As anticipated, the Rapture was short-lived for Cubs fans, failing to get any moment against a 44-year-old knuckleballer throwing pitches at around 65 mph.

But hey, in three-game series, at least they had one inning that went really well.

I remember she had short hair, reaching only as far as the bottom of her neck, although it swept across her forehead, partially covering her eyes.  Her hair was dark—black, I think, but maybe brown.  Her eyes were brown and warm.  I remember her face was round.

I remember coming up behind her and kissing her gently on the neck below her right ear.  She closed her eyes, releasing a breath, and titled her head back, reaching up and touching my hair with her hand before turning toward me.

I remember that I loved her more than anything.

I remember holding her, neither of us wanting me to wake up, knowing that when I did she would be gone.  I remember feeling myself starting to wake and fearing that I would forget her.  I remember her reaching out toward me, asking me never to forget her, never to forget what we had, never to forget the feeling.  We both were crying, although she was growing distant.  I fought against my own consciousness, struggling to remain asleep so I could stay with her.

I remember waking then, vague snippets of her in my memory.  I can’t remember her smile.  I can’t remember what we did together.  I know only that she was there before the morning sun started creeping in through the curtains.  That we spent time together while I was sleeping.  And that it was wonderful.

And I remember that she was beautiful.

That night, I went to sleep looking for her face, hoping to see her again.

But she was gone.