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   "You're like this damn stray cat I can't get rid of..."

   Once again Grey struggled to consciousness to find himself stranded, overlooking his island with only a single addition.   Her homemade chair, made with some skill by its owner, seated at a diagonal to his head, with its occupant in a lean just slightly towards him; his view dominated by the long arcs that made up her legs, which were extended to near underneath his chin and covered in steel-toes.   Meghan was back in her indomitable work Dickies, and jacket, its thick layers protecting her from everything except what mattered.

   Grey rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand.   "Madam, believe me when I tell you I've have much experience in knowing when I'm not wanted."   A crack was almost exposed, a twitch of muscle on the cheek, the slightest glint of white in the mouth.

   "I made some hash browns and toast for you.   It was stupid of me to do a stir fry last night.   The smell probably didn't help."

   "It's fine.   You were not a fault.   It was a rough life taken insisting on its toll."

   "I won't ask you if you need help to get to the kitchen."

   Grey started to straighten himself up.    "Good, I see we are beginning understand each other."

   He made a good showing, only shuffling once or twice.   The worst of his fever seemed to have finally broken.   Meghan followed after, amused to watch, dragging her own personal chair there as its legs went vibrato on concrete, rising in pitch as it hit the tile.   He managed to beat her to the table, if only just, only to have to move his chair as Meghan's came crashing in, leaving half of the space for the remaining seats.

   "Thank you for this fine breakfast."

   There was little ceremony in the presentation of it, as it hit the table with enough force to nearly slide the toast off.   Her portion had everything his did and more, including a huge omelet with the aroma of peppers and onions.   Grey cared little about the disparity, and consumed his with a ravenous intention; Meghan less so and seemed to concern herself more with slipping bites in between his attentions.   Scrapes and clatters ruled for a time.

   "I find it amusing, for someone who seems to despise my presence you seemed quite concerned about my opinion."   Grey stated without looking up.   "You must need a tremendous amount of calories you must need to survive at that size, even if your work was something a great deal less than what your attire indicates.   I swear to not watch if that makes you feel better."   He gave her an acknowledging glance, to see Meghan's face flare just a bit, and noticed her faint freckles, which stood out in contrast to the reddened skin.   "Besides, from what I've seen you're in no danger of putting on too much weight, whatever that could be."

   "And what did you see?"   She snapped, indignant.

   "A beautiful woman."   Her face reddened more, and she fell silent, expecting anything but this.   "Who are the other chairs for?"

   "Do you think you're the only guest I've ever had here?"

   "Fair enough."

   Minutes went by while furtive glances were exchanged over plates of food.   Each played a game, and thought they were too clever for the other to notice.   She used her food as a shield, and dropped some of the pretense, rapidly catching up with him.   He tried to give her that privilege, but his attentions always returned to her light skin, bold, freckled features, ringed in a fire that bounced in response to every movement.

   "Behind this wall...it leads to the bay doors, right?"

   "Yes..."

   "You have a vehicle back there?"

   "How does this concern you?"

   "It doesn't, just conversation."

   "You ask too many questions, that's what put you here.   You're too damn curious."   Meghan proclaimed this with a triumph.   The mystery was solved, but it didn't satisfy, and she found herself back to the beginning with him.   "You never answered my question..."

   "What one was that?" he managed to push out between the last bite of potatoes.

   "Why are you in my home?"

   "I'm a bum, remember?"

   "Transient, you said."

   "I could answer that question or I could be on my way tonight, it would take that long and longer.   In short, to fools there are worse things than prison, or death."

   "So you're a fool now?"   Meghan pushed herself up slightly, the chair giving a slight squeal in protest.   Her face twisted in an incredulous smirk.

   "I am me, I am gray.   'Not all who wander are lost.'"

   "Hrm, Tolkien now.   You're an odd little man...and what kind of name is Grey?"

   "Thank you.   And who are you?   What is a woman of steel doing in a house of cards?"   Grey straightened himself as well to call Meghan's raise.

   "Nothing, you need to go."

   "Something, and breathtaking, I know that much."   Her arms crossed in protest while her head fell away within inches of the bare wall at the conversation's turn, and became propped with her left hand, near saucer sized palm on the chin.

   "You were delirious."

   "For about three years now I have wandered, and seen this country, and its neighbors on the stage.   Before that I lived a life that most would call privileged.   There are few things I haven't seen, but few things I have seen are nearly as interesting as what I've seen here.   I know what I saw."   Unconsciously, his hands came level to his face, palms up.

