Always the same, the strange but hauntingly familiar ending. I swim through some dark subconscious sea, chasing a presence I cannot see, who eludes me. Up towards a pool of light I surface, slowly, eyes closed, rising through all the ages of my life to emerge on a narrow cot, stretching, contorting, squeezing out the last shreds of sleep. Eyes closed, I take in the first breath of the new day, hold the vanished night back behind my eyelids, turn over on my side and reach out for her. But she's not there.

I come back to Earth each morning in a cheap residential hotel, though for a long time I cannot tell where I am. I lie there still for a while, trying to recapture the memory, feeling the inevitable sweet sadness as it fades out and the sounds of the world fade in, as if cued by some hand on a volume control, the cars, the construction, snatches of conversation, even the gentle creaking of the building itself, this squatting hulk forever shifting in its attempts to be comfortable. The light in the morning is nearly always the same, muted by the walls of my small room, covered with faded wallpaper. The old floral pattern is merely the latest in a series of layers of paint, plaster, and more paper, each the burial shroud of the layer before. The first layer of paper must have been faded even before they applied it; I cannot imagine the room any other way. I put up some clippings once, but they kept falling down and being trampled underfoot. The sole ornament on the walls is one of these clippings, bent forward over its single remaining loop of tape to reveal a long-expired grocery coupon on the reverse side.

There is no need to drag out the details of my morning; suffice it to say that I take my time getting up. All the other residents are gone by the time I reach the bathroom, all but those on shift work, who remain asleep in their rooms throughout the day. I rarely see any of them; I know them only through the remains left behind about the sink, the strands of hair in half-a-dozen shades, empty bottles of mouthwash, toothpaste smears, lost strands of dental floss. I used to encounter them at night in the hallway, dark shadowy presences caught for an instant in the glare of the bathroom light who brushed past me as if embarrassed by the call of nature. Now I don't get up at night.

There is nothing in my room to hold me there but my cot, a suitcase to hold my clothes and a box of papers. I can usually make it out to watch the noontime traffic, which in my neighbourhood consists strangely enough of children on their lunch breaks. Children sometimes say hello when you smile at them; adults almost never do. I try to walk in the opposite direction from which they seem to be coming, to see as many of them as I can, and to get some exercise. Things quieten down once they go back to school. In the early fall, this time is a dangerous one; mired in the heat of the day, it is all too easy to find a shaded spot and take a quiet nap. But my afternoon sleep is dreamless, and it robs me of precious moments at night.

So instead I go to the library. There is a small branch about a mile away, staffed not by old ladies in granny glasses but young matrons, mothers and consumers all, strong and full of pride. The first time I walked in they were horrified. I selected a book and found a small table back in the stacks where I would not be disturbed, but they kept coming around on the pretext of straightening the books, as though they expected me to be curled up on the floor with a bottle. They still do not like me, but they have grown used to me.

It is at these times that she is furthest from me. I put down my book periodically and think of her, try to remember. When I close my eyes to rest them I can almost see her face. There is a scent about her, not something manufactured, something out of a bottle, but a scent fresh and clean, like that of newly-mown fields in the early morning, in the country. There is no country anywhere near here, but I remember that from my childhood, and pursue it nightly. I wish I could say that I come closer every night, but it is not true. When I grow too confident I do badly in the race. That's why daydreaming is bad; there I can direct the course of events, and I come to expect too much.

The library remains almost deserted, until the silence is broken by the voices of the kids. Sometimes I go outside and sit on the curb, and watch the high-school girls run by, flashing their young pretty legs, tossing their hair like spirited mares. I can't do this too often, as I know someone will complain. I don't mean anything by it; I watch everybody. There is never quiet in the city; the closest it comes during the day is in the late afternoon, with only a few noisy children foregoing the pleasures of after-school TV to hang around the schoolyards. I could walk over and catch the workday traffic, but instead I go out to where the industrial parks begin, to the west. By the time I get there the workers have gone home, and the warehouses are casting oblique shadows on the streets, oddly clean, with only the occasional crumpled cigarette pack or fragment of newspaper. Walking through these desolate stretches I feel her starting to return, as the day slides downhill into twilight.

There is food, of sorts, though I don't require much these days. If my meagre funds can stand it, a bowl of chili at a nearby eatery. There's a diner in the next block that has a bottomless cup of coffee; I know it's not very nutritious, but it's a good way to waste time, and they have real cream. I can sit there writing and no one will ask me to leave. One of the waitresses there has offered to lend me a hot plate, but I'm not sure it's such a good idea. Some days the only thing that can get me out of my room is hunger. If I could cook in my room I might not leave it for weeks at a time.

In the evening the streets come alive; everyone is out parading with spouses and lovers, cruising in old cars, sitting on their porches and calling out greetings to friends. Through this all I pass, unnoticed by all, ambling up and down the city blocks, always watching. Sometimes I see a smile or a tilt of the head that reminds me of her. Is it wrong of me to conjure her up? She is as real to me as any of these people, only more elusive. All of them have hopes; they must, or there would be no point in living. They know that they are not likely to go anywhere, that this will be the extent of their lives, these supermarkets and bars. But does it matter whether or not our hopes are in vain? I'm not being cynical about any of this. I believe in love, still. I believe in her.

My nights are now longer than my days; it is not long before I return to my room. The window has been left shut and the sun coming through has heated the air. Heat makes for better dreams. I file the day's scribblings, put my clothes away, turn out the light and slide in underneath the blankets. Perhaps tomorrow when I wake she will be there. And if not, no matter; I'm not impatient. I have all the time in the world. I relax; the sounds from the street start to fade, I sense her again. The night wraps itself around me like a magical cloak. And up again I go, into that strange but familiar world, pursuing a fleeting presence, a beckoning laugh, a girl running just out of reach, and all about me is the wind and the mist and the scent of the fields.