And they lived happily ever after

"'And they lived happily ever' after is one of the most tragic sentences in literature. It is tragic because it tells a falsehood about life and has led countless generations of people to expect something from human existence which is not possible on this fragile, failing, imperfect Earth."

I lay awake at night counting the speckles on the ceiling. One billion and one. One billion and two. One billion and three. The rain patters on the rooftops like scrambling kittens, searching for the Itsy Bitsy Spider that has been washed down the spout again.

Mon chéri, sometimes I wonder. If her father had not lost way in the forest and stumbled across the forsaken castle, would the Beauty have ever found the Beast? If her slipper had not fallen on the castle stairs in her frantic escape, would Cinderella have lived the rest of her life watching the Prince from afar? If the prince had not happened to venture into that particular area of the woods, would Snow White have been left to decompose in her glass coffin?

I cannot fall back asleep. I can still touch the remnants of the nightmare. Driving along the California highway, looking to my left through the window, seeing you driving in the neighboring lane. There is that look of recognition and astonishment, shared between two who have become strangers, now reunited at 80 miles per hour. 88 feet per minute. 22 feet in 15 seconds. And 15 seconds later, I take the exit onto the junction as you continue speeding down your life's road, our paths diverging. Perhaps 22 feet could account for a round-trip to the kitchen downstairs for another bowl of seasoned almonds and cashews, but I am craving for something sweeter that I cannot taste with my tongue.

And even if we try to work things out, if we continue sailing past the world side-by-side and forgo all the appointments and business scheduled for the day, this is not happily ever after. I will still watch you through two panes of glass -- yours and mine -- wondering what words your lips are forming, o h - o h - o h until our eyes pull off the road and we incinerate in flames like the steadfast tin soldier and his paper ballerina, ashes and ashes like speckles on a ceiling. One billion and one. One billion and two. One billion and three.