Many afternoons, Paul Cantor stood at his office window in the English Department and looked down at the campus below, watching the students walking to their classes, some riding bicycles, others romantically holding hands, some sitting on the benches, or along the wall of the large round fountain spouting and splashing rainbows of water high into the air.

This day, however, a weary sigh came from deep within him before he went back to his desk where a large pile of term papers his students had turned in two weeks ago sat waiting. Normally, he would have read and graded them, writing extensive comments and handing them back within a week, but now he couldn't look at another paper.

He sat back in his black leather chair, reclining, closing his eyes, stroking his white beard with one hand and tapping his red pen on the desk with the other. He knew he was depressed, frustrated, anguished and fighting off despair. What frightened him the most was thinking about suicide, ending it all. He shoved that thought away, knowing he did not have the courage, but still, there it was lurking in the shadows, scaring him with its presence.

He should be happy that his latest book of poetry, his fifth, was on the short list for a Pushcart Award. He had been invited to give readings at several colleges and was proud of his growing reputation as one of the more important poets writing today; however, he hadn’t written a new poem in at least eight months, and though he had several drafts of a new poem started, he hadn’t looked at the three short lines for weeks and knew he was stuck.

What was worse, he didn’t care if he ever wrote another poem again and realized that the passion that made him such a prolific and highly regarded poet for the last thirty years was withering like so many other aspects of his life.

Paul loved women and though he had been faithful to his former wife, Evelyn, for most of their thirty five year marriage, in the last few years before their divorce, he had several passionate one night stands while he was off giving readings.

Paul was a good reader of his poetry and knew how to grip and hold an audience with his dramatic, resonate voice, allowing the actor in him to rise to the occasion. Though usually quiet and reserved, he became the personae in his poems, no longer shy but confident, sometimes looking up from the page and into the eyes of an attractive woman in the audience, or over their heads as if he was envisioning what he was reading about in the distance.

“Why not,” he'd think when the opportunity for a fling presented itself. Sex with Evelyn had dwindled to being non-existent, so it was flattering and titillating to see how a student, or even a young female instructor, or PhD candidate practically threw herself at him after a reading and so, he would let it happen. “Why not make hay while there’s a little sunshine left,” he thought, following one of them to her dorm, or taking a sexy graduate student back to his hotel room after a few drinks in the bar.

He had married Evelyn when they were both in graduate school at Princeton, where she earned her masters in anthropology, but decided not to continue. They met at a cocktail party and became immediately attracted to each other and fucked in the back of his car that night and as often as possible after that. She was smart, sexy with long blonde hair and a body that made men's eyes turn, but she only wanted Paul which amazed and gratified him, since he was somewhat shy and socially awkward. For some reason, she found him not only attractive and engaging, but an intense, imaginative lover.

For the first three years of their marriage, their sex life was exciting and wild, though never kinky; however, after their two children were born, three years apart, their sex life was definitely not what it was before the children. Evelyn gained weight, in fact, a lot of weight, so that by their eighth year of marriage, sex became a once a week event, usually on Saturday nights after going to dinner and a movie.

Paul missed the sexy blonde woman he had married and found himself fantasizing about the attractive young students he saw everyday on campus, and though he would never act on his fantasies, he liked how they flirted with him, how they told him how much they loved his last book of poems, how his classes were their favorite. He maintained his professional, distant manner with them, never indicating how their tight jeans, tiny mini skirts and cleavage revealing shirts aroused him.

Even their eighteen year old baby sitter, Becky, made it difficult not to look at her now that she was no longer the skinny fourteen year old who was adored by their two boys, Daniel and Jonah. Paul tried ignoring the dramatic changes that had gradually taken place right before his eyes and now, she was a sexy young woman and not a child. He tried to ignore how her tight clothes tantalized him, how her unselfconscious way of laying on the floor playing with the boys with her ass straining her jeans, or her short skirts showing more thigh than they hid, made him gasp and look away.

He also found himself at dinner parties with their friends, sitting next to his overweight wife, looking at the wives of people he had known for twenty years, wondering what they were like in bed, knowing several of their husbands cheated on them with students, or female colleagues. Sex was often on his mind, and the lack of lust he felt for his wife now made his desire for other women more intense and his fantasy life more vivid, even resulting in looking at porn on the internet. Still, his outward, professorial appearance gave no indication what was going on inside. He felt he had a secret fantasy life that both excited and frustrated him. He even wrote intense erotic poems he knew he would never publish.

One woman, in particular, Jenny Davidson, the wife of his office mate, Charles, or Chuck as he preferred being called, often cornered him after she had a few drinks. He liked how close she stood to him, how her perfume caused him to savor its fragrance, how she touched his arm to emphasize a point, how she smiled, looking deep into his eyes while commenting on a poem of his she had read in Atlantic Monthly or the New Yorker; or, depending on how drunk she was, how she told him how boring Chuck was in bed. She had a way of biting her lower lip when she said that, looking deep into Paul’s eyes, and though he knew she was drunk and flirting, it was enticing. Also, Jenny and Evelyn were friends, not close friends, but they often met for lunch.

Still, he thought she was pretty with large sparkling green eyes, high cheek bones, olive skin, gleaming white teeth, red lipstick on delicious looking lips and dark curly hair that fell well below her shoulders, giving her an exotic appearance. It was exciting to have these private conversations with Jenny, especially because she always wore low cut dresses, or a blouse with several buttons undone, standing close, practically touching him with her breasts, arousing him, causing him to wonder what he would do if her seductive ways resulted in them arranging a rendezvous at the local Super 8 Motel; something he fantasized about, but knew, though the temptation was there, would never happen.

