I stopped counting and set the heavy hiking pack down to take a look around. The locale was somewhat boring. Personally, I thought the attempt that the locals had made to attract tourists, attention, and fame was rather textbook. My partner would undoubtedly have some flippant remark to make regarding myself and anything 'textbook' but... he was not here at present.

We're like bread and butter.

The words had run through my head at least a million of times before and I was resigned to the fact that they would most likely parade through at least a million more. During the months to come, however, I would have more than sufficient time to extrapolate each and every variation of their intended meaning. It was for that express purpose I was making this endeavor at all.

At the moment, however, I needed to take care of some documents.

First, the photograph.

From my pack, I fished out a tripod and my borrowed camera. The decal had long since worn off, but when I held the antique machine at the right angle, I could still see a difference in the sheen of the finish where the word 'Polaroid' had once been. Where the film had come from was anyone's guess, but I had been delighted to discover there was enough zinc paper to get me through the trip. Once I had the Polaroid set up and had checked the framing, I set the timer and darted over to stand just in front of the massive landmark. The camera had a pathetic flash that surely would do nothing to illuminate either myself or the statue, but there was enough September sunlight that I wasn't concerned.

Next, the notes.

I jogged back to the tripod. As the photo was developing, I took out a small but thick notebook with a hardcover from a waterproof pocket inside my pack. The pages were unruled and the quality of the paper was first class. I had put a paperclip over the edge of one page to demarcate where I would be logging the details of my journey. I opened to it and filled in the pertinent information. After finishing the annotations, I snapped up the photograph, peeled off the backing, and stuck it to the bottom of the page.

I took a moment to inspect the final result. Satisfied with the first entry, I carefully tucked the notebook back into it's pocket. The camera and tripod followed. One place down, thirteen more to go. I shouldered the pack and started off down the road, starting my mental count anew.

One
Two
Three
Four
Five

It wasn't blisteringly hot, but I was surprised at just how warm the baked Earth could be this far into Autumn. Equally surprising was the amount of green growing right smack in the middle of a desert. Earth's beauty, it seemed, was wild and fickle and free.

Before me rose ancient ruins. They had the color of adobe, but knowing they were more than a couple centuries old meant they were made of far sterner stuff. The burial line was distinct; the more recently exposed walls were buttery smooth from the ground up to a height of just about one meter. Above that sat the crumbling walls that had been exposed to the elements and worse for well over a millennium. Ghosts didn't whisper here, but a cool breeze combed through my hair and gave me goose flesh. There seemed to be no other visitors; it was silent as a grave.

Rather than taking the typical tour round the ruins, I decided to settle down on a rounded rise of earth. There seemed to be several lumps like it mottling the grounds. With the sun at my back, I admired the exposed brick work and pondered how an ancient people could construct such a massive structure entirely out of what had probably once just been so much mud. It as so different from the highly contrived materials of modern life, from the supports of the ill-begotten 'shelter' that sat line an eye sore over the structure.

We're like bread and butter.

As usual, my thoughts eventually turned back to this, the original question and my original quest. Today, the thought made me hungry. I reached into my now-well worn and extremely dusty pack and removed an insulated pack. Inside, were the homemade rolls and butter I'd purchased several miles ago when I had run across a reservation. Much to my delight, the insulated pack had kept the butter cool enough to prevent it from turning into soup. I scraped out the contents of one tiny plastic cup with one half of a roll and paused. I had no way of spreading the butter.

How irritating... how... obvious.

Cramming the unbuttered side of the bread in my mouth, I fished out damp cloth from the ridiculous case I'd bought on a trip through Japan made expressly for the purpose of containing a damp cloth and wiped the worse of the dust and grime from my hands. Satisfied I wouldn't get dust in the butter, I used my finger to smear the butter around. Despite my careful application of pressure, I was soon rediscovering the age old adage of having too little butter for too much bread.

Of course.

Nevertheless, I tried my damnedest to get the best ratio of bread to butter. That is to say, I pushed more firmly to spread the butter farther. The porous surface did not tear. I pushed even more firmly while still exercising gentle caution. Still no tearing. My finger was coated with a thin layer of grease; I absently smeared it round the crusty edge of the bread. My eyes, however, watched as the center of the roll sprang back into quite nearly it's former shape.

Of course.

Suddenly, I knew my solitary trip was at an end. Miles from anywhere... days, really if I continues in the fashion of my meticulously planned venture. In fact, I was still a month away from my intended goal. None of that mattered in the slightest now that I understood; that I wasn't supposed to be alone. Sitting there in the desert, I finally understood the importance of bread and butter.

I hastily crammed my belongings back in the pack and, throwing caution to the wind, ran all the way back to the reservation to beg a ride to any wider spot in the road where I could avail myself to the fastest modes of transportation available.

