Figures of the One Must Go

by Victor Living

  On that unforgettable evening, the host was my fiancée in her big house. The soiree had planned only for four pairs: Mary with me, Mary’s relation Alan (now tempted by Lind) with his wife Jennifer, Mary’s coworkers Barbara and Jeff, and Linda. I got the task from Mary to bring a date for Lind—my close-knit friend Michael. We’d been acquainted already about ten years. During his presentation, Mike claimed over six feet in height and was an all-around very handsome man. He merited my esteem as the kindest heart ever. He even devoted himself to his restoration company as a crowned workaholic; I prized him for this distinctive talent. From a small construction group in Brooklyn, he expanded to a fine corporation all over New York.

  I don’t understand why, but I had the worst premonition he and Lind couldn’t be a match. He didn’t expect that any get-together would push him into a continual relationship. As I recall, he called his playboy adventures foolery and dreamed one day to stop playing and search for a real wife. “It comes, but not now,” supposed Mike. In his forties, he still titled himself a womanizer.

  We agreed to start at 7:30 p.m. and only Mike was late. He had to drive from Manhattan. We knew Friday traffic from that direction was always awful. While we sat awaiting our last guest, around 7:45 p.m. Mary offered a taste of our expensive French bottle Te de Cuvee of the 2003 year. Perchance, you will find yourself concerned about why I still remember such strict details of that evening. So, everyone kept in hand their traditional wide-edged glass for discussion. We enjoyed the fancy smelling grape with emotional, loud chatting. In half an hour, Mike emerged into the center of the room. After I had introduced him, Mary said, “Guys, today is not a holiday and is just the end of the week. My friend Linda asked for help with a place to celebrate an important affair for her life. She has appointed tonight in honor of three hundred.” We all exchanged glances, intrigued by what she meant.

  “Boys and girls,” pronounced Linda with bright eyes. “Let’s start with something harder, whatever. I’ll tell you about it.” Everyone noted that she picked a great flask of tequila and poured a wide schooner to the edges. It was an alerting, abnormal dose. Even for a super strong man, it was a lot. But I said nothing. She raised on her legs and with a keen move by her right hand emptied glass to the last drop.

  “What are you doing?” Mike asked raising the alarm within a second.

  “Do you know what we are rejoicing here, dear?” she turned to him.

  “Lind!” Mary begged with a pale face.

  “What?” Linda retorted, getting quite inebriated. “It was my idea to make this evening, my friends. Today is a fantastic day for me. I see here a handsome fellow. I want him. Attention, please. May I ask you to be, as someone joked, sorry, my last one? I’m kidding, my three hundredth lover. And after that…” I realized how all of us became open-mouthed and pop-eyed. The first straight feedback emanated from Mike. He stood up with lightning speed. With a concrete, out of spite, red face, he moved to her. I saw that his towering rage smitten to the maximal degree.

  He talked, but it was like chanting every spoken ictus-accent syllable word, “Listen You-You lawyer woman. It will not be me. The wild dirty wolf can be your next three hundredth lover! Is that clear? Are you following me? Sorry, I have to leave.”

  I have seen many scandals in my life. But this situation looked like a clownery mixed up with an unpleasant sad drama. And it was an intensive, dumbfounding shock that continued. After only several minutes, the same man materialized in the living room and with a spiky buldge verged toward Linda. He set a massive, heavy fist under her nose. She collapsed onto the chair as if almost dead and looked like a sculpture made of bright marble. She wasn’t able to utter a vowel. “That is what you deserve, woman,” he said in frustration. “It must be a strong punch in your cute head. I’ll make sure your small gray cells go out as spatters of champagne. I’m offended and suppose boys whom you cast off for insemination are an insatiable brute-female loved you, didn’t they? Do you know who the father of your child is, hell-doll? You’re the animated puppet.” All this happened right before everyone. No one believed such a giant could poke her, but I jumped on him to hold his hands. He kept his wallop only a few seconds more and put it down at a slow pace.

  “With you, friend, I will make men’s talk. Why didn’t you inform me she is not attractive but also a beast?” Mike pushed the question from himself with a livid face. It looked like he was ready to bonk me. Are you curious how this story ended? As I recall, Linda passed through stress around one week in the hospital. And I will never forget how furious she became when he left. After Mike’s offense, Linda sobbed in tremendous grief. She kept us in nervous tension for around an hour. Her mannered, tearful sound blamed the male species, even a present man was a masculine buffalo fertilizer with no culture, according to her.

  “You are creatures with penises, instead of the convolution of the brain. You think of it and exist for it,” Linda had expressed her aphorism. She, as the actress, put herself in a position to enunciate a long monologue. “Men of the world, I hate you a zillion times! You are dogs. I’m incriminating you, empty diggers. You’ve never wanted me as a soulful woman! I abhor you, devastators! You wished me only for intercourse. That’s why I balk now. I’ve had enough of that. It’s over, men. I’m expelling and damn men from my life!”

  It disgruntled me how such bombshell woman just distracted own image in front of the people.

