Part 1.

He scored an 8 out of 10 on the HEAL test.

A measurement tool developed by Cambridge psychologists to determine the potential of childhood trauma -- the higher the score, the greater the likelihood. Eight different forms of abuse. Though, if you'd ask him, it didn't seem too bad at the time. Only lonely, he'd say. Maybe that's where it all started: his almost naive, and admirable, penchant for optimisms and great romances and loves. Sitting in the corner of a dimly lit room, he would read prosaic classical writings while listening to modern disco and house inspired ballads and dance music. In The Count of Monte Cristo, he never saw himself as the Count. He was, by all counts, Morrellian; a feverish and delusional and star-crossed passion stricken red-hued chromantic.

What a damn fool.

"True love," he would say, "Isn't acceptance. It's an appreciation for someone's existence. It's simple. You could fall in love with someone from afar and it feel and be as real as any other love."

What a damn fool. Is what I would say if he didn't prove it true.

The three of us were at a Six Flags roller coaster park near Los Angeles waiting in line. The train raced, tracks roaring and the people screaming, above our heads. A shoe hit him in the face. Properly hit him. Grimacing, he caught it in the flat of his palm. He carried it through the line and, while handing it to the ride attendant, the criminal revealed herself. She came to us hopping and laughing, colorful socks exposed, very grateful and very beautiful.

"I'm Otis." He said, weaponizing his deep voice. "Otis St. Park."

"Helen."

She smiled at him. It was a damning smile, an afflicted smile, and she ran back to her friends. They looked our direction, her eyes met his, and they left.

We would see them throughout the day. In lines, getting food, resting in the shade at the top of a steep path. Often, while we waited, he would become silent in the midst of our conversations. Pensive thoughts aimed toward a different atmosphere.

"Helen." He would whisper.

The regret in him built up and exploded in a craving for desserts. We ate funnel cakes together in the hot night near the exit of the park, hoping she would walk by. And she did. And he stood, departed, spoke quickly and effortlessly, and returned to us a new and strange man. And when they broke up, to his chagrin, he was made new again.

"True love," he would say, "Doesn't exist. I'm a nihilist now. Everyday for two years you two live in happiness and harmony. All that effort, for what? Memories? Shadows? Memories of shadows? No. I'm a nihilist now. Now, I see things for what they are and love for what it really is. Love is like having thumbs. And the pain of living without love is like having them amputated. I can't hold anything. I can't hold myself up. I can't properly pet dogs now, I have no thumbs."

"You can have Jin's thumbs." Leif said to him.

"I don't want your fat, ugly, stubby man thumbs, Jin. No offense. I want her thumbs. Her sexy, beautiful, petite thumbs around my neck. Again. One last time."

"Uhm." Leif and I said.

"Your sad philosophies aren't romantic, Otis."

"Romance is for optimists. I'm a nihilist now."

What a damn fool.

For awhile, in the darkest hours of night, we could find him in the living room with the lights off, television muted, staring at his hands, his thumbs tucked into his open palms. He would shake his head, tears streaming down his face, and pretend to be Edward Scissorhands; opening and shutting his four fingers, snipping at the open air. Unless we called him Ed, or Eddy, or Edward he would pretend to ignore us. During this insane period of time, he needed help opening jars, he was slow to reply to text messages, and he couldn't hold a cup of coffee without breaking character. Though, in public, he pet dogs just fine and smiled nicely while doing so. In the middle of all his sadnesses and apprehensions, it was nice to see him smile. At work, his thumbs seemed to magically revive and so too did his good mood.

"It's nice to have you back." I said to him over the grinding of espresso beans. He was carefully monitoring the timing of a pour-over.

"The one time I go on vacation you two meet the president." From the open garage-type front-door of the industrial styled, warm minimalist, japanese inspired, very open very naturally designed coffee shop sitting at the bottom of a winding road, you could see the Hollywood sign. Families and tourists visited our humble shop as they journeyed. "Was she holding the football?"

"One of the suits with her was handcuffed to a briefcase." I said.

