Ephraim gazed out from under the parosale. Paris had changed quite a bit in the past couple hundred years. He swirled his wine, admiring its pale copper hue in the morning light. She should be here soon. The wine was light-bodied and spiced; any other day he would have drank freely. Today, however, he drank very sparingly. He would meet her again today.

The first time they met, Ephraim was still young—not just in body, but in age. Rome still ruled, and he was ordered to return to the land of his fathers. He was but 19, but made the arduous journey on behalf of his parents. Ephesus was a long was from Rome, but he had no alternative but to travel to the thriving port metropolis. He was alone.

Ephraim found his way to the temple of Artemis. He was, by practice and by blood, a Jew. If his father caught wind of his curious visit, he would be stoned. But the chance to see the architectural wonder excited him, as did his hidden disobedience. He perched on a bench on the grand porch of the pillared temple, overlooking the sea. It may have been the most beautiful scene he’d ever laid eyes on, had it not been for Pali.

Her face would shame Aphrodites, her smile outshone the reflection of the sun on the sea. And her stare—no matter how many times Ephraim met her, her stare always renewed his sense of wonder for her.

“It’s strange for a Jew to be at the temple.” Her puzzled smile was still friendly and warm.

“It’s strange for a Hedonite to speak to a Jew.”

They married, but happiness wouldn’t last. Nor would it ever after. Soon after, Pali was killed, crucified, for her affiliations to the followers of the Way. Ephraim met her again some fifty years later, this time an egyptian woman by the name “Nyeta.” She looked different, but her smile verified her. She didn’t remember Ephraim, but he knew her as a dear old friend. Ephraim never married Nyeta, but he did attempt to help her escape a steep debt she incurred in Egypt. She died of dehydration in the desert before they ever left the country.

Their lives continued on this way; Ephraim lived forever, stuck in the eternal visage and physique of a young man, Pali being reborn across time. Destiny appointed them to meet and fall in love, yet fate only chose Pali to die a gruesome death exactly one year after their meeting. Ephraim had found and met Pali—intentionally or against his will—to sufficiently drive him mad. Yet finding her always gave him a fleeting hope, that this time Pali may live.

Emilia of the roving germanic barbarians, Paz from early Madrid, London’s Victoria, the many lives and numerous faces of his beloved flashed through his mind, and Ephraim relived the elation, passion, ferocity and anguish of the same relationship lived hundreds of times. He wasn’t sure he was ready to meet Pali again. Yet here he sat, enjoying his wine at a small outdoor venue, awaiting the inevitable meeting. Paris should be the place he’d meet her next. She had to be here.

Ephraim felt a soft touch on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present. He turned and lifted his gaze into the familiar smile. This woman looked nothing like Pali; her wide blue eyes, short black hair, alabaster skin and slim face, nothing resembled Pali’s appearance. But her smile was all Pali. It was a smile that rebirthed his purpose for living once again.

“Pardon me. You seem to be sitting alone. Are you waiting for someone?”

Ephraim feigned a smile to mask his pain. “Again.”