial void.

He wanted nothing more than to spit the void out.

The girl he dreamed up was made of something exclusively otherworldly. There was a wholeness to her, a piece of fragmented Eden reaching out to him yet never grasped.

Out of all the girls he had toyed with, not a single one was of any significance.

And this frightened him.

However, his fear became a thing of the past the day he met Jasmine. It was as if he’d been meaning to say hello to her all of his life. The universe—along with its stars, and lakes, and boats—decided to conspire that summer to place the two humans within handholding distance of each other.

The poets of old had called this moment theia mania—“a madness from the gods,” a love at first sight. It was something that happened to you. It was almost as if you had no say in it. That was how Avgust Alexeyev felt the day he laid eyes on Jasmine. He wasn’t seeing her; she was seeing him. He wasn’t falling in love; love was falling for him.

But as tragedies always have it, he would spend numbered months hiding his feelings; and she would spend endless years trying to unearth them.