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I’m not from here, obviously. Do you know of any place? Nearby, I mean.”She laughed. “Of course. There’s a small café round the corner. Shall I meet you there in, say, 20 minutes?”“Excellent!” I said a little too enthusiastically. “See you then!” I smiled bravely and turned back towards the door. I was halfway out when I realized I still didn’t know where this café was. I looked back at her in confusion. Reading my mind, she laughingly gestured to her left. I smiled sheepishly and closed the door. The next eighteen minutes were an act of masochism. I tortured myself with all manner of rejection scenarios, scathing critiques of my appearance, pickup line auditions and other forms of self-induced misery. Finally the café door opened and Ashna appeared. She saw me immediately as I stood, and she walked towards me with a smile that could kill a grown man. As she walked, time slowed to a near standstill. Her long white sundress was covered by a light stone overcoat, both of which spun. The third is a day in May 2003, the day my oldest sister died unexpectedly.The second is Sept. 11th, a day that the world I thought I knew became a horrible fantasy.On Sept. 10, 2001, I was a relatively young newspaper employee. I lived about an hour from Shanksville, Pa., the site of the crash of Flight 93.I was in my early 30s, naive and immature. I was clinging tightly to my fading youth and just as tightly to my rapidly evaporating idealism.I had worked late Monday night because I was supposed to be off work on Tuesday. I had put away three or four beers when I finally got home and stumbled to bed shortly before the sun arose for the day.The incessant ringing from my telephone pulled me out of my slumber. I ignored it, as I typically did. It rang again after a short lull.Then my cell phone began issuing its obnoxious ringtone (“Take Me Out to the Ballgame”).I was relatively new to cellular technology. I had never possessed a cell phone until I was issued one by my employer. I.
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