I met Emily in a place I refer to as "Spain." A quaint little establishment with an atmosphere reminiscent of stale cigarettes and perfectly ripe oranges. We did not trip into each other, as much as we fell for one another.

Emily reminds me on a weekly basis to calm down. She is the sea without sight of land, and I am the coast. I would only convert to her religion, if my current would not keep heaving me onto the angry children with soggy castle mounds. She guides the people on her turf, I just piss mine off. I want to rebuild, but she says that it is no use living that way.

I rarely tell her, but when I see her I nearly always think I see myself--although she possesses much better form. I would even go as far as to call her my savior, although she would balk to hear such a thing. Emily absolutely detests flattery, and will have none of it. I tell her it isn't flattery when it is true. She pretends to have not heard me over the blare of electronic notes timing out of our car's stereo.

What I envy most is Emily's ability to compartmentalize things without limiting their potential. For instance, I store everyone in boxes labeled:

"I need you, I think"
"I miss you most days"
"I miss you when it suits me"
"I cannot live with out you"
"I cannot live with out you, but only if you stop drinking and wearing that hat"
"I don't like you, but I will always love you"
"I hate you, but call me in fifty-two days and I will probably pick up the phone"
"You are an awful human being, but I still want to fix you"
"You are wondrous, and I love you"
"Please never go away"
"You are weird, do not ever look at me again, thanks"
"If we pretend real hard, then I think we could be okay"
"Soul mate: keep forever"

If you offend Emily, her good opinion is lost forever and you get thrown into an unmarked box near her fireplace. If you happen to redeem yourself before the next time it snows, then you are saved. If not--your sore luck.

Everyone else is put into boxes labeled:

"Think about"
"Do not think about"

It is as simple as that. Emily is a genius. I, however, am too bogged down with fear and anxiety to be a genius. That may be her secret.

Once I asked her, "Why is it that we so often ascribe a familiar fantasy to a person? We weave them a new name, and eventually we forget what they really looked like in the first place. Why can't we just look with flawed eyes into flawed eyes?"

Emily stared at me with blank confusion.

Emily is a genius.