So, here he was sitting in his office ignoring the papers he should be grading. He had a prestigious position at the university with his own office, one year from retiring as professor emeritus, yet he was feeling despair and a longing for something he couldn’t quite name. He knew it was related to the lust he still felt, but most of all, it was the realization that at sixty eight, the women who used to look at him, flirt with him when he walked by no longer did and that hurt. I’m getting too old. They don’t even see me.

Painfully, he remembered when he was a younger professor with a dark beard, long hair, how the female students looked into his eyes and smiled when they passed, how they came to his table in the university cafeteria to sit with him, ask for his autograph, or show him a poem they had written, wanting his comments, or they would come to his office with a question, or wanting advice, always dressed provocatively. Even as he got older with his dark hair turning gray, flecks of white in his beard, his skin showing wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, he could still feel their attraction to him. He remembers several young women saying how they liked older men, how more experienced and patient they were than the young studs on campus. He enjoyed the flirting and, in his subtle, distant, somewhat shy way, flirted back, though never going over the professional line, regardless of how tempted he was.

Now, he had white thinning hair, a much larger wrinkled brow with his receding hairline, a paunch that he had recently developed, despite watching what he ate. Though he would look at the lovely women he passed, hoping to catch their eye, hoping they would glance at him, smile, but it didn’t happen, causing him to sigh and swallow the painful realization, he was now too old to be attractive to younger women.

Sitting at his desk, he remembered a line from one his poems, “Sometimes life is like licking honey from a thorn.” He recited it to himself then chuckled, taking a weary breath. “It’s true. Lately, my life has been a lot more thorn than honey.”

When he said that, tired of feeling despair, he sat straight up, as if a bolt of lighting had hit him. He threw down his red pen, stood up and without hesitation, grabbed his brown tweed sport jacket with the leather pouches on the elbow and knew he wanted to be as far from the campus and his life as he could get. After slamming the door to his office and rushing down the hall to the elevator, desperate feelings rose in him. He wished he could start over, be a carpenter like his dad, drink beer and watch ballgames with his friends, instead, he remembers receiving a four year scholarship to Princeton, becoming an internationally known poet, and for the past thirty-six years, a professor of English in the stuffy ivory tower of the university.

Now, at sixty eight, no longer attractive to younger women and not interested in the shriveled up older women he met, he realized, like a dagger at his back, those days of flirtations and one night stands were behind him.

He had to do something. He had to get away. Realizing he had left his briefcase in his office and not caring, he walked with his head down across the crowded campus, past the water spouting fountain, past students and teachers to the parking lot, trying not to look at the sexy young women who ignored him, though apart of him hoped one would notice his vigorous walking, his determination to do something about his life, something real, something passionate, but what? He had no idea. He got into his old gray Volvo and drove away from the campus, not sure where he was going, but driving faster than usual, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he left the small college town with its tree covered streets, remembering Huck Finn’s words on the last page, “I’m lighting out for the territory.”

After driving for miles, getting off the turnpike, taking back roads, not knowing where he was, just driving past farms, through small towns, over hills, rounding sharp bends, listening to music on the classical music station, when something up ahead caught his eye. He saw a sign, “Luke’s Bar and Grill” written in large red letters shaped like flames on a black sign. He thought it was strange that there would be a bar in the middle of nowhere. Also, just as he saw the sign, the first thunderous chords of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony came on the radio, filling his car with that dark, ominous sound.

Several pick-up trucks and at least a dozen motorcycles were in the gravel parking lot. He slowed down and suddenly, impulsively, decided to stop for a beer, not sure what attracted him to the place, but for some reason, he drove in and parked next to a black pickup truck with oversized tires. He looked around at the motorcycles lined up in front of the entrance, then up at the shabby white building, noticing the black trim around the windows and the black windowless door at the entrance.

This looks like a bikers’ hangout, he thought, imagining the black leather jackets and jeans he associated with bikers and wondered if he would feel out of place. While sitting in his car, looking at the bar, wondering if he should go in, the front door opened and a tall blonde haired woman wearing tight jeans and boots staggered out clutching the arm of a big man in a black leather jacket. In front of the door, she stood on her toes, kissing him passionately, while his hands squeezed her ass and then, with their arms around each other, they walked over to a shiny red motorcycle. He watched them put on their helmets, get on the bike, her arms around him from behind, and then they drove off in a roar, zooming away down the road, probably to her trailer , he thought.

Sitting there for several minutes, he stared at the building, not sure why he stopped, but recognized his tendency to be an observer, always somewhat detached with his writer’s eye taking snapshots he might use in a future story or poem. Looks like an interesting place. I think I’ll go in, get a beer and just watch the scene. He turned off Beethoven, got out of his car and stood in front of the black windowless door, again looking up at the black sign Luke's Bar and Grill with the flames coming out of the letters, thinking about the name “Luke,” then took a deep breath and walked in.

It was smoky, dimly lit and the smell of cigarettes surprised him. Guess they don’t care about not smoking in public places. He looked around the dark, smoky room and heard the loud booming music from the jukebox before walking over to the bar on the other side of the room, aware that several people looked up at him and thought how strange he must look in a wrinkled tweed sport jacket with leather pouches on the elbow, brown corduroy pants, thinning white hair and a beard, obviously much older than anyone in the bar.

When he sat down on the red leather bar stool, he touched the shiny dark brown wood of the bar, looked at the long row of liquor bottles on the counter, then at the chubby, pot bellied bartender walking towards him with black suspenders holding up baggy jeans and a black T-shirt with the words, “Luke’s Bar and Grill ” written in flaming red letters.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, not smiling.

Stunned, at first, by the bartender’s unwelcoming manner, Paul asked, “What’s on tap?”

“Just Bud, that’s it,” he said, chewing gum.

“Well if that’s all you have, that will be fine. Yes, give me a Bud.”