   "You ARE delirious."

   "I want to experience life, in all its beauty and horror."

   Meghan lunged forward, palms hitting the table in a forceful thud to complement the chair's collapsing racket in its opposite reaction.   "Never mind, you're fucking insane...I have work."   Meghan snatched his almost finished plate away and stood, fleeing the conversation.   His eyes were forced away from hers by the steep angle formed between them.

   "OK, Quid-pro-quo then, ask me a simple question."   Meghan had only taken a few steps, managing some fifteen feet of space between them, before being halted by this.

   "Well...Uhm...I don't know...What is you real name?   It can't be Grey."   She blurted out, only to become more flustered that he had managed to pull her back in.   At least she had not given him the satisfaction of facing him.

   "Gary Freeman Jr, after my father who could not even let me have that for my own.   See what you can get out of a simple question?"   Meghan started to respond to this, and found herself agape without words.   "And Meghan, exactly how tall are you?"

   "Eight feet, five-and-three-quarter inches."   She responded automatically, without thought, and slightest inflection of pride, before recovering.   "As for my weight, it's none of your business...don't even think about asking my age either."

   "You keep a lot to yourself...hidden behind wall after wall."

   "It's my life, and I'm fine with it."

   "Are you?   No man, or woman, is an island; even if they're as large as one."

   "Go to hell!"   A tremor passed over her broad back and shoulders, visible even through the leather jacket.

   "If anyone knows that, it's me.   You can't hide forever in this collapsing shed, painting faded memories on it of the days you knew the sun."

   "Fuck you!   GO AWAY!!!"   In less time then it took to speak those words, long held rage crossed the distance between them.   Her fingers like daggers wadded themselves around his worn out t-shirt before he realized the danger, if even there was anything he could have done to defend himself.   In an instant he was lifted up on a fabric sling, and for the first time was eye level with her, held feet off of the ground by a single arm only slightly bent from the strain.   Her other hand lie in a bulbous fist, cocked at her ear and vibrating, ready to punish him for this ultimate violation of herself.   Her eyes looked through him at the sound of a whispering devil.

   "That won't help you.   It won't change a thing in your life.   It won't make you feel any better and it will not make me fear you."   Grey's voice stayed calm, betraying little of the pain created from his precarious position.   Neither foe made a movement.   His sky-blue eyes stared into her vivid green irises, rimed with tongues of fiery lashes that made them all the more wide.   A battle was waged at electronic speed between wills evenly matched.   In the end, neither gave ground; it was his threadbare shirt, which tore in a single, violent motion down one side from an overstressed sleeve giving into his suspended weight.   His eyes closed by instinct, expecting impact that never came, instead he heard the dozen metal snaps of a jacket release in a single burst of noise.   Her secret revealed itself in an act of passion, belying her anger.   A second pair of hands nearly swallowed each of his thighs.   A third pair had landed across different levels of his chest, fingers close to interlacing on his thin, sinewy frame.   The arm that was to strike him now lie underneath his armpit.   The remnants on his shirt still lie lifeless in the final hand, which in turn lie limp at her side.   This burst of aggression seemed to draw all the energy out of the space, leaving none for either to respond.   She had on a sporty black tank top underneath, to give her many broad shoulders their much needed room as they arrayed down her sides, spaced wide and seemingly still crowded.    Coveralls cut for a man lie unbuttoned at her flaring hips for every inch of available space, and could only poorly protect her chest, squished and folded near to half on straps that looked like spaghetti strings over her chest.

   Each struggled with the meaning of this.   It had been so long since she had revealed this to anyone, moments that had always resulted in ruin, even with people she had known and had confidence in.   He was in the grip of a six-armed she-hulk with arms like twisted wire, seemingly only larger in the fact that they weren't chiseled, but fleshy and only just contained by thick, leathery skin.   The many arms of a woman who denied everything about herself, trapped in the exaggerated curves of a body that would never let her forget.   It was one thing to suspect, yet doubt it as a thing from a fever dream; it was another thing all together to be held aloft by it, as solid as the earth and as warm as the sun.   After all this, she still dropped him moments afterward when the realization of her body's betrayal became clear in her mind, covering her offenses with the edges of her jacket and holding it closed them with crossed upper arms.   He stood nude, except for boxers barely clinging to him, bare and vulnerable and yet all the more she felt this way.   Megan shied away, huddling over herself, and hid as she could from his eyes.

