Roula 1995 -

"Where?"

She poured the wine. It tasted of pine and regret. We watched a cat pick its way across a隔壁 roof. Then she said, "I am leaving." Roula 1995

Later, she took the photograph. I don't remember the camera or the flash. I only remember the way she turned her face slightly away from the lens, as if already half-gone. As if the girl in the white dress was a decoy, and the real Roula had already boarded the plane. August came like a fever. We swam at a rocky beach near Varkiza, where the water was so clear you could see the shadows of fish moving over ancient shards of pottery. She taught me to dive off a concrete pier. I nearly drowned. She pulled me up by the wrist, laughing, and said, "See? You cannot even leave the water properly." "Where

"You walk like you are lost."

"Not where. When. I am leaving the country. September. My aunt in Montreal. She has a diner. I will serve eggs and coffee to strangers who will never know my father's name." Then she said, "I am leaving

"Don't," she whispered. "You are a good ghost, American. But I have too many already." The next morning, my grandfather drove me to the airport. The key was cold against my chest. I didn't cry. I didn't wave. I just watched Athens shrink into a brown smudge, then a dot, then a memory.