I have become accustomed to that whenever and wherever we go. The Lost cannot take much of anything, aside from their fellow Lost family and whatever they are holding in their hands when they pass on, so I have learned to rely solely on music to provide me with an income. I have a low, throaty voice that serves me well for singing and I find singing to be a pleasure that each and every century will stop and listen to. This decade proved hardest, but I secured a job at a coffee shop that has live music and poetry on the weekends. The wages and tips are enough to feed me and Dad and to keep him in cigars and alcohol. There is no need for other things and no need to save because the expression “you can’t take it with you” is never truer than when you are Lost. I sew extra money into my nightgown hems so that I am not destitute when we pass on again, but it rarely helps. If you are suddenly living in ninth century Germany, no one is going to recognize your $50 American bill.
The Lost stick together and as everyone knows, misery loves company. No one wants to be lonely. It is a comfort to go through our trials together. Also, no one fully understands. We are lost in groups. Too large of a group and of course we are far too conspicuous, so most of us keep our groups at fewer than ten. Our group now is eight (though we may take on others as time goes by) and we are noticeable enough as it is. Somehow we managed to get one drunk storyteller (Dad); a married couple who say they are my second cousins but I highly doubt it (my personal opinion is that they were kicked out of their last family group due to being ridiculously annoying and irritating everyone to distraction with their bickering); old Prue who has to be at least a hundred years old; Matthias and Harry (elderly themselves, brothers and bachelors); and Israel Rhode who is several inches over six feet tall, black as night and completely unforgettable. For the past several years they have been my family. Together we speak almost every language you could think of; I myself speak five. When you live in as many places as we do, you pick them up quickly. Each other is all we’ve got. We are not immortal, though legends may say we are. No one knows whether The Lost age differently than the rest of mankind. There are different thoughts and no one agrees. One man might say he fell asleep clean shaven and woke the next morning in a different time and space with a full beard.
I’ve wondered about a man I’ve seen at the coffee shop; he gives me the feeling that he is keeping an eye on me. Since there is nothing remarkable about me (my boss tells me if it weren’t for my voice and the way I froth milk he never would have hired me), I can only assume he is Lost and looking for others to be with. It’s common for our type to land in similar places, in similar decades, narrowly missing each other, but sometimes even perfectly together. It’s as though whatever pulls us on, whatever fingers our marionette strings, has a specific goal in mind but does not share it.
He is a man, young and tall and aimless looking. He always looks as though he went out to fetch the morning paper and the door slammed locked behind him. His hair is a bit too long and his face on the scruffy side of smooth. He wears glasses when he reads the paper but takes them off to pinch the bridge of his nose when he drinks his coffee. He sits at the bar and pretends not to stare at me. This isn’t an attractive description, but he’s an attractive man in an unkempt, confused looking way. I know he isn’t staring to start something romantic. If it was love at first sight he was looking for, he’d be much more apt to turn his owlish eyes towards my coworker, Penny, who is far more beautiful and alluring than I am. Of course she’s terrible at frothing milk and her poetry is a thing of horrible legend, but men rarely find that a suitable turn off. No, this particular man keeps his eyes on me