"Damn." Leif carefully poured cream into a cup of espresso, shaping the foam into the delicate silhouette of a leaf. "I was a few feet away from launching the world's greatest nuclear arsenal."

"Would you?" I asked.

"Of course. Vanilla latte for Adam, ready at the bar. Right on top of Otis' ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend's apartment. Fuck that guy. Have a nice day, Adam."

"It's almost been a year now. I have an Ethiopian pour-over for Madeline. She deserves to be happy. Thank you, Madeline." She put a tip in the jar and smiled at him. "Besides, I don't even know if she's dating anyone."

"You don't look at her socials?"

"Not since the day we broke up."

"Bullshit." Leif said.

"I have to trust that she's fine. Fine and happy. That's all I ever wanted for her. For her to make choices about her life that make her happy and I could support them, support her. She wants to pursue fashion. New York is the city to do that." He sighed something heavy, weighing a small batch of beans. "In the end, she chose to move. She did what I would have wanted her to do. Even if it doesn't include me."

"Fuck New York."

"New York is damned lousy." I agreed.

"New York is better with her in it." Otis agreed in his own way.

"There he is." Leif said. Otis and I looked towards the door.

"Who?"

"Ol' Optimistic Otis. I missed him, that idiot."

Otis smiled and nodded.

Madeline came back into the cafe and handed him her phone number on a piece of paper. But once he put the paper into his pocket, I never saw it again. Neither did he.

We discovered Nouveau at the same time.

Our co-worker played their music during a shift and, for the three of us, they were a revelation. They were a lesser known Korean pop girl group, but their production and song themes gravitated towards house styles and smooth electronic dance. Their melodies embellished with lyrics empowering young women to be and love themselves and not desire or feel the need to rely on any man to make their lives or themselves complete. We were successfully evangelized.

In digesting the entirety of their modest discography, constantly replaying their music videos in our apartment, and putting their faces as our wallpapers, we dove deep into esoteric and lovely feelings. We made sure to swim through all their content, new and old, never allowing our attentions to wane.

The way the Korean pop subversive universe operates is by constantly and relentlessly releasing content in the form of music, tours, appearances on television shows, music videos, merchandise, posts on social media, interviews, vlogs, or live streams. By the time any group was a year old, there was a near infinite amount of content for anyone to consume. By doing this the entertainment companies fostered addiction. There was always something to look at and look forward to, always something excited to be anticipated. And if the record company was smart, they grew enclaves of beautiful women whose talent complemented each other and, more importantly, whose personalities worked in synergy as well. This simple and effective methodology yielded content that was seamless, kept drama minimal, and who they are as individuals could naturally be conveyed without direction or moderation or scripting. Nothing is forced. Their senses of humor, their candor for one another as sisters, or even the way they dress and speak. Their own uniqueness, in the constantly shifting tide of the k-pop market, their greatest strength.

The strange thing is, even if you know it's all psychological warfare and pop propaganda, it doesn't aid to cure any self imposed afflictions. The joy itself is the damage and toll taken to your psyche.

We would watch these six beautiful women sing and dance and gather and laugh and eat and watch and watch and fall asleep on eachother's shoulders and wake up and work. And at work we would watch and listen all the same.

From afar, from very very far, from across the Pacific Ocean and an Atlantic sized language barrier, we three fell in love.

Three men happily learning k-pop choreography in their small apartment living room.

"Play it again."

Nouveau's newest song played on the speakers, delighting even the smallest and darkest nook within the spacious cafe. Life was better this way: with the feelings of a new Spring echoing through the store and in our lungs and the colors of Summer blooming through the large windows.

"Selene, amen." I said as her solo ended. "Her name is a prayer. Something you recite before you start your day to make the sun shine bright. Her singing: an authority amongst the old gods. They could strike me down with a bolt of lightning, violently vibrating to the tune of her tone, and I'd die a happy, happy man. Selene, what a sculpture of a woman. If Michaelangelo were alive today, he would discover her form in a block of carrara marble."

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. Nah, Bingbing is queen." Leif shouted over the music.

