Monday, January 19, 2004
In the quiet morning, I yearn for words I wish'd been said,
and for the touch that could have been.
and for the touch that could have been.
Saturday, January 10, 2004
When she noticed me, it was too late. Nowhere to run and no way to pretend I didn't see her. My attempt to blend into the lobby's foliage had not succeeded. Of course, she was always maddeningly observant.
I'd left her half-naked and sobbing on our bedroom floor. Now, seven years later, she looked all the world a vision of composure. I noted with interest the shorter hair and glasses. She never wore glasses before. "Glasses make my face look fat," she used to complain. They didn't.
She smiled, and for a second I remembered why I'd spent that summer chasing her from bar to bar, party to party until she finally gave in. It had been amazing at first. It always is. We couldn't keep our hands off each other and, in between, talked of the places we'd go and the things we'd do. She moved in 6 months later.
After a year, the comfortable quiet of mutual bliss had given way to the awkward silence of incompatibility. It's all well and good that you both yearn for world peace and a strong U.N., but it's the minutia that will decide your fate. You can overcome big differences; they have little impact on your daily life. Heaven help you, though, if you can't agree on a radio station for the alarm clock.
For something that faded so slowly, the end came suddenly. A simple disagreement over the evening's plans turned into an overnight litany of grievances and regrets. Alternatively shouting and crying, we watched our vision of the future topple, helpless to stop it. I stood with the sun and walked out. I didn't see her again until that day in the faux jungle of the US Bank building.
We had lunch and gingerly moved through the minefield of our pasts. She was married (she wouldn't say his name) and had a 2-year old. A pure-bred golden retriever, a good job in the city and a SUV completed the picture. She'd found her place, and it obviously agreed with her.
I was still single, I assured her. She laughed, "you're a serial monogamist," and sung tunelessly, mockingly "On a steel horse I ride . . . ." She paused and her eyes hardened, "You think you're still 21. Well, you better grow up, you stupid asshole, or you're going to die alone."
We were both startled by the feeling behind the words. I wanted to say something. To tell her she was wrong. To describe the sleepless nights spent counting my regrets. To describe the drunken pursuit of forgetfulness. Even to describe the desparate quest for understanding in the cynical arms of a stranger. I wanted to confess my weakness and my fear. To wash away the mistakes and start anew.
But she was no confessor, and I couldn't be absolved. Absolution requires renunciation, and I wasn't ready for that yet. So another failed moment passed in a lifetime of impotent encounters.
We finished lunch uncomfortably and parted without words. I watched her walk along the lobby's tree-lined paths back to the warm, welcoming arms of her life. Then, turning away with a sigh, I descended the wide marble steps into the gray day.
I'd left her half-naked and sobbing on our bedroom floor. Now, seven years later, she looked all the world a vision of composure. I noted with interest the shorter hair and glasses. She never wore glasses before. "Glasses make my face look fat," she used to complain. They didn't.
She smiled, and for a second I remembered why I'd spent that summer chasing her from bar to bar, party to party until she finally gave in. It had been amazing at first. It always is. We couldn't keep our hands off each other and, in between, talked of the places we'd go and the things we'd do. She moved in 6 months later.
After a year, the comfortable quiet of mutual bliss had given way to the awkward silence of incompatibility. It's all well and good that you both yearn for world peace and a strong U.N., but it's the minutia that will decide your fate. You can overcome big differences; they have little impact on your daily life. Heaven help you, though, if you can't agree on a radio station for the alarm clock.
For something that faded so slowly, the end came suddenly. A simple disagreement over the evening's plans turned into an overnight litany of grievances and regrets. Alternatively shouting and crying, we watched our vision of the future topple, helpless to stop it. I stood with the sun and walked out. I didn't see her again until that day in the faux jungle of the US Bank building.
We had lunch and gingerly moved through the minefield of our pasts. She was married (she wouldn't say his name) and had a 2-year old. A pure-bred golden retriever, a good job in the city and a SUV completed the picture. She'd found her place, and it obviously agreed with her.
I was still single, I assured her. She laughed, "you're a serial monogamist," and sung tunelessly, mockingly "On a steel horse I ride . . . ." She paused and her eyes hardened, "You think you're still 21. Well, you better grow up, you stupid asshole, or you're going to die alone."
We were both startled by the feeling behind the words. I wanted to say something. To tell her she was wrong. To describe the sleepless nights spent counting my regrets. To describe the drunken pursuit of forgetfulness. Even to describe the desparate quest for understanding in the cynical arms of a stranger. I wanted to confess my weakness and my fear. To wash away the mistakes and start anew.
But she was no confessor, and I couldn't be absolved. Absolution requires renunciation, and I wasn't ready for that yet. So another failed moment passed in a lifetime of impotent encounters.
We finished lunch uncomfortably and parted without words. I watched her walk along the lobby's tree-lined paths back to the warm, welcoming arms of her life. Then, turning away with a sigh, I descended the wide marble steps into the gray day.