“What am I doing here?” Paul asked himself, suddenly feeling he was a stranger in a strange land, then looked around the room, noticing several booths were occupied by bikers smoking, drinking and laughing.

In the rear, three guys were playing pool, while two others were throwing darts at a board on the back wall. Several stools away from him, four men wearing tight black T-shirts, jeans and boots glanced at Paul, chuckling and shaking their heads as if seeing something pathetic, then went back to talking to each other.

“Here goes,” the bartender said, putting the mug down with a thud.

“Thanks,” Paul said, lifting the mug and took a big gulp, some of the beer dripped from his mouth. “Damn, I really needed this,” he added, taking another big gulp.

“Oh yeah,” the bartender said, his manner relaxing, looking at Paul, “What’s happening, man?”

“It’s hard to say,” Paul answered, surprised to be asked.

“You’re off the beaten track, ain’t you? Don’t usually see guys like you here.”

“I bet,” Paul answered, chuckling, beginning to relax and noticed the bartender’s grimness softening.

“So what’s going on? How come you came to a dive like this place in the middle of nowhere? Ain’t you on the wrong side of the tracks?” he asked, moving a small glass bowl of peanuts in front of Paul.

“Well, I guess I am. I just had to get away from the other side of the tracks. I need a change, not sure what kind of change, but it’s not working for me over there.”

“You’re frustrated, ain't you?” the bartender said, still looking into Paul’s eyes, nodding as if understanding.

“Yes, I guess you could say I’m frustrated. I don’t feel alive. I feel disgusted with how I’m living,” Paul said, amazed at the intimate conversation he was having.

The bartender continued looking at Paul, as if studying him but didn’t say anything. Paul took another drink from his beer. Why is he looking at me like that?

“You need to meet Luke,” the bartender said after a long silence. “He owns this joint.”

“I do? Why do I need to meet Luke?”

“Well, let’s just say he’s an impressive man. He’s pretty good with helping people get on track. I think you should meet him.”

“Why not,” Paul responded, “Why the hell not?”

“Follow me,” the bartender said, nodding and walked to the end of the bar, waiting for him.

Paul stood up, took a big gulp of his beer, finished it, then putting the empty mug down, walked past the four bikers. One of the men glanced at Paul, shook his head and snickered, then looked back at his friends, shaking his head.

The bartender led him down a long narrow hall, past two bathrooms, one marked “Studs” the other marked, “Sluts.” My goodness, Paul gulped, startled as he followed the bartender to the big black door at the rear of the hall, knocked three times, then opened it, not waiting for a response. “Hey, boss, here’s someone you should meet,” the bartender said, nodding for me to enter the office.

Behind the uncluttered desk sat a man leaning back in a large black chair, reading a magazine, his feet in black boots up on the desk. Paul could see that the cover had a blonde woman wearing a skimpy bikini straddling a huge motorcycle. In back of him, covering the window was a black velvet curtain making the room dark except for a lamp with a red light giving the room an eerie atmosphere.

The man sat up, flipped the magazine onto the desk, looked up at the bartender, “Thanks, Zach,” he said, then, removing his heavy boots from the desk, smiled at Paul. “Take a seat,” he said, pointing to a wooden chair in front of his desk.

Paul sat down and looked around the room, then back at the man, noticing his thick black eyebrows, dark eyes, a thin black mustache with a small goatee and long, straight black hair that went down past his shoulders. He also had a round silver earring dangling from one ear. He wore a black T-shirt with a black leather vest. Paul thought he was quite handsome and had a dignified air about him, unlike the cruder looking men he saw in the bar. He also felt his penetrating eyes when he leaned forward, as if looking deep into Paul.

“I’m Luke,” he said, touching his thin mustache with his index finger. “And I know why you’re here?”

“You do?” Paul asked. “I don’t know why I’m here. In fact I don’t even know where I am. I just took off a few hours ago. What do you mean you know why I’m here?”

“You’re fed up with your life. You’ve even thought about committing suicide, haven’t you? I know a desperate man when I see one.”

Paul gasped and felt a shiver shoot through him, a tremble. He swallowed, searching for words.

Luke chuckled, seeing Paul’s response. “I can help you if you’re willing to make a bargain,” he said, folding his hands in front of him, still looking into Paul’s eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can help you live the way you want to live, feel the way you want to feel.”

“How do you know how I want to live? This is nuts!” Paul said, suddenly bewildered, not sure if he should be here, the trembling returning. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

Luke laughed, “Listen to me. I can help you if you’re willing to make a bargain,” he repeated, smiling. “A deal,” he added.

“What do you mean, a deal?” Paul asked, shifting on his chair.

“You know, a bargain, a deal.”

“I don’t get it. What deal?”

“You’re upset with getting old and withering away,” he said, pausing, narrowing his eyes. “I know what you’re missing, and if you’re willing to make a deal, I can give you another chance.”

“Another chance, another chance for what?”

“Another chance to have the young women you lust after give themselves to you, only this time, you will not live in denial as you have your whole life.”

“What are you talking about? How do you know anything about me?”

“Intuition,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been around a lot of years. There’s not much I haven’t seen, and when I saw you, I saw an uptight old coon who wants to make up for lost time before it’s too late.” He paused, stroking his goatee. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Paul scratched the back of his head, not sure how to answer and sighed deeply.

“Well, that’s a world weary sigh if I ever heard one,” Luke said. “Listen, I’ve seen so many men like you who suddenly realize their best days are behind them. I bet I know one thing that’s bothering you.”

“Really, what?”

“It bothers you that the pretty young women you see on the street or on that campus where you teach don’t notice you any more.”

“Wait a minute, how do you know I’m on a campus? How do you know anything about me?”