"What happened to your Rin obsession?" I asked.

"Still alive, but holy hot crispy Christ, the way Bingbing moves! The intensity, the drive. She commands the stage and my penis. Bingbing could bing my bing any day of the week, if you know what I mean."

"Gross," we laughed.

"I mean, she could order my coffee. My sexy cafe is open for her twenty four eleventy seventy-seven three hundred thousand. I'd whip it up special for her, you know what I mean? Shawty could get it cold, shawty get it iced."

"Same thing."

"She could get it hot, extra hot. Brown sugar, white sugar, only real sugar with me, sugar. Nothing artificial. Pour-over for Matt, ready at the bar. She could have me poured over, bent over, all brewed with love, you know what I mean. Thanks, Matt. And thank you God for Bingbing. And Rin. And Water too. Holy hot BDSM, Eve pegging Adam, God help me. God, save my sweet soul from this torment. Or don't. Please, don't."

The song ended and I played their previous album.

"Miura." Otis hummed quietly while scooping ice cream for a customer. "Mint chocolate chip and a spanish latte for Miura -- No, sorry, for Laura. Thanks Laura."

Leif and I laughed.

"Thinking about Miura, Otis?"

He smiled. His cheeks burned red to match the hue of his hands.

Part 2.

That day we sent Otis to get lunch.

In his absence, six women walked through the door and brought with them a welcome breeze into the hot and empty cafe. Upon entering they gasped hearing the store's theme.

"You know Nouveau?" I looked up and blinked emptily. Selene asked again, "You listen to Nouveau?" The glimmer of a French accent shining through her fantastic English.

I nodded. "We love Nouveau."

Their excitement and cheers filled the store and each small capillary in my body, my eyes prying away like a chisel at her happy image.

It was strange -- having seen and studied their expressions and mannerisms for the past year and now seeing them unmanaged and unrehearsed and unfiltered as prophesied. There was no clean edit to emphasize their joy or clever post-processed color-grading to enhance their beauty; only them: raw, simply and summerly dressed, barefaced, happy, Nouveau.

It was then I came to understand.

Miura held Trinity's hand lightly, her thumb gently stroking Trinity's skin. Her eyes watered at the perfectly balanced feuillitege from the croissants in the pastry display. I'm so hungry, she mummed in Korean -- even her despondence traced optimism. Her posture unfixed and loose, movements made in tandem with the music, irreverent to any expectation save for that of her own truth. Each of her small expressions a microcosm of emotion; so much conveyed yet unsaid, explicit in their subtext alone. She gave each individual thought its deserved attention, no moment without consequence. Each look garnished to her group members filled with love, and each passing glance glazed with wonder. Constantly and unconsciously searching for something while never lacking or wanting of anything.

I heard him singing outside. His own lyrics to the rhythym of the music currently playing.

"Pizza time! Pizza, pizza, pizza! Who wants pizza!"

Otis, guarding three boxes, shouted at Leif and I.

"Pizza? Me!" Miura raised her hand instantly and turned around. "Pizza, pizza, pizza!" She laughed rhythmically.

They took steps toward another. His, soft and measured; her's akin to skips, a god over water. Otis opened the box and they peered inside. Together, they admired the simple pizza adorned with pineapples and jalapeños. A favorite they shared.

"Really? I can have a little?" She casted.

"You can have everything. If you want."

Leif set down his amazement and readied two tables and six chairs near the large open windows. Otis set the pizzas down for them, as well as the pastries and sweets they desired along with anything complimentary we thought they might enjoy, and I brought over small plates and utensils and napkins. There was an excited silence, similar to the smell of gas in the air, between us as we made their coffees. And then a wonderful cascade of gratitude as we brought them to the table. A feeling we would submerge ourselves within time and time again.

"Your hand was trembling the whole time." I said to Leif.

"Did you see me? I was flailing uncontrollably. If I had spilled their drinks. Shit, I don't even know. I couldn't even say anything."

"The guillotine, likely. The French have beheaded for less."

Otis was looking at the floor and very very far away. Miura laughed behind him and he smiled, rosebuds in his earlobes pluming.