  It comes up as a truth-seeking problem: Could a devoted man regenerate love in her heart or would it dissolve forever for this woman? What happens if she cut off sleeping around and looked for a shotgun marriage? The answer is yes and no. Infer, she’d be lucky to find a husband of prowess, who respects her. Is that not conceivable? Then, yes. If that kind-hearted gentleman would support this woman’s dignity by the fascinating, Darling, her inspiration could remake her innate sensitivity bloom. She wouldn’t worry anymore about flying over a senseless calendar. She couldn’t embrace it; the rough transient days could destroy her copulative meaning and someone rigorous will show up to seal her to nonentity. This outcome always characterized as a total end. But when, for a male, it guessed the stop of a grueling journey, the leave of a woman tolerated the death of all hopes.

  My dear reader, would you like to describe a woman’s parting from this word as more than an azoic assertion without argument and answer:

  Would you coincide that as sobbings of urgency?

  Will you comply it’s more than frustration with life? Because when you perforce see fate of a mother, sister, beloved wife, or a friend’s a woman, you feel the aching loss of strength as no obligations, no choice before plain

  STRAIGHT-OUT DEATH as the equalizer.

  Still, no one comprehended by what was right a death establishes its own rules. But even knowing the inevitability or our departure, we are still in great confusion about whom and what to serve with all spirit.

  Is that a man? No, your self-respect can protest, because you accept this as self-truth. Rather, you would fault our bloodstained history about knelt subordinates with enslavement psychology.

  Is that only the Almighty?

  Yes, and if you are an atheist, you have no doubts that love reigns supreme, handling the balance of kind justices. But you never can become the priest or eremite monk!

  Is that a woman? Yes. Will she invariably bow before motherhood? But I persist in disagreeing with the practice of women for sale. Even she is an expensive princess and, just for her attendance, demands the highest price, but you can’t tolerate her. You know by this way you won’t make an immediate turn to her. You don’t accept such beauty with full attention because you give only pure love.

  On balance if you heard about a man’s inside solutions, you may conclude:

  All my life, I’ve been trying to be

  the MAN ABOVE FILTH.

  My supportive principle is to clutch an idea: for people, the best is God! And my gentlest attitudes always admire childbirth given

  by WIDE-OPEN WOM
EN!

  My most honest belief is meaningful care

  of BEING in LOVE.

  My excellent reply to the logical finale could be only to blame for stealing my beloved women

  STRAIGHT-OUT OF DEATH.

  22. Childhood

  Dear Reader, as the memory of youth means:

  CHRISTMAS NIGHT

  BOYS' VOICES

  BELOVED MOTHER and DAD

  WARMLY PROTECTED

  staying alive only as a belief in miracles.

  Benignancy.

  The brevity of the winter’s day continues its light by the brilliant luminescence of human dwellings. An unexpected shadow and crystal snowflakes aren’t only for fable tellers; the kids also consider it the magical preparation for Santa Claus to come. It’s an entrancing time when, in our living room, with nonstop sounds of beloved songs—like “Silent Night,” “Carol of the Bells,” “Jingle Bells,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”—our blissful family gather and talk. And now, on every new December’s end, we recall a snowy cloudland when we were small. Are we always remembering that? Yes.

  We learned faerie minutes of opening Christmas presents.

  It was the memorization of beam-sparked goodness in everyone’s eyes that allowed us to dream of wishes come true because of heartwarming

  CHRISTMAS NIGHTS—the real story of our lives.

  Houses seemed to bend back to get dressed in a fluffy, white dress. The omnipresence of icing was enchanting. But before all mystery arrived on this evening, my older brother and I could enjoy skiing. And not too far from our home in the woods, we found a cleared place; for years it became a secret of pictorial charm from the winter’s forest. We created a boyish tradition to stop before a snowed hill, and for jest, in two voices loud with trick-pauses, three times we would yell the same phrases and listen to the answers from the wood:

  “Santa, are you coming?” (three times with pauses)

  “Tonight?”

  “To us?”

  It was pleasant fun to hear an echo back, even for seconds.

  “Santa, are you com…”

  “Santa, are you…”

  “Santa ar…”

  “This nigh…”

  “This ni…”

  “Th…”

  These responses were music to our childish imagination. We tried to scream into the thicket of big trees covered by precious-stone snowflakes. We felt lost in the avalanche of fluffy snow and silver fir. I believe we still live in this fascinating, magical winter fairyland. The forest recorded the sound of our foolish tripping walk. A scaring icy force kept our jokes in silence. The pleasing mood waited for a sweet home with parents. Everything made us so cheerful to hear because of the

  BOYS’ VOICES were a song of youth.

  But once we worried about the sudden twilight from the terrible depths of the snow-covered forest, there was a notable crunch.

  “A wolf!” shouted my brother.

  “No, it’s maybe a deer or bear,” I concluded, getting scared. “Let’s run!” In my last words, we jumped onto our childish skis and rushed, even flew, toward our house. Yes, you smile now, but we darted away like rockets until, before our eyes, we saw the lighting of our snug house outlined. We told nobody about our funky behavior because we didn’t want to appear as cowards. It became our hush-hush.

