Amor Vincit Omnia
by
Victor D. López
Copyright Victor D. López 2019
No portion of this copyrighted book may be copied, posted, transmitted or otherwise used in any form without the express written consent of the author.
Last night I found the love of my life. She was drowning in a shallow pool of muddy water, not far from my door. I rescued her, gently carried her home, revived her and tenderly washed her body clean as she trembled beneath my gentlest touch. Her tears soon dried as she found herself protected, safe, dry, warm, and lovingly placed on a comfy couch. I stared at her for hours as she slept, captivated by her beauty and grace, even in sleep. I could not take my eyes away from her. She had not spoken a word to me, but that did not matter. I could feel a connection between us at a level beyond that of mere words. It is as though my whole life had been nothing more than a winding path leading to her side. I knew instinctively that we would never be apart.
When she awoke, I stared at her eyes which seemed to hold flecks of gold, silver and copper unlike anything I’d ever seen before, giving her an exotic, other-worldly appearance. She stared at me for the longest time, wide-eyed and unblinking. I smiled at her trying to reassure her that all would be well. In time I asked her whether she wanted me to take her anywhere in particular, but she seemed to draw back, averting her eyes, communicating without words that she did not have a home. I sensed what I took to be her fear I that I might take her back to the sidewalk where I had found her. Her reaction simply broke my heart. I tried to reassure her that she would have a home with me for as long as she wanted it. She seemed relieved and I thought I could see her gently shudder as one often does after a good cry. I placed her close to me and she seemed happy and content. We eventually both fell asleep together on my couch, with my cradling her gently in my arms. I had not known such peaceful, restful sleep in decades.
Over the next months we became inseparable. She sat next to me as I wrote, my muse and silent critic. I could look at her and know when she thought my words needed revision or when I was writing myself into a corner as I sometimes do. At such times she giggled like the tinkling of tiny bells—the most wonderful sound I’d ever heard. She listened with endless patience and empathy as I shared my fears, hopes and dreams and eventually entrusted me with her own. My wife was away as she often is during this time of year, and I opted not to tell her about my new love. There was no point in doing so as I knew her reaction would be derisive or, worse, perhaps one of relief. Moreover, the relationship with my new soul mate was strictly platonic and would remain so. We would never consummate our love as that was impossible for us both under our current circumstances. We never discussed that; it was simply a given. Nevertheless, we grew very close, as close as any two beings could ever be, uncaring that sex could never be a part of our relationship. This was not a real problem for me as forced celibacy is something the majority of men married for decades know only too well, if not happily. It would be a small sacrifice and one I was more than willing to make for a spiritual closeness I had never imagined possible.
Unlike my wife who screams at me regularly whenever we’re together or speak over the phone, my true love never once so much as gave me a dour look. I had grown accustomed to finding peace by spending most of my time in a room other than that which my wife occupied at any given time—preferably one on a different floor and different wing of the house. With my new love, however, the exact opposite was true. She seemed happy only when near me, and I knew peace only when she was by my side. We seemed to have formed an almost symbiotic relationship, drawing strength from a closeness that had nothing to do with possessiveness or jealousy but grew out of a pure, powerful love that seemed to hold us both captured in its orbit.
I could gently caress her for hours without her complaining that I was mussing up her makeup or her hair—or smacking my hand away, telling me to stop making a pest of myself. She never pulled away if I wanted to hold her during an entire movie. And she never once complained that I cooked too much food or tried to sabotage her diet by bringing home loads of the unhealthy, high fat and sugary snacks I love. Her willpower was incredible—I could have plunked her in a bathtub full of the most delectable ice cream and she’d just lie there smiling impishly or sticking out her tongue at me, without taking so much as a single bite or complaining about the cold. But she thoroughly enjoyed seeing me eat, and, unlike my wife, never complained that I chewed my food too noisily, that I ate too fast, or that I did not use a plate and dropped too many crumbs if I decided to eat a cookie while watching television. Like my wife who is also a good cook but sees cooking as a chore, she preferred to let me do the cooking; but unlike my wife she thoroughly enjoyed watching me cook my favorite dishes, or inventing something completely new without a recipe, flying by the seat of my pants as is my preferred method of gastronomic experimentation. I could feel her trying so hard not to laugh at some of the monumental failures of these experiments, but much more often saw her beaming with pride at the more frequent successes, though she herself seemed to live on nothing but love and air.
