Prior to the nuptials, a woman handed out small triangular envelopes, each containing a live butterfly. Proceeding 'I do,' the guests were to unleash the butterflies upon the newly minted bond.

As Tim and Brook glowed and vowed, I cracked my envelope to take a peak at my butterfly.

The butterfly saw its chance at freedom and attempted a getaway.

I pinched the paper closed on its yellow and black wings before it escaped off cue, but its head and antennae still writhed outside the envelope.

I looked around to make sure no one saw me awkwardly trying to poke the struggling butterfly back down into the envelope with my index finger.

When the official time came, we synchronously opened our envelopes flat to the sky. A cloud of primary colored butterflies stretched out at eye level, but mine wouldn't move. I worried I'd given it brain damage by poking it in the head. A breeze blew its' wings, but the groggy insect wouldn't alight.

As I stared at my butterfly, static atop its envelope, I felt something slight hit the back of my head and without thinking, reflexively slapped at it. Thankfully I missed.

The other butterflies landed among the lush green back yard of Tim's parents' home in Tierra Verde.

I flicked the underside of my envelope, to the laughs of those around me, my butterfly caught air and I lost track of it in the sun.

The wedding party consisted of visitors from New York and Florida locals I rarely see. A dynamic, yet friendly group.

While wedding parties notoriously breed fornication, the large number of out-of-towners and random guests at the wedding didn't include any single women: what single men might refer to as a 'sausage wedding'. But a beautiful one, regardless.

Many of the attendees performed music at a pre-wedding show in Ybor City Friday night. My sister and I; FunKruze opened for a great pop band from New York.

For our set, a friend brought out two seven-foot high screens and several projectors, creating an IMAX theatre of multiple moving images at our backs.

The projectors shone directly in our eyes.

Before beginning, I ducked down under the beam of dusty light to observe a crowd of 30 people amid the ephemeral spots burned and floating in my eyes.

Friends had lately commented that Maureen is timid on stage. So several days before the wedding show, I told her of their criticisms. She seemed flattened by them. I thought I had knocked her down. She came to the show with an upset nervous stomach for the first time; the kind that made me puke and shit before shows in high school.

The lights of the projectors obscured the audience, making it easy to forget them watching. Maureen threw her voice into the performance for the first time: like in the car, in the shower, full force, face red, eyes closed. She overcame and roared for herself. I felt beautiful standing next to her.

60 people milled around as we hit our last note and the projectors stopped rolling.

Later in the night, 200 people crowded into the little club. The mass of New York visitors and rare Tampa socializers drank themselves into loud, late-night celebration. The environment brought greatness from every musician in every band. In a rare show of solidarity, Tampa danced to their own bands.

Afterwards, with drying sweat turning my hair to straw, I sat getting drunk with one of Karolina's friends. We had a warm, comfortable time. I shared a cup of ice with her as we talked in close proximity against the volume of the bands and DJs and shared our mutual adoration for Karolina. We connected in missing her.

Perhaps Karolina's powers influence her friends, but they seem to adore me. They freely invade my personal space and allow me the same privilege.

I did well: The catharsis of playing a show had me more contemplative than usual; I basked in the mild self satisfaction of my small accomplishment, but the residue of previous nervousness, and the red spots still floating in my eyes from the projectors, kept me balanced and calm and normal, making for strikingly easy discourse with Karolina's friend. After dozens of mutual smiles and exchanges, I thought I might like her more substantially and realistically than I'm apt to normally.

Even over the boom of the music, we seemed to talk to each other softly.

When we'd finished our ice, Aaron came up beside me, raising his beer bottle above my head in mock threat. Ignoring him, I continued looking her in the eyes, still cooing as Aaron lost track of his joke and slowly poured half the contents of his bottle into my hair. I kept eye contact with her as beer ran down my face like a waterfall scene from a Hawaiian postcard.

In the cold shock of the beer, I had no idea what to do. I strained for a flash moment of objectivity, pondering ways to salvage my moment with Karolina's friend, which was now in danger of drowning in Aaron's beer. Dripping and disbelieving, my mouth hung open and I looked to her eyes to guide my reaction. Drunkenness, disorientation and embarrassment kept me from discerning any signs.

Half-empty bottle in hand, Aaron apologized profusely. It was so outside of his character to do such a thing, and I had other things on my mind, my anger never surfaced.

I looked to him and went through a clever list in my head of things to say. I settled for a calm but bitchy, "I can't believe you did that."

Licking as far up on my face as possible, I tried to catch the drop on the end of my nose. I pushed my beer soaked red hair back to reveal my 26-year-old, high forehead and repeated, "I can't believe you did that." I turned to her, "I can't believe he did that."

Aaron continued apologizing. "I'm sorry man, look," he said. And in an act of retribution, poured the rest of the beer onto his own head.

