I sit at my desk and wait. Will he come through the door today? Will he walk by my office window? He has rarely been this late before. Always seeking me out, finding me first. Relentless in the search, except for the last time and this one. Not a peep, not an "Mn." Nothing, for two lifetimes in a row? We always reincarnate quickly, anxious, I suppose, to be in one another's arms. The last time, when I was born in 1950, he never showed up. So I headed for Berlin when I was 35 and when I had saved up enough money to survive there for a while. Why the hell not? Without him around, I was bored out of my mind and aching to see him again. So I thought, MAYBE? MAYBE, go back to where Hans and I started the lifetime before that, back to the place we met, exhausted after the First World War. Young, loving each other in a desperate and frantic fashion as soon as we met. Berlin, the city of dreams, where we began our cabaret, so popular in the 1920s and 1930s and where we were free to love openly.   

Until Hitler.  

Our people were targeted first and no one spoke out. Despite the burning of our nightclub, detainment with only the little handouts of food, rotten and repulsive, the lack of water, we stayed together, even though Hans could have slipped out and passed for straight much easier than I could have, at any time. 

He refused to leave my side, swearng he was full and insisting I have part of his share of food. Despite the shame of the pink triangles, the round-ups, and the cattle cars, and our arrival at the camp, we stayed together. Until they started choosing the line for the workers and the line for the "showers" Hans struggled so, to save me from that line, leading toward the building belching dark, thick smoke and that awful smell of death; only to be killed as he fought to be beside me, leaving me with the memory of the light fading from his eyes and turning to embrace the last few steps into the building, happy that it would soon be over. The end was quicker than I thought it might be. But then, I deliberately chose a space by the closest shower head and breathed deeply at the first sound of a hiss. 

 I thought, MAYBE Germany's earlier, good memories might have drawn him back. But nothing. It was 1985 so I hung out in the club district and I just partied my brains out until whiskey and a night of cocaine ended it quickly. It was totally accidental, at that time. However, I never once sensed him in Berlin at all, prior to that second death there. On a visceral level, I could not sense him looking for me, nor could I sense any emotional contact. No meeting of our souls. Perhaps he came looking later. But I do not have that feeling at all, either. I have lived two lives in Germany. Two deaths. I will never return there again. 

 During this lifetime, I began my current business out of practicality. I mean, I should be an expert at past lives, after so much experience. I went to the Edgar Cayce Foundation in Virginia Beach and trained to do past-life regressions. Then I settled in Charlottesville and decided to finish my degree in art at the University of Virginia. I support myself by doing regressions. I paint as therapy. People are desperate to find answers these days. With the advent of Covid grabbing the globe by the throat, I have never been busier. I guide my clients through self-hypnosis and let them make all their own decisions about where they regress to. I simply record their journey on their own phones as they relive them. I had hoped he might need some help sorting things out as well. Charlottesville has a gentleness about it that appeals to just about anyone seeking solace from a crazy world. Healing is in its DNA. He did not come, but it brought Lan XiChen to my door. We recognized each other immediately, but when I asked about him, his warm eyes grew sad, and he shook his head. He, too, had not seen or heard from his brother again. Xavier, as he is known now, has chosen to be a postulant in a monastery, His two years of training are nearly completed. He has been hoping, as I am, that eventually, his spiritual outreach would help with his own search for my silent husband. But nothing. He wants his brother back as much as I do. Both of our souls ache from loneliness and fear. He has begun warring within, lately, about whether to take his final vows. It is even more constraining that the Cloud Recesses way within those walls and he is realizing that his quest is affected. Searching for his lost Ming and his errant brother will always be first in his heart and core. Being a reclusive monk that has taken a solemn vow of silence and seclusion may bind his hands too much. 

 I cannot even write my Beloved's name, the pain and desperation prevent it right now. We can talk about him, but for us, it is still too unreal; an entire lifetime and part of a second without him. It makes us afraid to curse our searches by using his name. And the only time I do is when I wake up from a dream, lovely and cozy and sensual, to a cold bed and I scream it out loud to my four walls. And then I realize what real pain is. The same pain he must have felt the first time we were torn apart, and he waited for so many years. My poor Lan...no I cannot say it. It sticks deep in the back of my throat. Good. It keeps the tears blocked by its presence. 