Luke laughed, scratching his cheek with his finger and Paul noticed the long sharp fingernails. “It’s not hard to see you’re a college professor with that wrinkled old jacket with patches, and I can tell by your eyes--eyes that know books but nothing about life. Anyway, it’s hard to explain how I know what I know, and it doesn’t matter because of the offer I am going to make you.”

“What offer? What are you talking about?”

“I can make those young women want to look at you,” Luke said, rubbing his hands.

“This is nonsense. I’m an old man. They don’t even see me when I look at them. They used to when I was younger, but those days are gone.”

“Right and that’s what’s bothering you,” Luke said. “And I can change that if you’re willing to make a bargain.”

“I don’t believe you. This is crazy. You can’t make young women look at me and suddenly want me in their bed.”

“I can understand you being skeptical--an English professor, a distinguished poet, an intellectual, a thinker,” Luke said and chuckled.

“How did you know that? How do you know anything about me? What the hell is going on?”

Again, Luke chuckled, “What the hell is going on? I’ve always liked that expression.” He then paused, that sly smile returning to his lips. “Tell me something. How badly do you want to be a handsome young English professor again and not so uptight about morality? How much do you want to follow your carnal desires, your lust, get laid?”

It didn’t take Paul long to know how much he wanted that feeling. He knew Luke was right, that’s exactly what was bothering him. He was invisible to the women he was attracted to.

“Tell me more,” Paul asked. “What’s this deal you’re proposing?”

“I want your spirit, your soul,” Luke said, leaning forward, looking into Paul’s eyes.

“You want my spirit, my soul,” Paul said, bewildered, yet curious, sensing now who he was talking to but wanted to make certain. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Well, first of all, my name isn’t Luke, its Lucifer,” he said. “Honesty is important in the matters we are discussing.”

“So why do you call this place “Luke’s?” Paul asked. “That’s not honest.”

“Would you go to a bar called Lucifer’s?” he asked. “Luke was a business decision.”

“Okay, I can see that,” Paul responded. “Now about this deal you’re talking about, but I have to tell you something. I don’t believe in all of that. I think this is all nonsense, superstition. I don’t believe there’s a spirit, a soul.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” Luke said. “You existentialists are all alike.”

“But tell me, if I did believe you, what would you do to make what you are proposing happen?”

“I have a potion you will drink, but only after you agree to the bargain and we shake hands.”

“And what will happen when I drink this potion of yours?”

“I’m not going to tell you what will happen, but you will discover my power manifesting its self when more woman than you will ever want, desire you.”

“So, if I drink your potion and we shake hands and make this deal, women will suddenly start wanting me. I won’t be invisible.”

“Exactly,” Luke said, pausing, “but you will give me your spirit and your soul in exchange. I will own you.”

“Well, if that’s what you believe, that’s your business,” Paul said. “I’m a poet, a prize winning poet, and I don’t believe in any spirit or soul. There is nothing to own.”

“I know about you existentialist,” Luke said. “You think you live and you die and that’s it.”

“Right, there’s no spirit, no soul, no afterlife, no God, no Devil, or arch angel named Lucifer. It’s all irrational mythology. The only thing that matters is my life and right now I’m miserable.”

“Paul, I know you’re an educated man, a scholar, a poet, a good poet. You’re a smart man, but not a wise man.”

“Listen, Luke, I beg your pardon for being so blunt, but I think this is nuts and you’re delusional. You can’t change my life. The only one that can change me is me, and I have come to reluctantly and painfully accept that the days of having young women look and desire me are gone.”

“So you don’t believe if you drink my potion and we shake hands, nothing will change,” Luke said, sitting with his hands folded, resting on the desk, looking calmly at Paul. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s right, but I’ll tell you what, if it makes you feel better I will drink your cockamamie potion and shake your hand because I have nothing to lose and nothing will change,” Paul said, leaning forward, “Why not?”

Luke chuckled, reaching for Paul’s hand.

Before shaking his hand, Paul paused, “By the way what’s in your potion? It won’t make me sick will it?”

“No, it won’t make you sick. In fact it tastes like root beer,” Luke said, getting up and walked to a small refrigerator on the other side of the room. “Do you like root beer?”

“Yes, I love root beer. It’s my favorite kind of soda,” Paul said, watching Luke bring a tall, narrow wine bottle to the table.

“Well, Paul this tastes like root beer but it isn’t. I cannot reveal what's in it, but I promise you, it will not make you sick; however, it will definitely do what I say it will. Mark my words, young sexy women--blondes, dark haired, red heads, tall, petite, will be attracted to you.”

Paul hesitated, “I’m not sure I should drink it. I don’t like drinking what I don’t know. How do I know I won’t get sick? Why should I trust you?”

“You’re a cautious, skeptical man, Paul. I don’t blame you for not wanting to drink this potion and not know what it is,” Luke said, getting two tall glasses from a cabinet behind him. “So I will drink with you. I wouldn’t drink something that would make me sick, would I? I guarantee it’s safe and why would I harm you if I want your soul and spirit?”

“Well, if you’re drinking it, I guess it’s safe,” Paul said.

Luke removed the cork from the bottle of dark liquid, a small amount of vapor rising, “The recipe for this potion is ancient, and I’ve had this bottle for a very long time.”

While he poured the dark liquid into both glasses, they could see the foam rising to the top of each glass.

Luke paused, waiting for the foam to settle before pouring more. While waiting, holding the narrow bottle just above the glass, he smiled at Paul.

“See the foam,” Luke said.

“Yes, what about it?”

“It reminds me of how people fall in love, how they fool themselves.”

“How they fool themselves?” Paul asked, somehow remembering falling in love with Evelyn over thirty years ago.

“Yes, you really don’t know how much root beer you have in the glass until the foam settles,” Luke said, watching the foam in the glass settling before pouring more. “People get fooled by the foam and think its love.”

