Tahlequah

When Skylar asked me to come visit her, I knew it wouldn't be appropriate, however -- I knew I couldn't possibly avoid it. I chitty-chatted with Skylar only on three separate occasions while she lived in Edmond. She talks with the slow, well thought-out delivery of a seasoned actress circa 1953. That theme continues in her full figure, immaculately cropped hair, fine gloss of make-up, and floral print wardrobe. The three hour drive cut through the Rt. 66 circuit of Wellston, Chandler, Stroud, then snagged itself shortly within the construction of Tulsa. Skyscrapers and the framework of soon-to-be skyscrapers cast shadows along interstate as cars jockeyed for position. I threw the last cigarette, to be smoked on the "to" journey, out the window a few miles onto the Muskogee Turnpike. I grabbed a bottle of Febreeze and sprayed the interior as I glided comfortably past 80 mph.

Contemplating my reasoning filled up the hours. My head knew I would be a bad match for her, my girlfriend Rachel fits me and doesn't ask me to change my abrasive habits. But heads get compromised by crotches and heart fevers more often than not.

I parked on Northeastern's campus, near the admin building. Walking blindly around campus, with the clue, "I live in the building with the greek letters on it". The downtown area had a contradictory energy. Not only a fusion of rustic and "artsy" but most of the local shops were mirages. Past their heyday, gathering dust, waiting to be bought up -- pimped out for another go-round.

Barely visible, poking from the sea of sedans, was a reed of brunette hair. Skylar's eyes boomeranged back-and-forth from her cell phone screen, awaiting my reply. 20-feet from her, she looked up, eyes went wide, smile erupted, and she jokingly ran toward me for a cheesy cinematic hug. Lots of "oh my gawd, it's so good to see you" found itself on repeat. We hugged four or five times. She showed me around her school. The place floated halcyon on Saturday afternoons, hardly a car drove by.

We got coffee, drove through the mountains for almost an hour. Conversation would start up, then sputter -- dissolve into vapor. Scenery and silence translated as therapy for my muddled head, though Skylar illustrated a need to fill the void. Her hands would shuffle, her gaze would dance, ricochet off rusting water slides, my ruffled hair, hell anything she could find. We hit our stride when the existential subjects starting pouring out. The way she spoke of sex, alcohol, and settling down rose with a supreme air of spirituality. Not the blind spirituality that makes eyes roll and tongues gag, but the perspective of one who exited the gauntlet -- hope intact.

At her favorite Mexican restaurant, a sports team of first graders and their goatee'd dads in ball caps sat behind her. A small blonde-haired girl, draped in hand-me-down pink cotton stared at me. At times her brows looked heavy, at others her mouth would lift the weight in joy. I found Skylar's eyes to hold the same innocent weariness.

Back at her place, as she shuffled a pack of King Tut playing cards, she explained, "We learned a valuable lesson from our trip to this exhibit. Always buy your tickets in advance," she smiled, "when we got down there we couldn't get in. It was completely sold out, but they let us in the gift shop. So I bought some cards." We laughed, played "speed" the game that dictated (and may continue to dictate) middle school lunch periods.

As Saturday died under the blanket of hazy moonlight, Sunday began with a restoration in my soul. Skylar unintentionally reminded me of love. Not from an act of infidelity, as she carried herself with perfect integrity, but in her mind I found the pulse of progress. The current that carries us forward in relationships, the appreciation of intricate details, and simple hope.