With every gallop gurgling from the mouth of the bottle, onto Aaron's head, I felt the calm sensuality of my conversation with Karolina's friend being replaced with a scene from a bad USA Network late-night college party movie.

"You didn't need to do that," I patted Aaron on his wet shoulder. He walked off. Unable to regain the flow, Karolina's friend soon tired of me and walked off as well.

MONDAY NIGHT

The Castle is a multi-level Gothic cathedral divided into several rooms with different bars and volume levels.

MY OLDEST AND DEAREST FRIEND rented a massive sound system to accommodate me and my sister (FunKruze), and local hip-hop group, Red Tide, at his Monday Night DJ set on the back patio of The Castle. He soon leaves to counsel a Boy Scout camp in a backwoods part of Florida. He coincidentally returns at the end of my month-long, self-imposed detox experiment.

I hung out talking to the wedding partiers and getting drunk on Red Bull Energy Drink and vodka: my drink of choice. A relic from the English lads visiting us last month. The mix of caffeine and alcohol has put a fresh spin on drinking.

I turned to see THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL, 50 feet away, at the front door of the bar.

Because every moment regarding her has, to my mind, its own idealized, romantic life, the black clad Castle goers seemed to part, making way for her as she came to me. It exists, as such, beyond me. A cartoon.

She stood in front of me and I looked up onto her baby-white face and half-smiled. I greeted her with the kind of contrived non-chalance I purport to despise. But it was all I could do.

One night, before she left for Europe six months ago, I sat on the phone in the a.m. dark, listening to her explain why she could not let go of her boyfriend. She described how she felt hugging me in greeting and departure, "I feel like I'm falling into you," she said.

As much as that soft declaration remains an obsessively savored memory, I haven't the energy to fall into her. I'm scared of it. Standing in the near dark of The Castle, looking on each other blankly, not greeting each other with excitement after six months apart, was sad and unnatural. But emotional exhaustion and fear kept me in my seat.

My friends sat near, all very aware of the situation and its importance. They looked on with a prying curiosity, which drove me from my seat. I stood up to her, with no more ceremony than a smile, "Let's get you a drink." I led her to the bar.

We sat down and talked superficially. Every two sentences a friend would interrupt us, saying 'hello,' asking questions, "Where is your sister? When are you guys playing?" I'd introduce them to THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL. Some of them, recognizing her from my descriptions, gave me knowing glances, which I ignored. But I used their interruptions; buying time while trying to figure out what to feel.

Our awkward silences, and the stream of well-wishers, eventually burdened her away, "I am full of nervous energy," she said, "I'm going upstairs to dance. Come get me when you play."

After she walked away, several friends came over and inquired about my happiness in the wake the first encounter. I assured them I was O.K. but increased the velocity of my drinking, attributing everything to stage jitters.

I finished my drink, bought another and walked to the back patio and my guitar. MY OLDEST FRIEND spun a jungle record and I echoed and fed back along. People paid attention. It felt good to be away. To zone out.

The crowd packed the patio like I'd never seen it. Eventually, THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL wondered out of her own accord, Maureen stepped to the mic, I hit the sampler and we played.

Every third song, we switched off and Red Tide performed a few songs. Following them gave me anxiety.

We're hip-hop informed and up beat, people smiled and nodded as we played. But I couldn't help thinking we killed the vibe whenever we stepped up after them: Every shift of space within the crowd, every walkout, every rise and fall of crowd noise as we played seemed to signify something negative.

THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL sang along.

The sweating and the singing and the anxiety made the alcohol circulate fast through my body. Whenever we stopped and handed the mics to Red Tide, I felt noticeably drunker.

We ended the show to loud applause. Many people went out of their way to compliment me as I packed my equipment, drenched and drunk and gross.

It was near closing time. I walked around looking for THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL and one last drink; neither of which were good for me.

By the time I found her, the alcohol had melted the tension away, leaving her with complete disrespect for my personal space. It didn't bother me at the time.

Given her general ecstatic personality, I can never gauge her drunkenness and it misleads me. I take her actions at face value and later realize I should chase them with beer. She knows to treat me with sensitivity lest she leads me on. But when she's drunk, it's hard not to feel like she loves me.

Upstairs, she touched me more than I'm sure she was aware of, perhaps making up for the impossibility of communication amidst thundering 80's music. She held my hand and led me to the quiet bar at the other end of the club.

We prattled on in our traditionally frank, humorous tone. Laughed out our previous tensions. Talked about our dynamic. Laughed more.

She put my hand on her heart and made me promise something I don't remember. I screamed for her to quit touching me, "I have to get out of here, this is too much. I need to go outside and shake you off."

She grabbed me and hugged me. Deep. I felt helpless as if my arms weren't long enough around her back. Like I hadn't the capacity to take it all. We readjusted ourselves several times while hugging. Changed positions. Appreciated it from several angles. I put my hand in her loose red curls. She made herself small, pushed her face into my neck, and her body into mine.

