You came to me at noon on Wednesdays when we were young and reckless. Shrouded by jasmine and bougainvillea, wrapped in a hammock with fallen mangoes scattered beneath us, we made love in my South Florida backyard. All you wanted was a plate of arroz con pollo and to see me the following week. On your way out, you tossed me lines from Yogi Berra. "If the world was perfect, it wouldn't be." My creativity blossomed. I wrote stories with titles like "Woman Mates with Alligator during Lunch Time Trysts" and "Man Discovers Underwear from Aliens in Side Yard," and sold them to the tabloids.

You started sharing Wednesdays with someone else. I knew because you pouted when I served black beans and rice; you said you preferred Pad Thai. You quoted from Camus. "If the world were clear, we would not exist."

Your treachery inspired me. I learned to cook Moo Dang and wrote stories about people who soaked up guilt the way rice does water. When you came to the dinner party I had to celebrate the publication of my story collection, you kissed me and whispered "If dogs run free, why don't we." I knew the reference to Dylan, but I pretended not to hear you. I was tired from being on the road for two weeks promoting my book. When you wanted to change Wednesday to Tuesday, I said I had an appointment with my hair stylist. The next day you called and told me your latest protégée had received a fellowship from Florida State and you were moving to Tallahassee with her. I told myself I was modern enough not to care.

It was difficult to get your attention when I couldn't feed you. I wrote an occasional story; but writing seemed more like a chore than an adventure. Every few months you returned to the area and knocked on my door. I cooked. You ate. We laughed. I wrote. I figured you would stay in touch. Why not? I was your first success.

You disappeared.

I learned from friends that you lived in a condo on Fort Lauderdale beach, sometimes alone, sometimes not. I married, had a daughter, and moved to Maine. I put aside writing the way one does seashells collected on vacation. Whenever I did try to create something, it came out dry as salt cod.

One night I ate dinner at a Thai restaurant, and the spicy flavor of red curry shrimp ignited my palate.

I waited for you to return my call. It was two days since I tried to start my novel, two days of looking at a blank screen, checking my e-mail, and making sure the cats had water. Did you remember me? You were probably drinking Gombay Smashes and eating the raw oysters I had specially delivered to you, while one thousand six hundred and forty-two miles away, I was grinding my teeth. Find someone nearby, my friends told me. But I'd known you for years. It would be disloyal to work with anyone else.

Potatoes, onions, and carrots from my garden sat on the kitchen counter as if daring me to assemble them into something more exotic than the vegetable stew I planned for dinner. I made a quick trip to the farmer's market for wild mushrooms and thyme and tried to imagine the taste of porcini mushroom soup. My stomach growled.

The message light on my answering machine was blinking. I recognized your voice and the quote from Yogi Berra: "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."

I felt the rocking of the hammock and smelled the sweet jasmine. I replayed the message and laughed. The mushroom soup could wait. I sat at the computer and let the words come.

Rayne Debski's fiction has appeared or is upcoming in print and on-line publications including Rose & Thorn, Thema, RE:AL, XX Eccentric: The Eccentric Lives of Women, and 6S Volume 2. Her stories have been selected for dramatic readings by theater groups in New York and Philadelphia. She lives with her husband and two dogs in central Pennsylvania.