She never complained about my wanting to watch a football game or when I railed against a referee’s bad call—or at a newscaster’s inventing rather than reporting the news, for that matter. She never hoarded the remote, unlike my wife who always shoots a feral look in my direction and growls softly if I so much as look at the remote that is always firmly clutched in her hands whenever we watch television together. Nor did she ever interrupt the shows I love at the very worst possible moment by reading to me whatever caught her attention on her tablet at that moment and then complaining endlessly if I did not pay close attention (quizzes would often follow) to whatever the Duchess of Who Knows Where had said or done or what new outrageous lunacy was being spouted by the latest of the 437 candidates for the Democrat Party nomination for president.
I’ve always preferred strong, independent, highly intelligent women. Most men have a favorite part of the female anatomy that they fixate on—breasts, thighs, legs, bottoms (some will even occasionally claim eyes, noses or lips, though I suspect they’re lying). I like curves and reproductive organs just as much as the next guy, forced celibacy notwithstanding (and yes, eyes, lips, noses, earlobes legs, feet, arms, hands, fingers and toes too, for that matter). But by far my favorite, and unquestionably the sexiest, female organ of all is the brain.
Men are nothing if not easy to read and understand—and not just when it comes to our favorite body parts or recreational activities. We are as easy to manipulate as a cat in a dark room by someone wielding a laser pointer. But women are a species altogether different. The average man can no more understand the working of a woman’s mind than he can explain the finer points of quantum mechanics, quantum entanglement, or the physics that underlie spooky action at a distance. (In fairness, neither could Einstein who was one of the brightest among us.) A smart woman can look a man in the eyes for a minute and read his heart, his soul and guesstimate his I.Q. with roughly 95 percent accuracy, and likely the balance in his savings account. A smart man looks a woman in the eyes and sees . . . blue, green, hazel, grey, brown or, more likely, breasts. Women pay attention and notice (and, alas, remember forever) absolutely E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. The survival of the species depends on it as men would generally be oblivious if their three-year-old child took a nap on a busy street, played with porcupines or tried to ride a bear cub who wondered into the back yard as a pony if there’s a game on (and even if there’s not). Women are great at multitasking. Men can usually walk and chew gum at the same time, but that’s pretty much the extent of our multitasking ability.
Women often expect men to be able to read their minds, just because they can so easily read ours. (Here’s a newsflash ladies, WE CAN’T. I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but it’s true. You can torture us about it until the cows come home but that will change nothing.) And they love to act as judge, jury and executioner in determining our guilt for real and imagined transgressions alike—due process of law be damned. I’ve been sentenced to the silent treatment for weeks on end without a clue as to what horrible transgression I’d committed. Asking for an explanation of the charges, let alone trying to mount an actual defense when we might actually have an inkling as to what they may be, merely gets a loud tongue lashing from the bench, with additional time added to the sentence for contempt of court—kind of like getting a red card in football (soccer for my American friends who believe football means America’s adoption of a more violent form of rugby with body armor and inscrutable rules) for arguing after getting booked by the referee. Unlike judges, wives are likely to literally (and not just metaphorically) throw the book (or anything else close to hand) at husbands who have the temerity to question the charges against them. Attempting to actually mount a defense is the only remaining crime to which capital punishment is gleefully accepted by the fairer sex (pun, not sexism, intended). But none of that applies my new, true love. The most I ever get is a gentle look that could be interpreted as mild disappointment—never anger or disapproval—on the rare (but not unheard of) occasion that I make a complete ass of myself.
