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EIGHT

I t’s after eleven, and Eddie is here in Central Park, standing in the same spot where Francis first introduced himself. He sits on a graffiti-covered bench just a few feet from where they met, and waits.

And waits.

Francis doesn’t come, of course, and as the clock ticks past midnight, he is feeling foolish. What did he think was going to happen? None of his encounters with Francis have been predictable yet, so why should he expect Francis to show up now?

You’re here now, so that must mean you’re supposed to be.

Eddie scoffs at the memory of those words. But when he closes his eyes to clear it, the image of Francis in the water takes shape. When he pinches his finger, the image begins to move. When he whispers to himself to cut it out, he feels Francis’s breath on his neck, his lips on his ears.

He sets the camera on the bench beside him and rummages through the tote bag, happy to find a pen in the bottom of it. A black Sharpie, one of those indelible markers that seem to show up whenever you need one. (He also finds a half-full package of chewing gum, a crumpled-up receipt from the Second Avenue Deli, a ticket stub from the Film Forum, a tube of clear mascara, and a little plastic container of dental floss.) The pen is sticky, for some reason that Eddie might not want to understand, but he doesn’t care. He uncaps it and scrawls on the bench: FIND ME .

It’s silly, he thinks. It won’t work. Even if it does, he’s not sure Francis would come anyway. He hasn’t showed up all day and evening. You’d think, after last night, that a gentleman would at least make contact. You’d maybe even think, that Francis, being a ghost, or a time traveler, or an immortal, or whatever he is, might be smart enough to know that Eddie had a really hard day. You’d think that Francis, good Francis, would heed the message.

Eddie writes it again. FIND ME. And again. FIND ME. And again, and again, and again. FIND ME. FIND ME. FIND ME. His words barely stand out against all the other graffiti already on the bench, so he keeps writing.

And waiting. And writing. And waiting.

The hours pass, one o’clock, two o’clock, three. Still he waits.