"I hope they enjoy the food and the drinks."

I peered over his shoulder. She took a large bite from a slice and delighted at the iced americano he made for her with care.

"She looks happy."

And, in smiling, so did he.

A small rush of customers accompanied the mid-afternoon sun. The distraction a welcome tamp to our growing elation. This was our favorite time of the day: bright sunlight bounced off the polished concrete walls and floors, off the natural wooden accoutrements, igniting any glee that threatened to simmer -- Nouveau glowed. Otis took the time to blend honeyed cream with fresh lavender. And in toasting a sampling of fresh bread, with a healthy coating of French butter and brown sugar, the smell of the cafe became sweet.

The world looked of amber, smelled like nectar, and I wished to preserve this ambrosia in the heart of a great tree.

Rin and Trinity came to the counter, arm in arm, and asked if one of us could take a picture for them. I was currently in the middle of an order and, though Leif didn't seem too busy, I called for Otis. Smiling shyly, to hide an even larger smile, he walked beside them. Together, they spoke casually and easily.

He took the pictures expertly. Squatting dramatically, his legs dilapidated and awkwardly bent, repositioning himself to capture Nouveau in the best possible lighting, with Nouveau doing what they do best: posing, laughing, being themselves. As if they were treasures, Nouveau held up the various pastries and drinks to the lens. Miura held up an entire box of pizza and smiled wonderfully. He came back in a rush.

"I asked if we can take pictures with them." I jumped. "Where's Leif?"

The three of us gathered nervously. We didn't have anyone to take the photographs but I figured we could freeze and crop the security camera footage. I told Selene my plan and, in translating, Nouveau seemed to enjoy the idea.

She counted down.

"Hana, dul, set!" I took a kneeling position at the front beside Selene and Water, my palms clasped together, the repose of deep prayer. Leif, at the back near Rin, leaned against the wall looking very cool and casual. And Otis, with Miura, pointed confidently at the camera, winking professionally.

"Sexy! Sexy pose!" She instructed. "One, two, three!"

"Chic!" Trinity said.

Un, deux, trois!

"Aegyo!"

Hana! Harmonizing, Natural chemistry. Dul! Dull only in remission. Set! Set aback.

We laughed together after unfreezing and a great round of thanks were exchanged. Otis tapped on my shoulder and handed me his camera.

Miura was waiting at the footbed of an ancient light readying a pair of large sunglasses. Together they posed nonchalantly. Disinterested in anything save for, and in savoring, the moment. For the final pictures, she removed her glasses. They looked at another and, at the instance of the birth of a great star and shared laughter, I took their portrait.

"Play it again."

A layer of static over the video gave it the feeling of a transmission from a distant constellation, and the softly pixelated resolution grafted to the new and formative memory an aged patina -- a warm vignette that made me doubtful of reality. Perhaps it had all been a fauvian, fever-driven, impression. But there they were, and there we were; laughing together, thankful together, existing in a singular space and time together together.

In the making of several backup copies, the event became an edict, a tombstone to certify the stresses we let to rest.

"Look at us. Living in the prime of our lives." Leif put his arms around our shoulders. He looked down at the phone in Otis' hands. "You two are a pair, surely."

"No. Don't."

"I'm just saying, you two look very healthy together. A very handsome coupling."

"You're really such an asshole."

"I didn't say it."

"You almost said it. Don't say it."

Don't say what?" I asked.

"Don't get my hopes up."

"Too late."

"It's an impossibility. It's all impossible. It's fruitless. I'm hapless and it's hopeless. Look at her." He brought his phone to our faces.

"Okay." I said. He zoomed in. "Yes, she's very beautiful."

"Swelteringly, lobotomizingly, stunningly so. And, now, look at me."

"Cutie. You two really are a wonderful looking couple."

"He said it, not me."

"You're such an asshole."

"What did I do? Jin said it."

"What did I say."

"You called them a couple?"

"In this photo, aren't you?" We were all looking at it. "And besides, wouldn't they be?"

"Yeah. Like me and Water."