  And within second the one thing pulled us back. It was a childish exhilaration to expect something interesting and tasty soon. We're happy to have our loyal friends as the most honest people for us. They are priceless because they are our

  BELOVED MOTHER and DAD—holy bluebirds.

  We hurried home to see the burn crackles of wood in the fireplace and that magic smell of mom’s delicious supper as a thrilling feast. But most important for a boy’s heart was the reason that Mom cooked it. We got permission to invite Santa if he would agree. Can we call this a coziness fare of childhood? You were bright, fortunate, and happy-go-lucky. And you appreciated not just kiddo games but parents too. Or you thought it would last forever—because it was carefree and happiest

  WARMLY PROTECTED—instance relations.

  Nobody can answer why childhood memories, one day, so often fade, but the Christmas time events we can describe in the tiniest of details. Would you like to try?

  When you understood that Santa Claus is not real, did you wait again for thrilling

  on CHRISTMAS NIGHT?

  From the childhood many of us remember when you’re going deeper into the winter forest; it looks like you are walking in a fairy tale. Did you ever yell in such an enchanted forest to hear the echo

  of YOUR VOICE?

  I think we should never give kids a provocative, complicated question like what’s more important: the gifts on arrival of Santa or the sheer presence of their

  BELOVED MOTHER and DAD?

  Often, we get more attention from our parents when we have our kids. Even if we don’t, could you affirm that the brightest moments of when you felt the happiest were when you were

  WARMLY PROTECTED?

  23. From Spring to Tender Parting

  Never dying.

  Every new spring, for me, is a time to illuminate my mind from the murky autumns with early gelid winters.

  The up-to-date prime invites me only to cheer!

  I have a blithe celebration of most flurried heydays throughout the whole year. It is only in the spring I breathe deep. For me, it’s a revival of my best-forgotten hopes; I’m not afraid to receive such valid resurrection.

  Yes, I call upon its rebirth. I would also name it to exist of senses about real hope. Doesn’t it pick up a man’s soul when he gets the greatest belief in everything? How do you feel when your heart adjusts only for a candid conversation? I believe you will look for a long stream of runaway chat minutes about spring wonder. I always want to simply stop every new spring. Yes, I want to just stop time. It was an augury for me because I never counted my age as years. My headway was for all time through revivals of the blossoming springs.

  Would you like to consider your past and new springs as only about the aptness of the purest feelings? I could also attest any dark meanings of eight months in a year outbalanced by three in spring. And it gladdens me. We don’t know how people experienced springtide long ago, but let’s assume. I felt confident that happiness of a whole life, even your genuine adoring, begot and hailed from a spring when

  LOVE STARTED…

  But later, it was a dreary fall ever. In the latest days of November, everything froze in minutes. Does the pitiless exhale of winter, trying to chill rivers and dispel the smoke of parched, dry leaves scatter my happiness about you? I don’t know. It was just tender. Is that a sadness of back-ends? No. That is just my deep spoil about next summer without you. And even it was final season with you; it still shines over me. Yes, I enjoyed my big love.

  What’s going on now? I undergo new events only as timing our love to die.

  If somebody asks, I wouldn’t believe next year, full of blossoming gardens, will surprise me again as sensation. I have to handle only that the endless blue sky won’t give me a chance to escape. And I see, after that summer, it doesn’t let me drown in thick grass and peer upward because of jubilance. Yes, we both couldn’t get a sudden break. I feel that, somewhere, you also suffer. That’s why we both moved from us at a gradual pace.

  Your eyes, before glowing and catching, become extinct and estranged. Not one of us seeks any resumption of our sense. We understand ourselves.

  Perhaps we are ashamed to think of such a headlong and unprecedented yen for both. If someone managed our lives, these feelings without time, we’d keep it in mind as a period of boisterousness acts as a single thing gone. The last cell of our internal connection knocked down all memory. And we fell into a monotonous rhythm of regular days. But we will always remember when we fascinated by love how we merged into one. Can we ever forget how we wished to dissolve into each other? And now it's so hard to accept why new spring whispered to us to part foreve
r? But we’ll never force it to get close again. And it’s nothing for being sorry.

  Is the death of love a smallest or biggest sadness? Only living through a dream helps to realize it. Oh, my torments, tension, and indifference for every unlooked-for memento perish! It can laugh at us as does the walls that hid from the lascivious looks.

  Perhaps that’s an angry bed that took us to joy the screaming passion. Or a little bird that circled above us by knowing what happened. And everything changed. We grew apart now. It is not grief or misfortune. We are only in silent disagreement with the whole thing, but it can’t help.

  We are leaving in different directions and strange hearts. Then again someone invaluable begins the walk toward retrieving you on the road of destiny. Who is that, would you ever know? I won’t also believe a man would sacrifice for you the rest of his days until the end. I will never accept it. We are still together in space, in foreign countries, another planet, even though our