“I guess, I did,” Paul said. “My marriage certainly died after about eight years though we stayed together for thirty-five.”

“Eight years,” Luke said. “Not too bad. Many don’t last that long.”

When both glasses were filled, Luke handed Paul a glass and lifted his up and they clicked glasses, “To lust!” Luke said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Paul said, clicking, then lifting the glass to his lips, watching Luke take a big drink, swallowing the whole potion, then he sipped, letting the sweet root beer tasting potion swirl around in his mouth, before swallowing. When Paul finished drinking the entire potion, he put the glass down on Luke’s desk. “Not bad,” he said, and then stood up.

“Well, let’s shake hands now that we have agreed on our bargain,” Luke said, extending his hand. “You’ll see, this is a deal you will be glad to have made. I promise you, it will work.”

“Okay, if you think so, and you know what I think,” Paul said, reaching over the desk, looking into Luke’s dark, smiling eyes, shaking hands, “but I better get going. I have a long drive home.”

Luke came around the desk and walked with Paul to the black door and opened it, “Have a good journey, my friend. Have fun. Your best days are ahead of you.”

“We’ll see,” Paul said, nodding, looking at Luke’s smile, his dark eyes, his mustache and goatee, his long black hair. “Thanks for the drink.”

Paul walked down the dark, narrow hall past the restrooms, glancing at the words, slut and stud, shaking his head and thinking about his encounter with Luke, that was strange but interesting, he thought as he walked back into the dark, smoky barroom, then past the four burly men, ignoring their glances at him. He stopped and put a five dollar bill down on the bar and nodded to Zach, who gave him a thumbs-up, which Paul returned with his thumb, then walked to the front door. Before opening it, he glanced back and looked around at the noisy, dark, smoky bar, noticing people drinking, laughing and smoking, What a crazy world we live in, he muttered, then opened the door, squinting at the sudden glare of the bright sunlight, and then stepped outside to the gravel parking lot lined with motorcycles and trucks. He looked up at the blazing letters on the sign and thought about Luke and the potion he just drank, “what nonsense,” he muttered under his breath.

When he got back into his car, he sat still, his hands on the steering wheel, and again, looked up at the shabby white building, then read the black and red sign with fire coming out of the letters, then took a deep breath, Now that was strange. He turned on the ignition and then backed out of his parking place, turned left onto the highway and drove in the direction he came.

On the radio, was opera, a soprano singing something he didn’t recognize and turned it off, deciding not to listen to the radio, instead he drove in silence, trying to remember his way back to the university and the pile of papers on his desk and thought about his conversation with Luke, or Lucifer. Funny how some people are delusional, thinking they’re Jesus, or the devil. Not me. I’m not delusional. I’m miserable, and I know it and no potion or bargain is going to change that.

It was dark and late when Paul got back to the college. The campus was quiet, practically empty, except for a few students walking back to their dorms, or a couple sitting on the wall circling the fountain, the water turned off for the night. He walked past the dark library and into the empty humanities building, then took the elevator to his office on the third floor.

Realizing he had to pee, he went down the hall to the men’s room, turned on the florescent light, causing him to squint and stood there in front of the urinal, holding his limp penis, watching the pale yellow liquid arcing into the white bowl, thinking about the insane idea of women suddenly lusting after what he was holding in his hand, imagining what it would be like if that actually happened, but dismissed the idea, zipped up and went to the sink to wash his hands. He glanced in the mirror at his watery blue eyes, his wrinkled brow, the bags under his eyes, his thinning white hair, wondering what he would look like if he suddenly looked younger and sexier, then sighed, resigned to the reality that he was an old man now, his longing for a return of his youthful vitality, an impossible dream. Suddenly, he remembered the song, “The Impossible Dream” from the musical, The Man of La Mancha about Don Quixote and how foolish he was thinking he could win the heart of Dulcinia. Paul wiped his hands with a paper towel and took one last look at his wrinkled face in the mirror and released a sigh of deep resignation.

Two days later, his papers graded with shorter than usual comments written in red ink at the bottom of the last page, he was relieved to know he was now on summer break and could get back to trying to finish the poem he had been working on for several months, hoping he could break though what was blocking him and nail it. He stood at the window of his small apartment in a complex that had a pool and looked down at the people lounging, children splashing, a man with a hairy chest diving off the board at one end, several women wearing bikinis, sunbathing, talking to each other behind sunglasses, blonde haired, dark haired, red haired, their slim tan bodies captivating him, causing him to sigh, something he had been doing a lot lately.

He went back to his notebook and to the poem he had been working on and suddenly, he felt energized and the words started coming like they hadn’t in a long time. Rather than finish the poem he had been stuck on, new words came, as a poem grabbed him, and he just wrote without crossing out a word. He stopped and read the first line, “I’m getting old because I haven’t died.” The line made him laugh, and he continued reading what he had written. When he got down to another line, he felt tears coming to his eyes, a burning ache when he read his words.

“And when I think of love,

getting older doesn’t make the longing go away.

It’s just the thought of a lover’s skin

doesn’t fade that easily and comes back

like a waking dream late at night.

When he finished the poem, reading it over several times, he sat back, happy that he was able to write, was able to reach where he hadn’t been able to for the last eight months, and felt relieved that he was able to get out what he needed to say. “Maybe I haven’t lost it,” Paul thought, holding the poem he had just finished in his hand.

A warm glow come over him. “I deserve to celebrate,” and got up from his desk, glanced out the window at the people around the pool and decided he was going to go to the Gilded Cage Cafe in town, a local hangout that had good coffee, decadent pastries, served wine and beer, light meals, a place where students, teachers, artists gathered to talk, or use the internet. He hadn’t been there in over a year, but today, after finishing the poem, he felt refreshed and wanted to get a cappuccino, or a glass of red wine.