"Not quite, Leif." We laughed.

They asked us to not upload any content to social media until the fall when they would be debuting as set of vlogs dedicated to their short vacation and adventures in Los Angeles. We shared a happy secret with Nouveau, and that made us three quite joyous.

The event made Otis quite turbulent. He unravled slightly, questioning reality, doubting the obvious.

I caught him once trying to run through the wall. Another time he was petting a stray calico cat outside of our store while crying with the small cat meowing softly in return. He took every chance to tell us how much we mean to him, and he danced and sang to his favorite music as often as he could no matter where he was, and when one of his heroes died he celebrated their life by eating his favorite food and drinking his favorite soju while sobbing beautifully and shifting viscerally between deep sorrow and profound levity. He seemed to be at the edge of a prophecy bequeathed to him overnight.

"Do you think sharks talk amongst themselves about how delicious tuna is?" He asked us once. "Do you think some dolphins are mean to their kids? If you mix all the colors of light you get white -- when you mix all the emotions in life, what do you find?" He would ask these questions never expecting an answer. Just thinking to think. "Something extraordinary, undoubtedly." He plumed wonderfully, a spectacle in blossoming.

The pictures and videos resonated marvelously, reviving what nominal sensation of Nouveau lingered outside of Korea, engendering in small circles what we had always known: Nouveau was. Pre-order sales for their forthcoming album surpassed that of the larger and more popular groups. Their newest single breached the upper atmosphere of the North American music charts, they became brand ambassadors for the world's pre-eminent avant-garde Antwerp-based fashion designer, and announced the first world tour in three years since their debut. If one had the right vantage point, Nouveau was everywhere.

"I think this is her private, personal account."

Otis showed me a social media profile with videos and pictures of food and travel with captions written in Korean. Most sentences ended in a barrage of exclaimation points and were further punctuated by emoticon images of flowers and animals and hearts and other honeyed exuberances. Whomever the profile belonged to, they seemed to enjoy painting in their free time, and eating pizza, and oft traveled with five other, likely beautiful, women. As he scrolled silently through the feed I saw that he had taken the liberty of favoriting a number of the pictures and captions.

"They had liked all of the pictures and videos from the cafe that day, along with all the selfies with Miura, and some of my other pictures as well. So, I sent a friend request hoping it might be her."

"Hmm."

"She accepted."

"Wow."

"And so I sent a message."

"Saying?"

"Something simple and not embarrassing."

"Surely."

"I sent the full-resolution images of our selfies with the message: 'I like pizza and cats and you and I can run through walls.' I know, I don't know. It was the first thing that came to my mind."

"Why don't you unsend it?"

"I can't. She read it already. I can't be seen as a man who doesn't stand by his beliefs. Someone who doesn't mean what he says."

"And what did she say?"

"She said thank you and liked the message."

"She said thank you with a little smiley face."

"Yeah." He laughed softly. "What a wonderful soul."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"What will you say?"

"Nothing."

"Then, what's the plan?"

He paused. "Nothing." He said in a soft sigh. "Just be happy that all these small moments ever had the potential to exist at all. Appreciate and cherish them for all their worth, and more. That's more than enough, right?" He looked at me.

I nodded, admiring him while he admired the small history of their conversation, filling not even half of the screen. I immediately recalled one of his happy chaotisisms:

"No matter how small the possibility that something may happen, those odds are infinitely greater than it never having the possibility to occur at all. For instance, the odds of me being struck by lightning may be one in a thousand, but the odds of me never having the potential of being stricken at all is one in near infinity. For that potential to even exist, I can never be in or around rain clouds, or even have lived on Earth or any other planet it may rain on. It's so much more fun to believe in all the beautiful things that might happen if you're curious enough, if you choose to believe. And even if I did get struck by lightning, it'd be a damned good story."

"Look," I said to him, "She just posted something."

Her profile refreshed and showed a sunset overlooking a freeway, the silhouette of our city glowering in the distance. Impassioned hues of orange and red blazed, veins of love ran through the memory, and traces of purples and indigos thoroughly stretched the cities many shadows. It was a wonderful portrait of nostalgia and the fable-like wonder Los Angeles imbues in its optimists.

