I remember hoping it would be the perfect present. I was late for the morning conference session because of the side trip to the Bookstop. I had bought myself another copy the week before and, predictably, there were some left on the bargain book table. He had told me the previous day that he had a week of vacation left and no itinerary after the conference was over so I suggested that he visit my favorite town, New Orleans. The air there is so hot and steamy you chew it as often as you breathe it, so the locals don't usually wear ties. They stroll down Canal Street in their white short-sleeve shirts laughing those deep rolling belly-laughs and carrying on as the sweat rolls in salty rivulets down their necks. The music plays everywhere in New Orleans; it's a sultry kind of tourist heaven with tall cool drinks, hot spicy food, and live jazz just around the corner. I was certain that he'd have a rollicking good time in the French Quarter. See, that's why I gave him the book. It makes you smell, hear, see, taste, and feel the incredible mixture of the beautiful, the historical, the quaint, and the downright sleazy that make up that inimitable seaport by the bayou.

Smoking in the moonlight, he is gazing over the lake as I come out onto the balcony to join him for smoke break. Suddenly unable to look him in the eye, I hand him the book. "I brought you a present," I say. "It's that book I was telling you about this morning. You know, the one set in New Orleans."

"Oh, that's really keen," he replies, turning the book over to examine the dust jacket. He holds it between his long freckled fingers as he reads the title aloud. "A Confederacy of Dunces. Too cool." His British accent and his soft voice make the most common slang sound fresh to my Texan ears. "Remember what I said," I warn him. "You won't exactly like the main character, but I hope it makes you laugh."

He laughs now, and the moonlight glints on his soft-looking blond hair and the metal frames of his glasses. We talk some more, but I don't remember what we said next. I do remember the intelligence and humor that spark from his pale blue eyes. The way his eyebrows frown when he's serious, the quirky juxtaposition of his quick sharp wit and his innate English diplomacy, the radiance of the full moon's reflection on the lake -- these things I remember. "It's a blue moon tonight, you know; that's when the moon is full for the second time in the same month." I am seized by the impulse to take him by the hand and lead him on an escapade. We could play a game of pool at that divey astronaut bar he's been wanting to see. We could sit on the seawall at Galveston and howl at the moon between speculations of what life in Luna City Hotel might be like. Standing this close to him makes me feel exactly the same way that you feel when you take a rose and lightly stroke it along your cheek. But, somehow, my hands don't move and my lips won't open to issue an invitation.

Our conference session leader joins us on the smokers' balcony. As the two men launch a discussion about the probable trajectory of a baseball that is thrown directly toward the central axis of a rotating colony in space, I move away. Outside the aura he projects, reality returns. It's late and work comes early tomorrow morning. He'll need to continue on his small tour of America. I go back inside, pick up my purse, and leave.

I drive home with the convertible top down, the warm damp wind blowing through my hair. I never have known how to say good-bye. It's just too revealing and I'm afraid he'll see the secret in my eyes. Sometimes, dreams and illusions are all that stand between you and the punishing loneliness that freezes your soul. Alone at a stoplight, I howl at the blue moon and feel the touch of a phantom rose.