When he went into his bedroom to change his clothes, he looked in the mirror and looked into his eyes, noticing, they looked really blue, not watery the way they usually did, though his skin had wrinkles, he had more color, his cheeks had a glow, and he thought he looked good, different and felt finishing a new poem had an impact on him, maybe he would go back to the other poem he had been working on for months and felt confident he could nail that one too.

Something made him take off the wrinkled white dress shirt he wore and take out a dark blue T-shirt from the drawer and slip it in on. “I haven’t worn this shirt in years,” he thought, but liked the way it looked on him. He turned to the side and noticed his paunchy belly was not as prominent. “Hmmm, what happened, I look thinner,” he said and remembered he hadn’t been eating much recently. He hadn’t felt hungry and realized he often didn’t eat when he was tense or depressed. Guess I’m losing weight.

He then decided to wear the white sneakers he had in the closet instead of the brown shoes he was wearing. Why not? he thought as he sat down on his bed and put them on and liked the way they went with the dark blue jeans he had put on that morning. Before leaving, he glanced at himself in the mirror one more time. Not bad. You look pretty good for a change, not as wrinkled and worn out.

When he entered the café, he put the New Yorker magazine he brought with him on the small table against the brick wall and went up to the counter to order. He knew what he wanted and when the young woman smiled at him and said, “Oh hi, Dr. Cantor. I haven’t seen you here in a long time.”

“Well, that’s because I haven’t been here in a long time,” he joked.

“Right,” she laughed. “That explains it. What can I get you?”

“Well, I was going to have a cappuccino, but I think I’ll have a glass of wine. Do you have Chianti?” he asked, suddenly remembering when he vacationed on the Italian Riviera thirty five years ago. He was working on his second book and suddenly the image of him, tan and youthful, sitting in a café in San Remo came to him.

“Yes, we have Chianti,” she said. “I’ll get it and bring it over to you,” she said.

“Cool,” he said, surprised that he used that word, a word he hadn't used in years, but it popped out of his mouth and made him chuckle.

When he sat down, he opened his New Yorker, turning the pages, looking at the ads, stopping at an article that looked interesting, and then the young woman brought over his wine.

“Here you are, Dr. Cantor, she said. “By the way, I was in your writing workshop a few years ago. I’m Wendy Peterson. You probably don’t remember me.”

“Yes, you look familiar,” Paul said, looking up at her, noticing the stud in her nose, the bright brown eyes, her long dusty blonde hair and couldn’t help notice how her breasts stretched the green T-shirt with the words, “Gilded Cage” written in Gothic letters and a picture of an empty cage with the door opened.

“Yes, Wendy,” I remember you.” He paused. “I like your shirt and that image of an empty bird cage.”

“I do too,” she said. “Well enjoy your wine,” she added, then paused, looking at him. “By the way, you’re really looking good,” she said and went back to her place behind the counter.

Well, that was nice of her to say, Paul thought as he watched her walk away, noticing her short black skirt, the slight swaying of her hips, then took a sip of his Chianti, tasting the sweet thick texture on his tongue, again and remembered the bright, warm sun of San Remo.

While reading and sipping his wine, he looked around the café at people drinking, talking, reading, texting, or surfing the internet on laptops. He noticed the hanging plants, the soft jazz playing and remembered Luke’s Bar and Grill and the contrast in atmosphere. He looked over at a table in the corner at an attractive dark haired young woman sitting by herself wearing a low cut tight orange tank top. She was reading a book and had a yellow scarf tight lightly around her neck, a coffee mug next to her hand. He could see her cleavage and wondered whether she was wearing a bra. “She looks pretty interesting and very sexy,” he thought, then went back to his New Yorker, but found himself glancing over at her a few times, and then was startled when she glanced over at him and smiled, then went back to her book. He was surprised that she looked at him, realizing how rare it was that any woman looked at him, but a few times their eyes met, then they both looked away, and he knew there was an attraction, but also knew nothing would happen.

When she got up to leave, putting her book in a backpack, he noticed she was wearing black yoga pants that were tight on her ass and he wished he had the nerve to talk to her. He wondered what book she was reading and thought he would ask her. He felt his heart leap when she walked by his table and again smiled at him before leaving. He noticed how her long dark curly hair flowed over her bare shoulders, her dangling earrings. He was stunned by the way she had looked at him, realizing it had been several years since a young, beautiful, sexy woman looked at him like that. He could not take his eyes off her ass as she walked away, and wondered if he’d ever see her again. Now that’s someone I’d like to get to know.

After finishing his wine and the article he was reading, he closed his New Yorker, and decided to go home and work on the poem that had been frustrating him for eight months. Just as he got up he glanced over at Wendy behind the counter. She waved at him and smiled and it struck him as odd that she seemed so happy to see him. He remembered her comment that he looked good, then, as he was leaving, another young woman with short brown hair, glanced at him and smiled as they passed, baffling him that for some reason he was being noticed.

Maybe it’s this blue T-shirt, he wondered, suddenly feeling he looked attractive. He still had wrinkles, still had thinning white hair and a beard. His legs were still stiff, but he liked how a few young women looked at him. When he got back into his car and looked up at the café with its glass door, the sign above it with the golden Gothic lettering spelling The Gilded Cage and under that, a picture of the empty bird cage with the open door and he thought how much he enjoyed being there and decided he would go there again. He liked the vitality, the way people seemed engaged, and he also wondered if he would see that sexy woman again, and, if she looked at him again, would he have the nerve to talk to her, ask her what book she was reading, start a conversation.

