It was like the magic that kids feel at Christmas time, something in the air, very real and abstract at the same time. I was in our hotel room dressing, a five-minute walk from where you sat on the second floor veranda, when my cell rang. I snagged us a table you said. I ordered you a Moscow Mule in a copper mug. (Would it be a Moscow Mule if it weren’t in a copper mug?) And there you were at a table next to the veranda with a perfect view of Spring Street from where it curves into view, all the way past the Basin Hotel. A Greek Jesus was seated across from us. His most striking feature was his hair, which he wore in the style so often portrayed by the majority of the paintings that artists have rendered of him. Fake Jesus was sipping a martini. He leaned in and asked where we were from. And then there was this discussion about lillet, how it gets bruised from excess shaking. And then we asked him if he’d like to share our table. He was waiting on his daughter. The one who didn’t die from childhood cancer, the one who never missed the Eureka Springs Arkansas, Christmas parade. She was fashionably late but charming enough to get away with it. And you…how you hugged the railing when the parade started, how you reached out to touch a single white light from a strand of hundreds, how you glowed. You were in your element, and let’s just say that I had adapted comfortably. I traded seats with Fake Jesus Daughter so she could practically touch the parade. Jesus had his muscular arms on the back of your chair, and I imagined just for a moment that you two were a couple and what that would look like in a frame on your mother’s living room coffee table.