At last the final beer is downed, cigarettes picked up, tip left behind. We walk through the door and into the softly lit plaza. Unsteady for a moment, you pause, then reach for your cigarettes. I remind you that smoking isn't allowed on the public concourse. You nod and smile. "Yeah, I always forget that."

You only forget when you're drunk. Irritated, I choke back saying it out loud and look away, up into the sky outside the dome - a sky so thick with the red dust of Mars it's impossible to tell the time of day. On Earth, I remember, we had walked down another street often enough. Through rainy nights, or in bitter cold, or under a clean white moon, it had felt the same. And deep beneath the gray, dust-laden surface of the moon, we had traveled through the tunnels at Trader's Point - coming back from yet another bar with yet another name. Still the same. I remember the plans we had made, coming here for a fresh start, to find a life together that had somehow eluded us on Earth. But here was this other universe, a world apart from, yet always a part of, the places we inhabited. It wasn't on the star charts, but be it Earth, Mars, the moon - there was always a Polo's Place.

You have found your balance and are walking onward. I hurry to catch up, my eyes no longer on the red sky above. But I cannot shake my new-found understanding of the universe - there's always a Polo's Place. Not so much a place we inhabit, but a place we carry within, a place we carry with us. There's always a Polo's Place.         
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