   "Now do you get it?"    It came to him as a small sob.

   "I understand.   More than you know."

   "Get out...NOW!"

   "I'm not afraid."   He heard a timid something escape her lips as he could not see them, a cry, something like 'eon'.   "I'm sorry.   I'll go."

   Meghan has shrunk away to the empty space between the sofa and the kitchen.   It seemed that only inertia kept her from a complete collapse on the cold concrete.   Grey could not see her face from where he stood, less the way it fell on her chest, veiled by locks of her vivid hair.   Sight was not necessary to know the pain that twisted it; it was not eyes that understood it.   She hunched, one leg twisted underneath the high bent knee of the other.   Her jacket had given up its arrogant attempt to hide its contents, and they had spilled out like the grain in a sack, covering her, hiding her empty form and propping her upright.   Even the morning sun gave her no peace.   It shown bright on her through the window, the airborne dust orbiting her body.

   "Take the cloths...I owe you them now.   Anyway, I have no use for them.   The door is at the end of the hall."   The whisper seemed to come from nowhere.   Grey could do this at least for her, and he did it in silence.   His words had done more than he had ever intended.   He recalled the stories that he loved so young, of gods and men, heroes, arrogance, and folly, the demigod Achilles, the man Icarus.   A narrow hall had been created on the north side of the warehouse from the remainder not sectioned off in sheetrock.   It led to three choices, the double doors he had found days ago, bare stares leading to the second floor, and a similar set of doors leading inside the sheetrock partition.   If only he could have had a chance to see where the other ways went, at least he now understood why there door were so large.   It was a shame they didn't permit more through.   A few days ago he had been jaded, now he was humbled by his knowledge.   His backpack, his only possession was retrieved from where it had rested for days undisturbed, and he turned to go.   What else could be out there? If only...

   The latch released into its recess.   Its simple click echoed just once through the rafters into the void spaces, and rolled through a building that for the first time in ten years felt too small for Meghan.   She lifted her head at the sound, and pleaded for it to die in her ears.   Finally, she was alone again.   The vagrant, that piece of garbage had left to wherever dump things like that go.   She almost frantically scanned the space for anything he had left behind, to scrub clean the building of even his impression.    Inches from her thigh was her newly created rag, the one she had traded a piece of herself minutes ago.   She grabbed it with the closest right hand.   It was filthy, and still stunk like him.   This will have to go first.   Megan pushed herself up to standing with three arms on her raised knee while gasping slightly, and drifted toward the trash hidden underneath the kitchen island, all the time turning the cloth over in her hand.

   "Have to lock the door before anything else gets in...and do something about those broken doors in the back so this never happens again," she spoke to no one in something more than a mutter.   "Shit, I'm talking to myself..."

   The shirt lay in the fist of her lowest hand, just above the rim of the garbage.   She released her grip, but the cloth of it would not leave her fingers.   She stood there gazing at it mindlessly, then flicked it behind the garbage, out of mind at least.   "OK, anything else?"   An orbit was made around the periphery of the floor, avoiding the nucleus, the center of her world over the past several days.

   "Can I just burn it?"   She looked at the block sofa cushions, still nearly pristine after all these years, the multicolored towel that he had lain on.   "I can at least burn this."   All that time, so much time.   How many people had even sat on this?   Who had seen it?   Who cares?   Rage flowed through her veins, seeking escaping through the muscles of her face.   Years of suppressed feelings threatened by themselves to implode the warehouse, her home.   The end table that had held the broth to feed and the water to cool her stranger was grabbed by each of it corners, and lifted ten feet off of the floor, its lamp coming to a wobbling rest on the rug, before sailing thirty through one of the south bay windows that hid her form the world, chased out by a string of profanities as if she was giving a lesson on the art.   Its last leg did not manage to clear the new breach, and instead sheared off to hit the concrete among broken glass to server as witness of a rare display of weakness.   An uncomfortable air already blew through her home.   Almost, almost a tear fell, until emotion was shoved back into a dark corner, but the seal was permanently broken.

   'Welcome to Havre de Grace historical district.'   Grey only noticed the sign long enough to make note for his journey.   'Havre,'   French?   He did not know much French. Harbor perhaps, at least from the surroundings, with the harbor and boats everywhere it makes sense; a place of safety from the storm.