At home that night, Paul stood at the window and looked down at the pool. No one was there. The water was still, the lights around the pool gleaming on its blue surface. People sometimes swam on warm summer nights, but tonight it was quiet. He had never used the pool, but the idea of sitting out there and getting a tan suddenly appealed to him. Maybe he would do that tomorrow, he thought, remembering he had an old pair of swimming trunks he hadn’t worn in years.

He then did another thing he hadn’t done in years and that was pour himself a glass of Jack Daniels to sip and listen to an old Mose Allison record, remembering he liked his jazz and satirical lyrics. He sat down on his recliner, leaned back, turned off the lamp, making the room dim. He sipped his drink and listened to the steady dissonant chords and Mose singing in his distinctive southern drawl about not being disillusioned, “no I'm not disillusioned, but I’m getting there.”

That line always made Paul chuckle. He remembered how he had been feeling for the past year or so, maybe longer, hating the idea of reaching the age when he felt his best days were behind him, how painful it felt to see so many attractive women pass him without looking, then, how he felt at the café earlier being looked at by not one but several younger women, and now he was eager to return, hoping the woman in the tight black yoga pants would be there.

When he finished his Jack Daniels, the Mose Allison record over, he put on Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” turned off the lamp in back of him and sat in the dark listening to the vitality of the music, and heard himself humming the lovely melodies, moving his hands as if conducting and feeling he was not as depressed as he had been. The thought of getting a tan, maybe getting his bicycle out and exercising, taking bike rides along the river appealed to him.

When the Vivaldi ended, he lay back in the recliner, looking into the darkness of his living room, enjoying the silence, suddenly liking how he was feeling, now knowing he wanted to change the downward spiral of his life. He remembered the conversation he had with Luke before drinking the potion. “The only thing that can change me is me,” he had said, dismissing the notion that the ancient brew he drank had any power and that the bargain regarding Luke owning his spirit and soul was nonsense. It was up to him to turn his life around, not a potion, not a bargain.

Paul woke up at dawn the next morning, laying in his bed, realizing lines of poetry were coming to him, surprising him, reminding him that this is the way he woke up years ago when he was determined to be the best poet he could be. He thought about the poem he had been stuck on for so many months, and now the words were coming to him. He jumped out of bed, went to the bathroom to pee and wash his face. He looked in the mirror, looking into his eyes and again noticed they seemed bluer, not as watery, in fact, had a little twinkle and noticed that though he still had bags and a wrinkled brow, for some reason his skin looked smoother, not as pale or pasty looking.

In the kitchen, he flipped on the electric coffee maker, remembering he always got his coffee ready the night before, filling the reservoir, putting in the four scoops of coffee, but this morning he added a few pinches of cinnamon, something he used to do but hadn’t done in years. He sat down at the small kitchen table, grabbed a pen and turned to the page in his notebook where the stagnant, unfinished poem sat, read the lines then scribbled over them, crossing them out. “That sucks,” he said, and started writing the words that just like yesterday when he finished writing the new poem in under an hour, today the words poured from him with few cross outs. But what he was writing was different than what he had been trying to say months ago. He remembered how stuck he was, how he couldn’t break through the barrier that had been blocking him when he was feeling so dark, so pained, so exhausted, but now he couldn’t write fast enough. When he finished the draft, knowing he would go over it and refine it later, he picked up his notebook and read it out loud, walking into the other room.

Choosing an illusion doesn’t make my life less real,

and if I care to sing instead of crawling on my hands and knees,

holding up a bleeding heart,

the sunrise still will sparkle on the lake

and through the trees

He poured himself another mug of coffee and continued writing and when he wrote the last two lines,

“The sun that shines now on your lovely face

will rise tomorrow from my lyric heart.”

he knew he had written a keeper.

Paul read the poem over four times liking it better each time, but what surprised him the most was how positive he felt and realized this was a love poem. Why was he writing a love poem? He had no idea whose lovely face he was writing about, but he knew he hadn’t written a poem like this since he was in his thirties when he was protesting the war in Vietnam, when he was enraged after the Bay of Pigs fiasco and realized how the CIA and secret organizations really ruled the country. Maybe he was remembering Evelyn, or maybe it was truly about someone he hadn’t met yet, maybe it was the woman he saw at the café, he didn’t know, but he loved the line about his lyric heart, the heart that hadn’t felt lyrical in years.

When he finished reading the poem, he took a deep breath and opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony, glancing at his neighbor’s potted plants, then down at the pool and took a deep breath of the morning air. He came back in, poured himself a big glass of orange juice and looked up at the clock and saw it was already after ten. He had worked on that poem for over three hours and had no idea it was so late. He was hungry now and wondered if he should make himself a nice breakfast to celebrate his new poem, then go down and take a swim, sit in the sun, start getting a tan. He knew he wanted to go back to the Gilded Cage later.

Rather than feeling lethargic like he had for so long, he now didn’t know what to do first. He felt energized. He had written two poems in two days. He suddenly felt youthful, and when he went back to the bathroom to pee again, he looked in the mirror and saw twinkling blue eyes looking back at him. Also, his brow didn’t look as wrinkled, his white hair now looked darker, gray, not as thin and for the first time in a long time, he liked what he saw in the mirror. “You know, you’re not a bad looking guy, you look pretty good,” he said, again remembering Wendy saying that yesterday.

Rather than his usual oat meal, he made himself bacon and two eggs up with toasted whole wheat bread, spreading butter on it, poured another cup of coffee and devoured his delicious breakfast. After finding his old maroon bathing suit in the back of a drawer, he put it on, glanced at himself in the mirror, noticing his paunch was practically gone, “I must be losing weight,” he said, then grabbed a towel and walked barefooted to the pool, remembering how much he used to love walking around without shoes or socks.