It was a narrative embrace. Any longer and we might have become a diamond from the pressure: in all its forms.

As I kissed her neck and let go, the lights in the bar turned on. It was three a.m.

I stood there, exposed under the light and disgusting in cigarettes and vodka and dry sweat. We decided to go back to my house.

She held onto the back of my neck as we walked down the stairs to the patio to pack my equipment.

She asked me to drive her to her car. She would follow me from there. With no room left in the front seat of my truck, she got in the bed.

"Stand up straight and hold onto the top of the truck," I suggested. We drove down the street, her standing erect, all laughs and loose red hair flying, her hand on my shoulder through the back window. I was oblivious to how much attention we attracted given my drunk driving on a suspended license.

Once at home, we set my equipment down in the music room, turned the lights off and splayed out on the chairs under the glow of the computer monitor.

"This was my last night drinking for a month. Thanks for sharing it with me." I smiled, exhausted.

"I'll be back from just in time," she said.

"Huh?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow for San Francisco for a month," she reminded me. I had forgotten. I didn't remember her telling me in the first place. I wondered if she was going with her boyfriend.

My cat, STONE, jumped into her lap and she addressed him in a high pitched voice, "But after that I will be here, permanently," she looked back to me, "I will be here. I am looking forward to it."

It didn't make me sad: given the emotional intensity of the last hour and a half, it might be best I didn't see her for a while. Before I got used to it. Before I got hung up.

"Do you want to get high one last time for a whole month?" Like a drug fairy come to bless me off into my upcoming month of sobriety, she reached into her bag and pulled out a smaller bag.

We sat and partook and connected in laughter and bullshit. We seemed to magically agree on every issue at hand.

Moving to the living room, she flopped down parallel to the horizontal, 3' X 1', painting above the couch. I'd painted it for her last X-mas, while she was away: an abstract, multi figure painting of her, twisted, red-haired, running from left to right, wearing light-blue, on a light-green and light-yellow background, wide white and orange shapes. She hadn't seen it before.

Thinking it too deep a gesture, I kept it.

It was also the first painting I'd ever done that I thought successful. While I attribute that success to the subject matter, giving it away felt like self-betrayal. I explained this to her with diplomacy as she lay on my couch staring at the painting.

I'd read about artists falling in love, turning their pining into art. I remember one story of an artist dying when his model, his love, also died. His passion left, then his art, then his life. It seemed very realistic and romantic to my mind.

Most woman today would think it obsessive. But THE LITTLE REDHAIRED GIRL lay under the painting, looking up at it, expressing in broken sentences and sighs, how beautiful it was. She knew and appreciated its' motivation.

I undercut the romance often to remind her, "You can't have it, I'm keeping it."

"I know, I know…," she replied. Staring from where she lay on her back.

I sat down in a chair across the room from the couch and the painting and picked up a book, "Do you want me to read you to sleep?"

Reminded of my presence, she rolled her head to me. The natural brightness of her bleary eyes shone through the stoned glaze, their pink rims and bloodshot patterns offset her tired, softly smiling mouth.

"Please." she responded.

I read out loud from Jonathan Ames', The Extra Man, wherein the protagonist describes the joy he derives from his job:

"The best part of my job was that almost everyone I spoke to on the phone was a woman. And over the phone, they really liked me. After my pitch, we often had little conversations…While the ladies spoke, I would start to imagine what their day was like…They would be driving to work. There was traffic. I imagined traffic throughout the United States. I'd picture myself in the car with them and look out the window…My ladies would laugh at my remarks; I would make them feel better. And I didn't care if they were old or married or flabby, it was the enormous femininity of it all. I felt connected to women all over America.

It was hard to keep the blurry letters on the page. I looked up to see her still staring quietly at the painting.

I read on as the depraved protagonist described a woman at his job:

"One of the single girls, Mary, was extremely attractive and she caused me anguish in the way pretty, clean-looking blond girls with thin arms always have---in their presence I feel a physical pain as if I've been punched in the stomach… I felt attacked by her beauty. I would notice acutely the way her thin figure would move under her loose blouse…I would smell the air when she would walk past me and then try and hold the scent of her perfume in my nostrils for as long as possible. It was all very painful, so I avoided her as best I could…"

I gave up trying to read. It was 5:30 a.m.

I got her a blanket and pillow and she sighed as I spread it over her body.

"That was beautiful how you described her body moving under her blouse." She said.

"I didn't write that. I was reading from a book."

"I know. Did I say...what did I say?"

I leaned down to kiss her neck goodnight and she pulled my head to her chest.

I knelt down. She put her hands in my hair, pulling gently as she ran her fingers through. She treated me like a cat.

The luxury overwhelmed me.

I leaned into her hands, and suddenly remembered that, over the course of my last hectic weekend of substance fueled fun, I'd neglected to feed my cat, or change his litter box.

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