What damn fools.

"Can I see the picture?" I asked.

I took the phone from his hands, immediately hearted the image, and went into their message history.

"What are you doing?" He slapped lightly at my face, I pushed him back with my feet. "Villain!" I typed out a short message and gave him back the phone.

"No. No, no. What have you done." He read the message aloud: "Hi, Miura. Smiley face? Not smiling face, Jin, incontinent face. Frowning incontinent face."

He sat motionless, frowning, his face in his hands.

"Why wait for lightning? Why not strike first?"

"What?"

"Something you said once." He looked at me bewildered, betrayed.

"Why would you listen to me? I'm an idiot. Why would I want to be strucken, stricken, by lightning? What if I got hit in the face? My face! That's why I stay here in California. Where it doesn't rain. Where it's nice and dry. And hot. Nice and dry aged and seasoned like a perfect steak. I'll never use metal utensils ever again. The risk of being hit by lightning is too great. Look at the chaos you've strewn. I can't eat a filet mignon anymore because of you."

Between his incoherent tirade, his phone rang with a notification. A sound that carried with it the boom of thunder. He screamed. We sat hunched together, curious in disbelief.

"Hello, Otis! :D"

THE FINAL PART.

"We don't talk much, honestly."

"Surely."

"No, really. Sometimes we go weeks. Well, we send each other pictures and short notes, but calling each other? Facecamming? She rarely has time to have a conversation. But there's peace in that. Peace in knowing each time we talk it's filled with life and energy." His voice glowed with heat.

"And love." Leif jabbed.

"Leif, don't be surreal. We're just friends. Not dating and definitely not in love. Don't be surreal."

"Friends can be in love. I love you guys." Leif said. It was very sweet.

Their many conversations were distinct but this one I remember with the most clarity. He was laying in his bed, the door to his room cracked slightly, the only source of light from his phone, from her smiling image alone.

"When I was about fourteen, I got into an accident on my bike. I flew off the handle bars and when I got up I couldn't walk."

"Awe. Oh, no."

"Yeah. My parents refused to take me to the doctor. My step-dad said I was acting like I'd been hurt to get attention. But I could see the bone bent in my foot. It never healed properly. For three months I limped everywhere. From home to the bus stop, to all my classes. I don't remember that time too well, but I do remember that I had to learn how to walk normally again."

A story I'd never heard before. A memory she unlocked within him. A healing only she could grant.

"When I was fourteen," she started, "I was taking the subway to go to dance and singing lessons in Seoul at the company. After my school. I went alone. Sometimes with friends, Trinity and Water. I wouldn't get home until very late but my parents knew my passion."

"And they supported you from the beginning?"

"Mhm. I didn't give them the choice." They laughed together. "But they didn't fight it also."

"Wow. You're my hero." She laughed at him. "No, really. Everything you've done for yourself. The ambition you have. The happiness you carry with you, that you give to others, that you give to me." He spoke these words softly but his heart was loud. "When you call me after your practice sometimes, when you're tired but life is still shining in your eyes. The fullness at which you live is such a beautiful thing."

"Fullness? What does that mean, to have fullness? Like, fat?" She puffed her cheeks. They laughed again.

"No, no. Fullness like... The center of a macaron. With a lot of filling. Very delicious."

"Oh. Okay!" I could hear her smile. "Yes! Very full. I want to have a full life with lots of delicious macarons."

"I'm very busy always. And Korea is far from you."

"I know."

"And this is okay with you?"

"I'll wait however long it takes."

"A future worth fighting for?"

"A now worth fighting for."

There are few animals that live a life of constant expectancy: meerkats, always standing on their hind legs, their necks snapping from one moving object to the next, always searching for threats to the colony; honeybees, who visit tens of thousands of flowers every waking second in their short lives only to make a tablespoon of honey; and Otis, who bought one of those smart-watches to ensure he never missed a message or picture or call or any small punctuation from Miura.

