“Rumi,” beckoned nfp.

”Yes, Steve,” responded Rumi, receptive and awaiting.

“What are we doing here?”

“Enjoying the evening, like everyone else.  No more.  Or perhaps we’re fulfilling a prophecy.  No less.  Or just maybe we’re getting finally to know each other.  Which might just encompass the other two possibilities.”

nfp typed a word on the laptop sitting upon his lap.  One word: ‘fuck’.

Rumi looked and laughed.  “So you finally feel inspired?” she teased.

nfp tried to think of something clever to say in response.  In his mind, lickety-second-split, he tried out: “Novel of a million readers begins with one word.” And: “Fuck is something to say to those you love.  Or intend to love soon.”  And: “’fuck’ is a variable—easily substituted for later by global Search and Replace.”   Instead, out of nowhere, he blurted out: “’fuck’. it’s a happy sound. ‘fuck’ is the happiest sound I’ve found.”

Upon hearing that, Rumi bent over in convulsions laughing.  “You really know how to hurt someone’s belly, don’t you?”

“That’s not the question,” replied nfp.  “The question is: "Where is your home, beautiful moon?"

To that, Rumi instantly replied: "In the wreck of your drunken heart.   I am the sun shining into your ruin.  Long may you call this wild wasteland your home."

And with that response, Rumi had settled all doubt in nfp’s mind.  nfp’s redirect of the question was a reference to an obscure stanza from from the master poet Rumi's Kolliyaat-e Shams-e Tabriii .  And she had responded in the spirit, if not with the exact words of the master.

“She’s the real-deal—a devastatingly attractive female of vast intellect,” reflected nfp in instinctive silence. But now he wondered:  How much of the love poetry of Rumi had this Roomya actually read?  And did she, herself, write or blog at all?  And what would she think of his own love poetry, much of it inspired by Rumi, written over the past several years in virtually this very same spot where they were now sitting together—that is, if he dared to share it with her?

—this is the fifth chapter of notforprophet’s ghost-written book—