Cup VIII: The Past, in Passing

Tea: Moroccan Rose and Mint

Music: Howard Jones, "No One is to Blame"

Time: Late night into early morning

Going to crowded street festivals alone is both strange and settling.

I talk to strangers -- a necessity for a freelancer. The next person I chat up just might have the greatest story idea ever, or maybe just an interesting story to borrow, adapt and weave into something fictional.

But in the next moment, I slip into observer mode and become almost invisible. It's an oddment, though, that I always seem to be walking against the stream of people when I'm in that frame of mind and sense.

Last night (or earlier tonight, if you will) at the Plaza Art Fair, I was in sociable form early on. I joined mailing lists and entering drawings for free tickets to hear chamber music or a symphony orchestra, take in "The Nutcracker" or a Broadway musical revue, see a play at the Missouri Rep -- or maybe something a little edgier at the Unicorn (or perhaps, if I'm really lucky, a play about flesh-eating zombies.) I'm not even that big an opera fan, but I'd be up for some Puccini or Mozart if I happened to score free tickets. And while the Shakespeare productions every summer are already free, reserved seats -- not to mention guaranteed parking, which can be a pain -- would be pretty cool, too.

I ran into someone I hadn't seen for several years, only to find out she works for my cousin. Two minutes after that, alone once more, the switch flipped and I was on the outside looking in.

Sometimes I notice faces, sometimes something in a frame, sometimes a snatch of conversation. This time, it was a swish of red hair, a few inches past shoulder length.

We passed, going opposite directions on Nichols Road. She was with her family, perhaps part of a larger group. It took a few seconds for the memory to kick in.

We dated -- twice, I think -- more than twenty years ago. Never a gigantic spark, which is one reason there weren't more dates, but I was on sort of a mission to go out with every attractive redhead on campus.

Hours later, I still can't recall her name. Surprising. I'm usually good with names. There was a moment, when I was still trying to figure out who she was, in which I thought she might have recognized me. If she did, she didn't show it. No offense taken; I look a good deal different now.

She has aged beautifully -- but her smile still doesn't touch her eyes.