Waiting on a moment to moment, second to millisecond basis makes time move quite slowly. As if at the precipice of a domineering and infinite black hole beyond the edge of our galaxy. Left only to spectate as time stretches around you, sifting between abstractions and mutilation and elation. Everybody you love moves quickly around you, making cinema of your distress, while you're in between times, stuck in a stagnation of your own design.

"True love," he would say, his words dancing, "Bitter coffee, sweet pizza. An almond croissant for Ozzy. And a doppio for Alexis, ready at the bar."

"Otis, the shelves are running low on tour shirts." I told him.

He floated happily to the storeroom, where the boxes of Nouveau merchandise were located, and opened fresh bags of shirts and sweaters and socks and pins and posters. In his arms, he carried each ounce of nectar to the front of the cafe and pollenated the shelves and tables with his treasures. Due to the somewhat viral nature of the pictures and videos from the coffee shop, Nouveau's record company decided to utilize the realty and asked us to host a small pop-up location with exclusive Los Angeles merch for the upcoming tour. We took the promotion seriously and launched ourselves into the role of evangelists by printing pamphlets and custom stickers to hand out to customers, constantly and incessantly playing their new album, and oft evocating the greater truths and bountiful harmony of Nouveau.

Great and happy emotions flooded, rinsing the cafe in holy feelings. Fans from throughout southern california migrated to our small store, picking and choosing their favorite items of their favorite members. The memnbers - six of the world's most beautiful, most talented, and kindest women. Wherever in this universe is such cohesion possible? The potential of such grace existing in a single place?

That mystery alone is the Power of Nouveau.

It's more than hope. It's the knowing that anything is possible.

If you're curious enough, perhaps.

"An iced americano. Would you like anything else?" The customer adjusted her sunglasses and ordered five other drinks. "Thank you, Titania. Nouveau's concert is tomorrow night, there are still a few tickets available and their new album is available to stream on all platforms." A small group of fans marched around the merchandise, their excitement buzzing and palpable. After paying, she leaned against the counter adjacent to our espresso machine. Behind me, she asked Otis about some of the items in stock and he walked with her to the display. Together, they moved slowly and mused softly at the items and at one another. He pointed at the back of his hooded sweater, printed on it a half-tone portrait of her face. She mewed, clapping her hands, and took a picture of him against the shelf.

Leif came from behind me and placed his hand onto my shoulder.

"We're going to lose him."

"We already have."

That day, he left for a lunch break and never returned.

Leif and I closed up and drove to Beverly Hills. We found parking on Almont and walked down Melrose, through a crowd and a cloud of sitting construction dust, toward Giorgio's Atelierante. It was a warm night and the sky at dusk was a priceless shade of blue sitting restlessly between black and orange-brown and purple, and, between jaundiced clouds, the moon was a pearly red. But, in front of us, a warmth breathed deeply in its newness.

They were holding hands outside of the restaurant under a dim light, smiling voraciously, looking very romantic in matching sweatsuits. She saw us before he did and greeted us handsomely as we walked between another small party.

"Thanks, Leif. Jin." The melody in his voice grateful, filled with memories of the hours past.

"Thank you." She said, brilliant eyes gleaming through the utility of her lightly shaded glasses.

The hostess walked us to the patio and past many tables before sitting us towards the rear wall and the darkest part of the busy restaurant. She took a seat in the corner, her back facing the public. They sifted through a menu together as if it were a museum, enticed by all. That was the only part of the meal that was silent between us. After the waiter took our orders, even through our meals and desserts, we talked easily through the long night. She asked us many questions and spoke as if she knew everything about us. Questioning with earnest interest about our small lives, about our unique passions. He listened tightly to her wonderful voice, to our answers, and everything else. We shared all our food, all our thoughts, and our happiness in this small respite of time gifted to us. She lowered her glasses only when he spoke that she might see clearly his wild expressions, and leaned into him during any lengthy tangents of thought. They were a flame, prehistoric in their shape, one the universe had taken great care to keep alive.

Her laughter was bright; His smile, a mirror, intensifying its hue.