"I'm sorry, ma'am, I guess I must look kind of a mess, huh?" he said.

He did indeed. He was shaking, his eyelids drooped with exhaustion within dark hollows. He had about a three-day beard, but the prickles did not hide the clenching and unclenching of his jaw. His hands began to tremble, and he hugged them to himself.

"Yes. The Metro can barely contain your pain, and your hands are weeping for you," she answered in a peculiar European accent.

He focused his preoccupied gaze on her for the first time. She was so old. He could see her gnarled veins through her skin, shiny and thin and yellow as old parchment, stretched over prominent bones.

"You withdraw, no?" she asked him.

"Excuse me?" he countered, mystified.

"You withdraw from drugs, no?"

He laughed again, sharp and bitter as choler, and replied, "I withdraw, yes, but from a woman. From the only woman in the world."

"That is not true. I am a woman. There are many women. Like stars in the heavens."

"Not for me, ma'am," he said, and resumed staring out the window at the tunnel walls rushing past, holding his hands deliberately still.

"Yes, for you," she persisted. "You have not died. You are so young and strong. I think you are smart, too. Your clothes are fine, so you must have good position, or maybe you are a student with the world unfolding before you. There is nothing to keep you from happiness."

"No, I cannot be happy without her. She is the one. She is happiness. She's so intelligent, so beautiful. She makes love like a breathtaking storm washing over me, lifting me, drowning me, and she smiles like a sunrise. I'm so cold without her laugh. I have to get her back. I have to." His face took on a haunted resolve, like a spectre on a futile mission long forgotten, who only remembers the strength of his determination.

"No person can be your happiness. Happiness is from inside you."

"Yes, of course," he said, and began to pound the flat of his hand with a balled fist. "As soon as I can really understand my mistakes, and as soon as I convince her to come back to me, then I will be happy."

Ambivalence crept into his voice, and he loosened his fist uselessly as he continued. "It's so hard, though. She won't visit me, she won't even let me catch a look at her, because she thinks she causes me pain. And each day without her the pain increases."

He made no effort to control the tears welling in his eyes, and began to babble. "I don't need to have sex with her--I just want to have coffee with her. I want my friend back. If only she would just talk to me. If only she would just laugh for me. Then I'd feel better."

The old woman spoke again, her voice as soft as violet talc sifting through the fingers of a child: "You want to feel better? I will help you. Here is a spell for you. You must find a red wine without sweetness that tastes of roses, oakwood, and forgotten songs. Infuse it with fresh, crushed chamomile. Share this wine warm with an old friend whose love for you is tender, whose loyalty for you is fierce, and whose patience for you is long. You will feel better."

"This spell will bring her back to me?" he asked, wringing his anxious hands.

"Her will is her own, but the spell will make you feel better. It has been too long now. It is time to feel better."