John J. Vinacci

The face, in this picture Looks sort, of familiar The eyes I have seen But the name rather distant When was the time, the immeasurable date? I think I hear an echo of an ovation   A lover, stranger than fiction Dragged by the winds ‘til barely a whisper The years are a museum Ancient and inconsistent When was goodbye? It escapes all my guesses I’m a towering sunspot of repression   I’ve forgotten it, I don’t remember bliss It’s too long ago and too far away It all slipped away, If we ever kissed, my memory’s a ship That sailed long ago and so far away It all slipped away   A face, in a picture A lover, a fiction Surreal like a dream Handed over to oblivion It’s a lifeless cadaver, history’s little disaster It retreated hard and it lasted   …   One day, on the phone A voice sounds like, I haven’t heard it before The words I all know But their antiquity’s not persistent Why are we speaking about s...

[Some context: There is some information in my unpublished autobiography that precedes the events recounted here, so I apologize for any lack of clarity in the beginning of this tale.] A true story... In the spring of 2001, if my age-addled brain recalls correctly, I started working for a gym in northern Tucson. I hadn’t been in a gym for a while and this was a big local chain so I was a little nervous at first. The income and hours were good, though, and I really enjoyed the personalities coming into the gym. My time was divided between working the front desk, floor training, making some sales, and providing massage therapy. These varied work experiences would have taken my mind off my desire for companionship at the time except for, you know, all the attractive women. Yet I felt like I owed something to my French ex-girlfriend and made an effort for us to get back together.   'Frenchy' believed me when I told her I never did anything more than kiss another woman while we...