I’ve often said that every woman is beautiful in her own way at every age (by which I mean the overwhelming majority of women with some notable exceptions, if I’m being completely honest) and know this to be true. I’ve always been partial to petite women myself and have fallen in love with a couple of them in the past. My new love fits that category as well, though she is slight even for my taste. Nevertheless, I find her body nothing short of perfect—hard, beautiful curves, yet small in a way that makes me want to protect her. Don’t misunderstand me—she is rock-solid and more than capable of cracking the hardest skull of any would-be assailant. She can more than take care of herself and would shake her head and regale me with the sound of her musical laughter if she suspected I feel a need to protect her. Unlike my wife, however, any man looking at her other than through my eyes would not likely find her to be objectively beautiful. There is little chance of construction workers breaking into the song “Some Guys Have All the Luck” as happened on occasion when my wife and I walked down the street when we were dating and the song was still fairly new. (True story—I was so annoyed once that I turned around and replied “some guys deserve it” to the cheeky guys singing while longingly staring at my wife (girl friend at the time) as we approached, walked by the worksite, and continued on.) But that matters little. Outer beauty fades in time, for even painfully beautiful women, of which I’ve also known a few. But not the inner beauty of my true love that has been hers long before I met her and will be hers long after I turn to dust.
Some women suffer the unfortunate effects of PMS, and a few a tragically terminal variant I’ve long ago labeled PPMS (Perpetual Pre-Menstrual Syndrome) that appears to afflict them from the cradle to the grave. But my love always has the sweetest disposition. She is never on edge, unpleasant or hormonally unbalanced in any way. She loves to go with the flow. In contrast, going anywhere with my wife has been a real problem for years. I’d be dressed and ready to go out—mind you in half the time it takes her to get all gussied up—only to have her point at me in disbelief and exclaim “You’re going out like that?” That always sends a chill up my spine as I know I will get no help as to what she means if I ask, and I’ll be damned if I can ever see anything wrong with what I’m wearing. My outfits are always clean, free of holes (be they fashionable kind some idiots pay extra for or the free ones we get from moths and “energy efficient” washing machines that wash twenty pounds of dirty clothes in two thimbles-full of water with two or three drops of sulfuric-acid-based detergent).
Although I know asking only makes it worse, invariably I fall into my own personal Kobayashi Maru – the hell of a no-win scenario without James T. Kirk’s ability to reprogram the software so that averting disaster is a possible outcome. Actually, for nearly all men, marriage itself is an endless iteration of a personal Kobayashi Maru—kind of like hell, except that it is not necessarily eternal (it only feels that way). So, stupid me will invariably ask, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing” which always leads to one of two possible responses: 1. a rolling of the eyes followed by a tight-lipped silent treatment of indeterminate length; or 2. a response along the lines of “If by this time you’re too dense to know the answer, I’m not going to tell you.”
Now please understand, it’s not as though I’m wearing coveralls to the opera or white shoes after Labor Day (which I understand is no longer punishable by death in my state). That leaves me to wonder what the hell I’ve done wrong now. Of course, I surreptitiously take in what she is wearing while she’s tapping her shoes impatiently, arms crossed under her lovely breasts waiting for me to get a clue. For example, if she’s wearing black jeans and a designer black top and I’m wearing blue jeans and a designer yellow top, I’ll wonder: Is it the color? I’ve worn it before without the fashion police raiding the place with a no-knock warrant and guns drawn. I take off the top and inspect it. It is definitely clean and wrinkle free, no problem. Is it the color then? Or did she want me to wear a casual shirt instead of the Ralph Lauren polo shirt I put on? Is it the fact that it’s a polo and she wanted me to wear a, what are they called, Henley shirt (you know—buttons but no collar)? Or perhaps she thought I should wear a regular more casual T-shirt? Maybe it’s just the jeans—did she want me to match her outfit by wearing black jeans instead of blue? Or was it just the blue and yellow combination she objected to? It can’t be the shoes—I opted for neutral dark brown loafers. Now if I’d put on the black jeans with the brown shoes maybe that could have set her off, or if I had worn grey socks with the brown shoes maybe? But no, it couldn’t be the shoes, or socks could it? Should I try for the Nike sneakers instead?