 I have a group of friends. They try to keep me busy and some are also regressionists. I have not told them my stories, envying the ease with which they compare notes. They respect my reticence, sensing plenty of unresolved issues. I love them for their kindness. We go to bars where I drink a virgin-something every time. Alcohol and other poisons have worn me out more times than I can count, and it has dulled things but caused me irreparable damage each time. I turned from them this lifetime, no matter the intensity or the desire. I also dread returning to my lonely apartment, pouring myself into my bed, and not having him there to tuck me in for the night and feed me hangover soup in the morning. So, these days, I am everyone's designated driver, or I walk them home if they live close by. This night, it is my friend, Val. He is a little tipsy, and he clings to me as we stroll down the center of the Vinegar Hill Mall. Streetlamps light the way. Shops, closed for the night, are specialty boutiques, bookshops, and stationery stores. And the glorious antique emporiums; we become excited at the new one about to open and vow to return one day to rummage through the remains of forgotten times. We pass a local Cinema, the kind that shows International films, avant-garde movies, and documentaries, and he stops and points to the poster out front. 

 "Hey, I got tickets to the preview showing for this one. Free. A client gave 'em to me. Wanna go?"

 I look at the unusual graphic, very stark, an all-black background with the word Rosa, in pale pink, written in delicate script. "What's it about?" "I have no idea. It's done by a French genius of some sort. The first picture he's ever made and it opened to a small crowd to get a live reaction. If it is positive, it will stay in Charlottesville for a little while. Then get a proper opening in L.A. Come on, let's live life on the edge and take a chance. I won't look it up online, and you swear not to either. Saturday, meet me here. 7:30." 

 After I get home, I lay down to sleep and I wake again, shouting his name. The neighbor above bangs the floor and shouts. "For fuck's sake. Get a shrink so I can get some sleep!" 

 I almost forget but an alert on my phone reminds me about my movie night with Val. So I rush to throw on a black, tailored suit, a black shirt ,and a red tie. A soft open for a film deserves a little respect, after all. Then I walk quickly over to Vinegar Hill once more. Val is out front, also suited up, and we take our seats, about halfway up and I get the seat by the aisle. It opens with the graphic from the poster and fades to a bright backdrop with the black figure of a slender man seated, a harp between his knees, and a plaintive tune plays as his slender fingers stroke the strings. The first,  and the only credits appear. 

                                                                         Written

                                                                        Directed 

                                                                and Musical Score 

                                                                              By 

                                                                     Alain Blanc 

 It opens with a close-up of a pink triangle stitched to a tattered denim jacket. A deep baritone voice speaks gently as the camera draws back to reveal a terrified face of a young man, blond and blue-eyed, the perfect specimen of an Aryan youth. 

 "Rolf. Eighteen years old. No record of trouble. An A student. He will die today for his crime. He has loved a boy and was denouced by the boy's parents. His crime was being a young gay man in Hitler's Nazi Germany." 

 Ahh...not a woman's name after all... Rosa...German for pink... It is all I can bear. Suddenly my stomach roils and I can not hear above the roaring in my ears. I stand up quickly and lurch to the aisle and try to run, but can only manage a stagger, as I try to escape. I cannot breathe, remembered scents of chemicals fill my nostrils and I gag as I fumble my way up. 

 Suddenly, at the last row, a pair of strong hands grab my elbow, and a deep voice says quietly, "Monsieur, may I assist you?" 

 "Please, help me. I cannot..." 

 He sits me on a bench outside the door and motions to an usher. "S'il vous plait? Excuse me? May I bring this gentleman to an office where he can lie down?" 

 "I'll get him there, Sir. You can't miss your opening night. That just wouldn't be right!" 

 "I have seen my film. I know how good it is. I will help this man first." 

 "Yes, Sir." 

 I cannot see well and my head is pounding. I feel the strong hands lay me on a vinyl sofa, and he asks the usher for a towel, soaked in cold water. My eyes are shut tightly and my lips tremble as my hands shake. "Please, ' I whisper. " Add something to warn others. Nobody should be taken by surprise like this. People who were affected..." 

 "Surely not yourself. You are not much older than me..." 

 I speak hastily to cover myself. "No. Someone close, someone dear..." 

 I blink a few times, to try to focus. And I meet a pair of topaz eyes, golden and crystal, concerned and compassionate but nothing else. My Lan Zhan has finally appeared. Yet, it is like he has been wiped clean; as if he chose, after a thousand lifetimes of refusing to lay his memories aside in order to keep finding me again, to finally begin this one as an unsullied slate. 

 And I could not be more terrified.