There was a woman behind the counter at the Hotel Parc Beaux-Arts; she was bent over at her station and appeared to be rather consumed with whatever she had been tasked. As I opened the door, a little bell tinkled to announce my arrival. The clerk started to give the perfunctory greeting, but did not immediately raise her head. When she did, the words died on her lips. Suspicion and a touch of smugness were clear on her middle-aged face. I expected no less given my, to put it mildly, scruffy appearance.

"I have a reservation," I said blandly.

"May I have your name and see some identification?"

"Maxwell, Duo Maxwell," I said as I slid the shiny new passport across the width of the formica countertop. Anyone would think the lengthy acrylic nails she wore would make her job unnecessarily difficult. Anyone would be wrong: she expertly retrieved the passport and while it was scanned it for its authenticity (I was confident it would pass the muster, I had made it myself) she expertly typed the pertinent information into her computer.

Like a fog dissipating in the morning sun, she lifted her face and smiled at me.

"Mr. Maxwell, you'll be staying in this room," she set a pair of card keys on the counter and pointed to the room assignment with one pink laqured nail. "Do you need a parking permit?"

"No, thank you."

"If you need anything, please don't hesitate to inquire at the front desk. Enjoy your stay with us at Beaux-Arts."

"That will be all, thank you."

I whisked the card off the counter and bent to retrieve the dusty pack from the floor. Standing up, I offered the woman a smile before heading to my room. The room itself was rather bland. I entered through the kitchenette and set my backpack on the stylish parquet floor. I opened the main compartment and gingerly lifted out the fat notebook. It looked only slightly worse for the wear. Next, I found some serviceably clean cutoff sweatpants and headed for the bathroom, intent on at making an attempt at dislodging some two months' worth of accumulated grunge.

Seeing my reflection in a mirror for the first time in several weeks was nothing short of alarming. Perhaps even appalling. I took in my altered appearance and instantly understood the hotelier's barely contained surprise. To say I was merely dusty was to call space merely big. Layers of grime coupled with endless hours of hiking around under the desert sun left me looking more than a little like Augustus Gloop after his unfortunate factory accident. My hair wasn't appreciably longer, but it was significantly dirtier. What was most startling was all the facial hair. All in all, I looked positively... primitive.

When my fascination finally died, I opened the tap for a shower. Hot water was a godsend. I kept the ablutions as brief as possible knowing there was an genuine bed with my name on it. Body washed and teeth brushed, I finished toweling off and pulled on the soft grey shorts. Then, I went to the massive bed and slid between the cool, white sheets. It was nothing short of bliss. I flipped off the lights and was asleep before my head even hit the pillow, I was so exhausted. It was three days later when I finally crawled out of bed.

The Beax-Arts Blue Room was humming with the sound of murmured conversations from the sparsely occupied bar when I arrived. Quickly, I performed a scan of the room. Twilight was ending, and to ward off the encroaching darkness there were several unfocused par can lights providing fuzzy, warm light. Along the outside wall stretched bench seats upholstered in navy blue leather and facing them were rounded arm chairs in sky blue. No more than a handful of patrons were sitted. Across the ceiling were impeccably hung swaths of blue cloth. Sitting against the wall at a break in the bench seats was a fragrant evergreen and it, too, was bedecked in blue with silver accents and twinkling blue and white lights.

With my inventory taken, it was almost painfully obvious I had arrived first. A fleeting wave of anxiety flitted through me. For all the damn soul searching I had done to distill a greater meaning to bread and butter, there was nary a single vouchsafe that he would answer my summons.

I sensed someone enter and automatically swung my head around to take stock of the new arrival. Not three paces behind me stood none other than Duo Maxwell, grinning like the devil and looking far better than any man ought.

"We'll take two flutes of Cristal, if you please," he said in smooth German and winked at the bar tender. Moments later, two delicate, stemmed glasses landed in our hands. Duo turned to take a seat at the first nook in the bench seats. He left me with the chair.

"Merry Christmas," he said, holding his delicate glass aloft. I nodded as I raised my own and we clinked them together. "Been a hell of a long time, Yuy."

"It has."

"So, what's the verdict?"

"I was unaware this was a trial... "

"Look, Heero, I appreciate that you contacted me. Hell, you tracked me all the way to Luxembourg to tell me face to face. So cut the drama and just spit it out already."

There was no venom in his words and yet the hurt they caused me was far worse. For a long moment, I just looked at him. Really looked at him. How much three months could subtly change a body was rather startling. Although he seemed to glow, that empyreal light shone behind a somewhat careworn facade.

I took another sip of the expensive aperitif and set the flute upon the table. I shifted in my chair, reaching over the brushed aluminum arm to retrieve the notebook. When it was coming out of my dusty pack day after day, I thought it had held up remarkably well. Now, however, it sat in doleful disrepair upon the pristine white tablecloth. Nevertheless, I pushed it gently across the table to Duo who regarded it somewhat suspiciously.