   His feet again carried him south to somewhere, a destination still or now only a direction away from all this?   All that he cared was that it would be away from this place and everything that it meant, as far as unsteady legs could carry him.   Were people still staring?   To hell with them and their pettiness.   Why did it matter?   How he wished for a city large enough to swallow himself in, where he would pass without a look, or a wilderness where they were too timid to tread.   He despised these people, the round pegs, the sneeches with stars, and the beautiful people. There was a quote he tried to recall, but it was mercury in his mind.   Only the essence could be held on to: Be famous, be infamous; worst of all be ordinary.

   He followed the waters of the bay, if only for the desire of it to limit his choices, to what this place called a downtown.   Piles of bricks of stone raised high on foundations as old as the American story.   Fortresses unto themselves, they would have had to protect their own from hurricanes, fires and all the forces that could have been put up against them over scores of years.   Far older then what towns had passed through the weeks leading up to today, each unique and proud, standing next to its brothers weary and worn.   There was disrepair here, where time had worked its way even to the stone and iron.   Everything he was susceptible to time and must be adapt to it or fall to ruin.   One was still an idyllic pharmacy much like it had always been.   One a hardware store packed to the roof in an attempt to compete in today's world.   One was a theater long closed awaiting renovation.   Many were set for the tourists and their need for five dollar memories of quainter times.   None had been replaced by modern times and means, as if the town itself meant little to today's life.   He wondered about the first such structures here, built in defiance to nature.   What had happened to them, the people that pioneered the land?   They had wanted something, and found it here, and built in strength, and defiance.

   Grey continued to ponder this without expectations.   He remembered his plans, and considered his future in a way he rarely did, until he came upon an answer in an old and simple stone lighthouse.   It stood a simple cone shape, wearily standing sentinel at this spot since before the revolution, yet still faithfully hold its post.   No relief ever came, just coats of white paint over stone, flaking everywhere.   A rusted and pitted four-inch cannon stood testament on a slab of granite nearby.   A placard of local lore on the stone gave testament had been fired once against a British frigate by the lone light-keeper during the struggle for independence.   No difference could have been made with this cannon to save his home, his town, let alone the country, but his honor was at least satisfied that the attempt had been made.   Honor did many curious things...

   "I know Mom...Mom, I was just hoping for something...You know, some idea...If anyone would know what I'm going through...Mom...Mother...Stop talking for just a moment, please.   I need help...What am I supposed to do?   Mother...OK....Stop....I'm so confused...OK...you're not helping...There's something I need to do before it gets dark...I need to fix something...Mom I'll talk to you later...I've got to go now...Bye Mom...Sorry, I've just been busy...Bye Mom...GOOD-BYE."   Meghan hung the phone back on the wall without a chance for response.   Meghan's hopes had not been high in the call and still she was disappointed.

   "O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space," she mumbled under her breath.   "Great...now I'M quoting...STOP IT!"

   'I just need to get busy.'   She forced it into thought.   But she hesitated, and took in her home.   Every board, nail and piece of fabric she had assumed a perpetual unchanging presence.   "Hello...nutshell."

   The cleaning up of the glass was done in a disinterested manner, the measurement of the window apathetic.   The last piece of stashed plywood was tracked down with vocal frustration over how it was slowing her progress.   "There's not enough to cover the whole hole, I'll have to call the hardware store...I'm short."   The statement made her snicker, the snicker redoubling on its self in layers until comfortable laughter filled the space, ending in a bent over snort.   "I must be losing it.   Might as well roll with the feeling...maybe get a cat so I can pretend like I'm talking to it."

She held the plywood against the window in her own unique way, using a drill while steadying screws to fasten it to its place.   It all went smooth enough, until the final screw caught a knot in the wood, jerking her hand and splitting the knot, creating a small hole in the wall as it fell to the floor.   Her thumb took the brunt of the force, and slammed into the plywood.   She cursed and sighed at the same time from the unexpected pain, all the more at the additional damage to the wall.   It seemed that anymore, she was spending more time fixing this dump then earning the money to keep it up.   Now, more would be needed to replace the window.   At least she had projects here to make that money.   It was always good to have enough work to fill the day and the pocket, something to sweat on and to consume the body and mind.