Of course, while all of this is going on in my head, Mt. St. Wife is about to blow her top at any moment due to my inability to read her mind and make amends for whatever unpardonable fashion crime I’ve unwittingly committed. If I’m lucky I’ll guess right at what the problem was—switch the polo for the Henley, or maybe try the black jeans with black sox, black penny loafers and a black casual button-down shirt in full mourning for the loss of the freedom to dress as I damned well please these past 29 years. Either way I have only one shot at it with no help from the shapely volcano about to blow.
If I guess wrong, that’s it: she takes off her clothes, puts on her PJs and lays on the couch gorging herself on Häagen-Dazs while screeching that she can never go anywhere with me and that no human being since Adam could possibly be as stupid as her husband. Once started, the eruption will last a minimum of a half hour with lava flows of familiar grievances burning everything in its path, leaving behind a scorched earth on which only other grievances can ever grow.
If I guess right and changing the polo for the Henley avoids a catastrophic eruption, there will still be hell to pay as seismic forces have been disturbed and temblors will surely follow. Maybe on the way to wherever we’re going I’ll momentarily tune out of her twenty-minute monologue on anything and everything that crosses her mind and get the dreaded “Did you hear me?” I know an honest “No” will bring about ranting and raving about my need to get a hearing aid. So, I’ll risk a white lie and say “Yes”, hoping she continues without the dreaded follow-up question, “What did I just say?” which is the automatic cue for reloading a brand-new Kobayashi Maru scenario with an inevitable Mt. St. Wife eruption to follow.
Not so with my new soul mate. She never complains about the way I dress. I could go anywhere with her in grass-stained jeans and an old T-shirt with paint stains after mowing the lawn, my sweat-so
aked tousled hair covered with a faded NY Yankees or Real Madrid cap, unshaved and with a brown shoe on my left foot and a black one on my right, and she would still take nothing but joy from my company. We could go to a restaurant for dinner and everyone around could look at me with that “since when do they let homeless people in here” look and she would smile and look into my eyes with nothing but love and unbridled joy, maybe even regaling me with her unique silver bell tinkling giggle and a slight shake of the head that says “What am I to do with you” which, unlike getting screamed at for a half hour, will most probably make me blush in embarrassment and actually make me want to do better. My God how I love her. How could I not?
Unlike my wife who will take back gifts of jewelry as extravagant, and complain if I get her any high-tech equipment that updates what she already has, my new love accepts whatever I give her with an uncomplaining smile and a glad heart. I could buy her ten laptops and five new tablets and she would gladly sit atop the stack as though it were a booster seat, smiling contentedly despite the fact she’d never actually use any of them simply because the gifts came from her beloved soul mate with nary a harsh word or rolling of the eyes. Nor does she ever expect anything from me at all (in fairness, neither does my wife), but will react with identical enthusiasm whether I give her a new diamond bracelet, an origami sailboat made from a candy wrapper while we watch tv or the gentlest kiss on her cheek.
She demands nothing, asks for nothing, wants nothing but is ever-ready for any impromptu adventure. And she actually lets me pack for our trips, unlike my wife who packs absolutely everything we own for a weekend trip and has me cart it around hither and dither. My new love and I can take all we need for a romantic week-long getaway in a carry-on bag.
What a joy it is to travel with her. On our frequent road trips she does not drive (nor does my wife, for that matter), but she sits beside me enjoying whatever music I put on and smiles at my singing along, NEVER complaining that I’m singing too loud, or talking while I’m in the middle of belting out Bohemian Rhapsody along with Queen, and actually expecting me to listen and recall her every word; or, worse, demanding I turn off the music to listen to some infernal newscast with more commercials than news or the usual commercial-free brainwashing from New York Propaganda Radio.
Amor Vincit Omnia (Original English Version) Page 1
