[ WP ] Whenever you meet someone for the first time , you have an immediate sixth sense when will be the last time you will ever see them again . Today you met some new people but your sixth sense 'results ' on them are really , really strange .


 **If Autumn Leaves** 
 
 There she is, the girl with hair like shining rainbows of blonde and honey and caramel, with eyes like the clearest aquamarine jewels set into a face as round as that of a watch. She ’ s dressed in something that might have been fashionable twenty years ago, a peasant blouse with puffed sleeves and a necklace that ’ s probably stayed with her all the way from when she was six or seven. A long shawl is thrown over her shoulders like a veil, keeping her warm in the autumn breeze. 
 
 A breath. Then another. His lungs feel shallow, as if he were underwater and couldn ’ t find his way to the surface. He stares at her for the longest moment, until she turns to gauzy film. They always do. Most times, the images that surface in their stead aren ’ t too distracting. A few years down the line, for that coworker of his who got married and moved across the country. A few more years, for his boss with wrinkles and a ‘ Congratulations for 20 Years! ’ banner behind his head. Nothing surprising. Of all the gifts he could have been given, he ’ s always found his quite uninspiring. 
 
 She smiles, and he feels something give way in his stomach. *Might have been the cafeteria sushi, * he thinks dryly, but he knows that lurch isn ’ t caused by dyspepsia. It ’ s something new, something different. So is she. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry, were you saving this seat for someone? ” she asks, indicating the seat across from his. It ’ s a long table, and he ’ s the only one there, set up to do work with his laptop but not really working. Most times, nobody bothers him. People don ’ t like to share tables in coffee shops, even if they ’ re several seats away, and he ’ s well-used to staking his claim. You do what you have to in the workday buzz of the Financial District. 
 
 And she seems interested in conversation, so he shuts his laptop, shaking his head. His lips feel dry, so he moistens them, hoping she won ’ t see spittle as he does. “ No, of course not. ” His smile is at least a little more normal now that it ’ s not so dry. He extends a hand, wishing he hadn ’ t worn cufflinks today. He feels overdressed compared to her. “ Steve. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m Poly. One *L*, ” she specifies. Her perfume is woodsy, with the scent of springs and twigs and wine. She smiles at him, her thin, lithe frame leaning forward to talk to him. “ You ’ re a writer, aren ’ t you, Steve? ” 
 
 “ Sort of, ” he admits. “ I do marketing. ” 
 
 “ Which market? ” 
 
 “ Business. ” 
 
 The woman pulls a face at that, full of disappointment that he isn ’ t entirely sure is mock. “ People in this city spend too much time on business, even those that write, like you. ” She leans in, her hand taking his. He doesn ’ t pull away. Oddly, the gesture doesn ’ t even feel too familiar. She stares at him seriously, her eyes glittering. “ You should go on vacation, Steve in marketing. It ’ s fall. The leaves are changing. The days are getting shorter. Pretty soon, it will be winter, and you ’ ll be trapped in this city of obelisks forever. ” 
 
 He asks a question he didn ’ t think he ’ d ever ask anyone within under a minute of meeting them: “ Will you go with me? ” 
 
 “ Always, ” she says. 
 
 He stares at her for the longest moment, trapped in those glittering eyes again. Her skin is alabaster or ivory, and he wonders if it ’ s the softest surface imaginable or sleek and cool like marble. She watches him, her head tilted, her autumnal perfume flowing out around the two of them. 
 
 “ Americano with room for Steven. ” It ’ s written *Stephen*, but of course it always is. He sighs, looking away from her, murmuring reluctantly, “ That ’ s mine. ” 
 
 “ I ’ ll still be here. ” One hand flicks out, a dismissive little wave. “ Go. ” 
 
 But as he turns back around from putting milk and sugar in his coffee, she has disappeared. His laptop is open, still locked to the desk but now with a browser page open. As he moves closer, coffee in hand, the lingering scent of her perfume remaining, he sees what he ’ s been trying to avoid picturing: Polyhymnia in statue, all color drained from her stony form, white from the ravages of time through the millennia, poised in solemnity with robes surrounding her. 
 
 * ” I ’ ll still be here. Go. ” * And now the final word feels more like a command than he ’ d realized. Within a week, he ’ s in the Catskills, at a retreat, writing songs of praise to the forests around him, and Poly is always by his side.