It was now after eleven and people were already gathered around the pool. He threw his towel on one of the lounge chairs, went to the edge of the pool, stuck his toe in to see how cold the water felt, and then, without hesitation dove head first and swam underwater to the other side of the pool, then immediately turned around and swam back, surprised at how well he could still swim after probably ten or more years of not being in a pool. He climbed out of the pool, lifting himself up by his arms, dried himself off and looked around at the others, noticing the group of women he had seen before on the other side of the pool, talking, but saw two of them stop talking and look over at him before turning back to their conversation, one lifting her sun glasses.

When he laid down on his lounge, he could feel the warm sun on his skin, and how soothing it felt, how relaxed it made him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting into a nap, then heard someone speaking to him. He opened his eyes, but it was hard to see in the sunlight, then gradually, he saw one of the women from the other side of the pool standing in front of his lounge chair. She was wearing a yellow bikini and had a tube of sun lotion in her hand. He would have to be blind not to see her breasts barely covered by the skimpy top, her smooth tan skin, her long auburn hair.

“You better be careful. You’re going to get a bad sunburn if you don’t put some of this lotion on,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my concern.”

“No, of course not, thank you, that’s very considerate of you,” Paul said, looking down at his white pale skin, the gray curly hair on his chest.

“Here, you can use this,” she said, bending over, handing him the brown and white tube.

“Australian Gold,” he read, and then looked up at her.

“So who are you?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you around the pool. Do you live here?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been here for almost a year. That’s my apartment over there,” Paul said, pointing to the second floor, “Apartment 2. This is my first time using the pool, though.”

“Funny, I never noticed you before today,” she said, pausing, “and I live on the second floor too, Apartment 5, right down the hall from you, but when I saw you stand by the pool and immediately dive in and swim under water, I was impressed. I was sitting over with my friends. We sit around the pool every day, but I just noticed you. I hope you don’t mind my being concerned about you getting a sun burn. I know how painful that can be.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Paul said, suddenly feeling his penis twitching and stirring while looking up at her, his eyes roving over her smooth tan legs, her tiny bikini, her barely contained breasts, her long auburn hair.

“I’m Alicia,” she said. I’ve lived here for two years since my divorce.”

“I’m Paul. Paul Cantor,” he said, still surprised that this attractive, sexy woman just came over to let him use her sun tan lotion.

“Wait a minute, are you Paul Cantor, the poet?” she asked. “Are you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Are you a poetry fan?”

“I am, sort of,” she said. “I wasn’t sure, but I thought that was you. I heard you read a year or so ago at the Leaves of Grass Book store, and I even bought your book, Living in the Shade and you autographed it. That’s why I came over to give you this lotion. I wondered if that was you. I loved your book.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it,” Paul said, feeling himself getting aroused, but wanting to hide what was happening and put the towel over his bathing suit.

“Mind if I join you,” she said, then without waiting for an answer, sat down next to him on the edge causing him to move legs aside slightly to give her room. “Ever since my divorce over two years ago, I’ve been reading books and even started writing poetry, it’s not very good but it’s a release.”

“I understand, we all need a release, sometimes,” Paul said, feeling Alicia’s leg against his leg, a sensation he hadn’t felt in many years. He felt his arousal getting him hard, surprised that this sexy woman was sitting with him.

“I can’t stop looking at your blue eyes,” Alicia said. “And you have such a nice smile.”

“Really, maybe it’s you making me smile,” he said, realizing he was flirting, speaking in a way that was so unlike him.

She smiled at him, and then glanced down at the towel covering his erection and Paul knew he was not able to hide what was happening. She looked into his eyes, and saw the tent lifting the towel. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, looking at the towel.

“Yes,” Paul said, then looked into Alicia’s eyes.

She looked at the bulge lifting the towel, then at Paul’s eyes and bit her lower lip and surprised Paul by suddenly moving her hand up his leg, slowly making her way along his inner thigh, under the towel and placed her hand on his hardness. “My God, you’re big,” she gasped.

Stunned at first, he watched her hand and relaxed. “That feels so good,” Paul said, moaning, closing his eyes at the way her hand rubbed then gripped him. Oh, my god I don’t believe this is happening, he thought, as the sensation made him lift his ass off the lounge, wanting her hand to keep doing what it was doing. He couldn’t believe how aggressive she was. How she was seducing him, and more, how big and hard his cock felt.

“I’m so wet, Paul,” she gasped, rubbing him harder, feeling him lifting himself from the lounge chair against her hand, feeling the throbbing in his bathing suit under the towel. “I want you,” she said.

The hungry sound of her voice got Paul so hot, he boldly put his hand on hers as she rubbed his hardness. She then leaned forward and whispered, “Listen, I don’t want those women to see what’s going on, so I’m going to go up to my apartment. Wait a few minutes then come up to Apartment Five, just down the hall from your apartment. I’ll leave the door open.”

She got up and walked away, glancing back at Paul, not believing what was happening, as he watched the woman, her yellow skimpy bikini barely covering her ass cheeks, her breasts barely contained by her top, her hips swaying, her long tan legs, her auburn hair. Had she really invited him to meet her in her apartment? And was this him, hornier than ever, knowing he was going to take full advantage of her offer?

After a few minutes, he left the poolside, glancing over at the women, glad that they were so busy talking, though he noticed a dark haired woman look over, lifting her sunglasses, then went back to the conversation. He held his towel in front of him, hiding what he knew would be noticeable, but walked quickly into the building, up the stairs, past his apartment and pushed open the door with the number five, and knowing where the bedroom was, since this apartment was identical to his, there she was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, her legs wide apart, fingering herself, then sucking her finger, while Paul slipped out of his bathing suit, her eyes widening at the sight of his erection and without a word, he was on her bed, between her legs, kissing her, their tongues swirling, his cock throbbing, then without hesitating, he entered her with one hard thrust, her screams filling the room.

(to be continued)