"What's this?"

"What I have been doing for the last few weeks," I said with a shrug.

He gingerly picked it up as if it were some kind of relic, or maybe a time bomb. With a corner pinched between his thumb and forefinger, he opened it and perused the contents. He started slowly with a guarded expression on his face. Soon, however, he was turning and scanning pages with intense interest. When he finally reached the last page, he paused and seemed intent to absorb its contents with his eyes and fingertips. Then, he snapped the notebook closed and looked at me. I had been watching him like a hawk for the duration.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter now. You wanna get out of here?"

"Yes."

We left the Blue Room hand in hand.

"So!" Duo said brightly as he returned to the much mussed bed with the notebook in tow which he used unceremoniously to swat at my knees. I obliged and he laid down between my spread thighs with his forearms pressing into my naked hipbones. My chest actually hurt at how much more intimate this simple repose was compared to the rather athletic activities we had just spent the last couple hours indulging in.

He opened the notebook and poured over its pages in quiet contemplation. I was more than content just to feel the weight of him against me.

"This little trip of yours, you started here," he held up the book, opened to the rather bland looking first page:

West Quoddy Head, Maine to Bangor, Maine

Date / Distance / Steps / Duration

AC 205.9.15 Wednesday 82.08/107,712/12.75
AC 205.9.16 Thursday 86.90/114,048/14.0
AC 205.9.17 Friday 19.31/25,348/3.0

West Quoddy Head to Bangor: 188.29/247,108/29.75

Landmark: Paul Bunyan, mythical lumberjack in early twentieth century in the United States of America.

"And ended up here," he flipped to the last entry and began to read:

"'Lake Montezuma, Arizona to Coolidge, Arizona

Date / Distance / Steps / Duration

AC 205.12.13 Monday 76.97/101,009/12.0
AC 205.12.14 Tuesday 84.60/111,032/13.25
AC 205.12.15 Wednesday 86.18/113,104/13.40
AC 205.12.16 Thursday 19.39/25,448/3.01

Lake Montezuma to Coolidge: 267.15/350,592/41.66
West Quoddy Head, Maine to Coolidge, Arizona 6,389.75/8,397,312/1,308.60h

Landmark: Casa Grande Ruins National Monument constructed in the early thirteenth century during the Hohokam period.

Remarks: Dead empty, hot as hell. Ground looks pink, like adobe but must a scratch test demonstrates it must be sterner stuff, probably calcium carbonate. If current conditions are indicative of ancient conditions, it's rather impressive anyone could survive, thrive even, in the arid climate. Gila River came close, but still would have been a big production to get water to the area.

This is, without a doubt, the most peaceful of the landmarks. The hand of man has obviously been at work, but unlike the bizarre roadside attractions and contrived museums, this is just left as a reminder. There are no plaques to commemorate greatness or videos to remind us of horrors past. Surely this site must have had its fair share of joy and sorrow, but all we are left with today are speculations based on artifacts that can only sketch parts of the story. Yet in this incompleteness, there is untold beauty...'

"And there's a greasy smear here," he finished and looked up at me. He was grinning ear to ear. "What, pray tell, is that from?"

I plucked the book from his hands and inspected the spot. It had turned the paper somewhat transparent and given it a slight sheen. Also, there was the unmistakable odor of --

"Butter," I told him and set the book down on the bedside table.

"You took butter into the desert and lived to tell the tale?"

"Food poisoning from rancid butter would surely have been unpleasant at best, but I'd bought it from a road side stand not far from the monument and kept it in a cooler pack."

"Why are there some empty pages at the end?"

"I finished early."

"Do tell."

"I was going to visit a site in Hollywood and pass through Bombay before coming back."

"...I wasn't there."

"I figured that out," I said as I picked up the end of his braid and toyed absently with it. "I thought the purpose of my journey was to go from one end of the country to the other, stopping to see points of interest along the way. I thought maybe some good old fashioned traveling would give me insight into what I was missing... or give me perspective... or a chance to figure out what the hell was so special about bread and butter."

"And..."

"And having months to contemplate, I came up with a load of good shit."

"...like what?"

"Like maybe I was too little butter for your over abundance of bread. Like maybe the butter melted into the bread and the two were thereafter inseparable. Like maybe no matter how hard someone tries, cold butter will not deign to be spread over even hot bread fresh from the oven. Like maybe how the bread nearly always springs back after encountering a buttered knife."

"Those are some pretty involved metaphors."

"Perhaps, but as I sat on a superheated rock at the ruins, I realized that none of it negates the simple fact that we, like bread and butter, were made for each other. It is as simple as that."

"As simple as that," he beamed and crawled up to give me a kiss.