The seventeenth day of August The year is unknown Once again I woke in my childhood bedroom without want or need to linger, I moved trough the doorway and into my tearoom. As I suspected, the quiet old man was still in the corner –this time puffing on an ornate hand-carved wooden pipe. For the first time, he broke his gaze into infinity and looked in my direction. He smiled. The chair, previously occupied by the woman with whom he’d been fervently conversing sat empty. A steaming cup of tea rested just across from the old man’s own teacup on the small circular table. The chair sat slightly withdrawn from the table. The man gave the slightest of nods directing me to the seat. I sat. We looked at each other. I studied his face. It had seen at least twice the number of winters as I one minute and in the next, three times. What hair remained on his head was white along with the beard on his face. He wore strange clothes –perfect clothes. No wrinkles, stains or holes. As I studied, my mind began to fall away. My last memory of our meeting was the bloodhound making its way to our table and resting his chin on the old man’s lap. Not a word was exchanged.