It’s autumn once more and you are still off somewhere. Bora, Bora? I suppose it’s as good a possibility as any. Have you ever actually been there?

I stand up to stretch. The appraisal is finished. My borrowed desk is clear. You would have loved this one, Methos. Family treasures… an old client of Connor’s had a friend. So, I came here a month ago to look in dusty attics filled with old furniture, mouse droppings and an occasional dead bird. A large marmalade cat probably accounted for the bird. An old bill on the back of a badly silvered mirror showed the charges for “repairing” a roll-top desk. There were two Shaker chairs with some value. None of the other pieces were more than twenty years old and poor quality even then.

I’ll bet you could have done a better job of aging them. You had such a good time making comments the time I dragged you to the antique show in Seattle. The dealer with the $35,000 piecrust table almost left after you discussed the “hand-made” nails with him.

Should I have said yes when you suggested I come with you? You looked a little lost when I said I couldn’t leave just yet. Was it that important, that I drop everything and leave…

I’ve done it before, reluctantly, but every immortal knows that publicly dying means you need to leave. You died… an automobile accident that happened in front of too many people. I managed to get your body out of the morgue by claiming that your religious beliefs prohibited an autopsy.

There was enough commotion with a bus vs. taxi wreck that I got you into the car and home without attracting too much attention. I tried not to laugh as you hid in the bathroom when the police came to finish the accident report. I showed them a very sincere document from a crematorium and explained that I was cleaning out your apartment and taking your ashes out to sea. They closed the case and we put your furniture in storage.

Two days later, standing in the dark, empty apartment, with a new identity and a passport to match, you asked me to come with you. I said no, too many things to finish. I offered to meet you in a few weeks, but you shook your head and said it was all right. You left and the sound of the door locking behind you hurt far more than it should have.

The wanderlust seemed to hit me weeks later and I closed down the business saying I was going on a long buying trip. This was the last thing holding me here. The only thing is, it’s too quiet. I keep hearing your voice, seeing the look on your face as you left.

Leaves are turning and drifting across the windows all around me. They whisper as they fall. When did the leaves learn your name, Methos? Why do I feel incomplete standing here alone.

It was like this when Tessa died. The difference is that you are alive, just not here. If she had simply gone away, I would have followed her because I loved her. Is that how I feel about you, Methos?

I enjoy your company, your wild stories… I even understand, at least a little, about the Horsemen. Love is never as simple as the romances claim. So many things, like the pieces of a mosaic, fit together to make love real. The only thing missing from the picture is sex. It isn’t that I hadn’t thought about it. You didn’t seem to have any inhibitions about it and the flirting was mutual.

I know you’ll pop back into my life one of these days. I don’t know how and when, but it seems inevitable. I hope you let me know where you are soon. Was it that important to you, that I leave with you. Was it some sort of test?

For now, I guess I’ll go up to the island catch up on my reading and maybe, maybe soon, you’ll call or e-mail me. I won’t be hard to find, Methos.