Modern Rising in Crescendo.

He imagines the Road like this: curved around mountains and glaciers and ditches with rivers, lakes, and avalanches cutting through them out of sight out of mind. No one ever knows where their destination is, but really who are they kidding? Every Road ends up at the same place, but from that same place, there are more roads that lead out of it. No one is ever in one place for very long.

He hears the current, fully-functioning generation complain about lack of this and lack of that and what to do and how did they get here? What is the purpose of Life? They're in their 20s. They're considered adults, so why don't they feel like they are? They're nothing like their parents and perhaps that provides most with a sigh of relief, ignoring the fact that their parents were settled in a career by the time they were 27. Half of the current yuppies are either in graduate school, or considering it to prolong the inevitable disappointment that they didn't get where they wanted to go. Most of them are still struggling to find temp jobs. How soul-stomping is Modernity?

His Road. Straight. Narrow. Ok, a little crooked. Lots of trees for scenery. At a mountain now. It's nice. Simple. 

His name's Jack. He's 26, considered barely tolerable in the appearance department by expectations of fashionistas--being vertically-challenged with a rather large, crooked nose, signs of adolescent baldness, and the beginning of a beer gut from the college years, decently settled into a routine of accounting and occasional party nights when he feels he can't take the monotony of adulthood. By the way, his place in his parents' basement is a dump too. He just never bothers.

A lake. Small. Meaningful. Just enough.

Here's Jane. She's 29, fits the high expectations for women's appearance in fashion magazines--long legs, big chest, small waist, long L'oreal-ad-worthy hair because she's worth it, and a decent wardrobe. She's got a decent job, and has moved out out of her parents' house because they've decided to sell it and move to the countryside where there'd be ample room to hunt and garden or something like that. She didn't know, and she didn't care. She's excited about her own place, decorated just the way she liked it: modern. To be honest, she didn't really know what that meant, but she knew that once she got comfortable there, she'd know, and everything would fall into place.

Somewhere along the way, Jack met Jane. If you asked him how they met, five years down the line from now, he'd tell you he forgot. In truth, he couldn't have forgotten a moment of it because it was like a fairy tale. He the frog, and she the lovely princess who's dropped her ball of gold into the pond. Except it wasn't so much a ball of gold as it was her cell phone on the subway on the way to work. And it wasn't so much a fairy tale as it was a nightmare. But he preferred not to dwell on it.

The Road curves. Left, then right, then sharp left. Trees are becoming sparse.

Jane would have forgotten the little details. Like how her slip felt smooth on her that day, or how the strong wisp of Bvlgari Aqva floated through the recycled air of the subway car. It was a pleasant smell, and she rather liked it, but if you asked her what stood out, she could only tell you that the man was balding, short, and chubby. He reminded her of a dwarf of sorts. Fortunately for him, he had been wearing a suit that day--on his way to a job interview--and that was all she could remember before the incident.

Darkness. Tendrils of it. Grabbing him at the throat warning him. Don't go any further it's not a good idea. Not a good idea.

It was a brief encounter, but Jack could tell you the--albeit cliche--details. The way her hair fell like an angel, or how her tailored suit was a raspberry pink shade, accentuated by a lovely red silk scarf. She didn't have on stockings that day, but her legs were smooth, or at least looked smooth, and he could feel himself heat up as he handed her the cell phone. He could bet those legs were as soft as her hands. He could imagine running his hands down her legs and then up to her inner thigh, and he could imagine the look of uncertain pleasure on her face as he reached even higher. And then there was a shrill scream. To his horror, at least when he awoke out of his daze, he was caressing her legs. He could tell you of the strong, sudden, masculine waft of Bvlgari Aqva, and the hairy knuckles that connected with his jaw, and the slow, painful, descent into warm darkness.

It was a favorite story to tell of theirs: how they met, how he saved her from a disgusting creature of a human being, and how he walked her to her company doors, and how they exchanged numbers. It wasn't difficult for them to fall in love--he was an extremely powerful and rich corporate, and she a magazine editor for a fashion magazine. A high-powered, highly-envied, and highly-attractive couple. They were married within half a year, and living in an expensive condo overlooking New York City.

His Road ends about half a mile east of Her Road. His Road is out of sight out of mind. Her Road is engraved always constant always a bitter memory.

How funny, this modern rising in crescendo, to forget the details of importance. It was important that her mother had called her that morning, droning on about how she was worried about Jane living by herself, causing Jane to be late for her daily trek to work. That there was a scuff on Jane's heels that day, from having taken a detour through a patch of grass as the city was repaving the sidewalk. That she had made it into the subway car just as the doors were sliding shut. That she was positioned where she was, between a pleasant old woman and Jack, the sexually-harassing dwarf. That the scent of Bvlgari Aqva had the ability to put everyone in the car in a trance-like state. That, because it was summer, her clothes and hair clung to her skin like moist snake skin, the way that sweat feels after a night of vigorous and passionate love-making. And it was, of the utmost importance, that, when Jack handed Jane her phone, she didn't thank him for it.