A dull throbbing reminded her of the thumb.   A dangling piece of hanging nail and slight swelling were all the injury to be noted.   The pain was oddly reassuring to her, as the throbbing matched the beat of her heart, reminding her that she was alive   There was nothing new to the experience herself.   She raised her remaining arms close to her chest and fixated on the many palms.   They were rough, cracked and showed the abuse from many years of labor.   Nails were short from necessity; the newly broken one had much company.   "Some woman you are..."   It had never much bothered her before, more evidence she was going nuts.   Another quote crossed her mind.   'There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.'

It was well into the night before Meghan put her tools down, tired, grimy and satisfied.   'The only thing that would be better now is a hot shower.   Best investment I ever made was installing a real bathroom upstairs.' Little motions showed her state of being.   The tools of her trade were left uncleansed where they lie.   Instead, her protective layer of clothing was shed with abandon before even passing through the doorway to her private refuge, the overalls almost standing on their own.   Her hand reached over to her head to work a sore muscle of her back, only for a second attempt with another hand at reaching it.   The shit I was given when I gave them the dimensions.   My tub alone cost a worthy fortune.

   Socks were kicked off, a cotton tank top hit the mirror, black leggings squeezed out of and left where they fell.   A tan bra was hung off a door knob, a portion of the straps dragging on the ground.   She inspected the pair of Dickies and subsequently slammed them twice against the door frame to loose the metal filings. In the center of the display of chaos, she stood, and admired her latest creation.   Why couldn't my real work look so good?   The twinkle faded from her eyes, her many shoulders drooped.   The moment had passed, and leaving it this way was an embarrassment.

   The tank top had come to rest on the sink cabinet, wadded up under the mirror.   She retrieved them with an outstretched hand, already shifting her weight on the balls of her feet to turn away.   A Flash of teal shone against the black above, stopping her dead.   "Why did I wear this yesterday?   What was I thinking?   It ruined everything.   That bastard...that bum probably is probably spilling out the truth for the first person to offer him a fifth.   Why did I even buy this stuff?"   The shower, her work, the breach in her home, everything else shrunk into the beyond.   She picked up those two small pieces, the smallest strips of cloth she owned.   Her rational mind, so used to the control, found itself lost in shifting tide.   Slowly, those pieces were drawn towards her bare skin to their respected positions, the halter top held at its corners, the bottoms with the remaining two hands.   They were held against her like paper doll clothing, as she watched herself change in the mirror.

   Her eyes closed, and to the best of her ability, she tried to imagine the effects that these strips of teal had.   'This above all: to thine own self be true.'   The pieces were loosed to the floor, yet nothing else had moved.   She bared her soul to the mirror, in the same state of her birth and feeling as vulnerable as her first day.   Feelings stirred long buried.   The most basic desire contained in a person, no matter how hard she had denied the truth of her condition; she felt it once more.   No newborn stared back.   It was a woman, with all of her features, her form, desires and more.   The index finger of her top right hand traced the curving edges of her form in the mirror, the hard and the yielding, from the firm bone of cheek to the wide apex of her hip.   The rational struggled against the tide.   'You foolish girl, you ARE going insane.' The source of her madness was forgotten to lie on the tile.

   Later, Meghan appeared downstairs in grey sweats, the top with its sides torn out roughly to accommodate herself.   "So what the hell am I going to make tonight?"   The refrigerator was raided, and seemingly random ingredients tossed on the island, piling into a multicolored menagerie.   A stray arm grabbed a golden apple, and it became fodder as she munched and pondered the possibilities.   From outside there came a rapping noise, she looked to some supposed offender. 'No matter how hard I try, that barn owl just won't move on.   That could be my pet...an owl, and a cat.   I would be burned as a witch'. Food stuffs were sorted, vegetables weighed in hand held like scales, flavors imagined.   The rapping noise returned with an insistence.   Her heart skipped a beat at the possibility...That was no owl...

   Grey stood at the bars of a cage he thought he had escaped hours ago.   A deep voice came from somewhere carried on copper wire.

   "Who's there?"   Grey searched for its origin, finding an intercom system with a single button around the corner next to the bay door.

   "It's Grey."

   "Grey?   Gary?   Hold on."

   One side of the double door opened wide, and Megan stood opposite of him.   She had forgotten to even hide herself to him, or to anyone in this world who could have possibly been watching.

   "Hi."   He shuffled his feet, which seemed just as happy to have been somewhere else.   "Look, I could really use a shower...and...could I just come in for a moment?"