Snow White is at the tavern tonight; I hesitate to serve her since dallying with her favorite dwarf.

"Please, Sven!" I beg. "A table-switch would be to my liking."

"Nay," Sven counters. "'twould serve you well to face the matron."

Upon my continued protest he slams down the tray of tankards and calls me a gray-haired hussy. "Do your job, wench!" he rages, and so I carry the tray to the rough-hewn table.

Snow White is fair as ever, and her ankle-length dark tresses are tamed into a single braid. I know not if she kens that it is I who loved her dwarf so; I do not look foward to a tongue-lashing and am sure 'twill be no tip for me as well.

I keep my head down whilst distributing fresh ale and collecting the emptied tankards, and by the grace of the gods escape without words passing betwixt us.

Whilst I study her profile from afar and try to decide between her best features, the rough-hewn door swings open and my beloved dwarf strides in to join the Lady Snow White, to whom he has long been wedded.

I spin toward the bar and gasp, "'tis him!" to Sven, who is cutting into slabs a roasted boar for the buffet.

"'tisn't!" Sven declares throatily, and tosses a meaty bone to the tavern wolf, who jumps upon it eagerly. "'tis his twin."

"Sven, I struggle to understand you! My beloved has no twin," I whisper.

He makes a dismissive noise, then says, "The man is no dwarf. You struggle to comprehend me when you yourself are incomprehensible! This man stands as tall as any man. Perhaps you have never truly seen a dwarf."

Could this be? "Perhaps," I accede. "Perhaps I only assumed."

Sven grunts and moves to the end of the bar to refill a patron's wineskin.

"Those few sitting around Lady White," Sven gestures upon return, "those are dwarves. In any case, 'tis not him. 'tis his twin."

I am sure my beloved has no twin and repeat as much to Sven, who buries his axe into the block most angrily.

"What are you not to do, above all things?" he demands of me.

I brush at my apron, determined not to reply.

"I will have you answer me, wench! What are you not to do, above all things?"

"Engage."

"Engage what, pray tell?"

"Engage him. Engage him in conversation."

"And for whose good is this?" Sven continues, as he counts off several gourds for tables aught. "Is it for the sake of the gods?"

"Nay, 'tis said to be for mine own good. 'tis said 'twill hurt me less and 'twill aid my life as it rambles on."

"And yet you stand as if addled by the very moon, your eyes never moving from the seat in which he reposes."

"Sven, he is at a table that I am sworn to serve! Would you--"

"Get thee upstairs," Sven interrupts, and gestures with his three fingers. "To thy room."

"Sven!" I protest, but soon find 'tis hopeless to do so.

I've dwelt in the room above the tavern for many moons; 'tis small but serves me well. The upkeep does prove a daily challenge; oft I feel troubled by the squalor that I find surrounds me through no fault of my own, save for my habit of discarding varied items upon the rough-hewn carpet and the failure to cleanse what I have dirtied.

My small orange friend has proved a reliable companion through these many seasons. I find her curled in a ball when I enter; she observes me through half-opened eyes.

"You're early," she growls, and I explain to her about Sven, and the appearance of my beloved.

"First off, you need to stop calling him your beloved." She yawns and stretches, then falls into much the same position she was in when I arrived.

"And the twin thing is like a, whachamacallit. An allegory."

I sit on the rough-hewn mattress and listen for more, but she is intent upon butting her small head against me until I succumb to petting her about the ears.

"But how do I move away, and not engage, and all of these things that have been advised to me upon request for counsel?" I ask when my hand tires.

"Busy yourself with other things." My small orange friend is bored now, or perhaps just playing the part. She watches intently as a tiny insect travels past her, but makes no move to catch it.

"I know not how to do this," I whine to her, and she hacks up half her dinner in response.

As I busy in my cleaning of her undigested meal, she suggests many things to me: writing, walking, cavorting with friends, watching moving pictures, volunteering my time to the mayoral cause.

It is that last that I light upon, it being the easiest to protest.

"But what have I to offer a mayoral campaign save ample time, nimble fingers, computer knowledge, and a quick-witted and organized mind?" I cried. "Naught! I have naught!"

"Plus you'd have to leave the room," my orange friend adds.

"Yea, 'tis that as well."

"Maybe even meet the candidate."

My face reddens as deeply as a leaf turns in autumn; my long-held respect for the mayoral candidate is far from secret.

"Still," I counter. "For the most part, 'tis taking leave of the room that so troubles me."

"Yup." My friend yawns. "I bet that's why you don't do most things."

I nod my assent. Many a day fritters by whilst I plan and prepare myself to leave, yet somehow it does not come to pass.

"So okay, fine. Don't leave. Give in to whatever that frickin' fear is about. But Christ Almighty, if you're gonna stay in, could you at least pick up around here? Maybe then you wouldn't be quite so miserable."

Tears well in my eyes; yea, they fill my very heart.

She sighs as she watches me weep. In time my tears subside, and she closes her eyes.

"Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit," the cat murmurs, and I hear her gentle snore.

I know not what that means, and so I lie back upon the bed and let my thoughts wander to that which I need to get past, to things I will never do and yet others that I continue at despite the best of intentions.

The morrow, I know, will pass much the same. Fitfully I doze, and I dream of an early winter.

August 25, 2003