Chapter Two
Sometimes, when you realize that what you are doing is so out of kilter from your routine of life, you actually laugh out loud at yourself; hopefully the people around you do not think you’re laughing at them, or that you’re a nut case. I had waited for the elevator for what seemed to be an eternity, and in a rash moment of poor judgment to get back to my office, I stormed through an exit door to take the stairs. Now having just come back inside the building, in from a real storm raging outside, because I remembered too late, once the hallway door had shut behind me, the stairs only exited to the outside, I stood wet and feeling stupid. In situations such as this all you can do is laugh at yourself and leave it behind you. I did. I was still having a random chuckle in a small takeaway as I started to pour coffee into a paper cup.
“Still have a sense of humor; good. Here, pour mine.” A cup is placed next to mine. I hesitate to turn to see the woman who spoke…my mind is saying ‘no, it’s not her’…but my heart saying otherwise. It was Breen.
“Dave, you can move now. At least you’re not pouring coffee on the floor.” I looked at the coffee urn and saw it was frozen at an angle just to the right of slosh. Had she spoken a split second later the pot would have been frozen in slosh mode, cup overfilled, coffee everywhere, as I stood mesmerized by her presence.
One step at a time…put down coffee pot…smile…slight shake of the head…“hi.” There are few words in the English language that if said with feeling can say as much as ‘hi.’
She smiles; a radiant, wonderful smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was not even sure you would want me to speak to you…it has been quite some time, hasn’t it.” Just short of a question, but equally short of rhetorical.
“A few years.” What an understatement. I was lost for words. I just did not want to say something that would scare her away; like ‘I love you and my heart is telling my hands to reach out and touch your cheek, to take you into my arms, to hold you’…to tell her the sun still rises and the moon still sets in her eyes. Be strong Mr. Brain, stay in control.
As if reading my mind, playfully, “For someone who likes to talk, you seem to be lost for words.”
I grin, smile, do that movement with my head where you kind of look down and tilt it first left, and then right as you lift your eyes to her, “Breen, a thousand words are waiting to be spoken, I just don’t know what ones to say first.” Good one, fast on your feet; not too glib, spoken with feeling. It was glib, why lie to yourself; that was way too glib.
She grins, she smiles, “Are they good words?” So tentative; not scared tentative, testing the bath water with your big toe, searching tentative.
“Good words. Can we go somewhere to talk?” Animated movement…hand gestures, head bob…pleading with my eyes. “Please don’t rush off.”
“I won’t.”
I finish pouring the coffees, pay, and we walk over to the tables. She has changed. Maturity of age has made her even more beautiful, if that were possible. The softness of her voice was a good sign. I loved her voice. I admired her for the strength of voice she could intone when she wanted to.
I play the gentleman, holding her chair, waiting for her to sit. The other patrons are watching. I am not sure why. Is it me, am I outwardly showing the confusion, uncertainty, the mesmerizing effect she is having on me? Is it her? She has on business attire; stylish, professional. She is radiant, alive, sensual, alluring. I feel the perfume, so soft; she is not one to wear a scent, but to carry it on the current of her presence.
Knowing that she dislikes me watching her every movement, I steal glances, to both reassure myself that she is still there and to take pleasure from the warmth of her closeness. She toys with her coffee cup, running her finger on the lip. She’s waiting for me to say something. Her eyes have already studied me; taking measure of my clothes, my personality. I cannot help but remember that she had the power to see right through me; so much for the false appearance we drape ourselves in with clothes and verbiage. Years ago, finally understanding what she was seeing, she disliked what she saw.
I look down at my hands, I’m holding onto my cup so my hands won't start visibly shaking, in a half question, “Do we ask each other how we are…what do we say to each other? Obviously it’s going to take some time to tell the stories of our lives since the last time we spoke. I…I want to listen to you talk. I know that sounds stupid, but, I missed your voice…I missed you.” Saying the words was easier than I had thought it would be. And saying them brought a measure of relaxation to my voice, nonetheless not to my shaking hands.
“What do you want me to say…” she smiles, “Okay, I missed you too. No point in hiding the truth. I…Dave, I’m not sure what we need to say to each other. I do know that now is not the time or place for a serious discussion. So let’s ease into a conversation.”
“Okay. Nice weather we’re having…”
She laughs; good sign, “Nice weather…if you like wet clothes.”
Two hours later we were still talking; her husband had died four years ago, I was divorced, talking about her job and mine, talking about the subway system, the bird she saw from her kitchen window, my dog, and her cat. We talked about ourselves. And when we realized the time, that our forgotten coffee was stone cold, we exchanged phone numbers and set a time and place to meet again. I walked her to the door. No kiss goodbye, no hug, just looking into each other’s eyes and seeing them reflect warmth and an invitation to tomorrow.
For the rest of the day I could not concentrate on work, could not carry a conversation; impossible to think of anything but her. That evening I sat in the overstuffed chair in the living room and did nothing but stare at the far wall. All the time thinking about each word she had said, thinking about each movement of her eyes, her hands, the play of her hair when she would touch it. I wondered if she was doing the same thing. Of what importance was my image to her? Did she walk out of the building this afternoon and forget me, turn her attention to her day, place my memory in some dark recess of her mind? Or, did she move through the day as I, trying to make some rational sense out of this situation.
Was there even a situation? Let’s face it, be honest with yourself Dave; seeing me just happened, no premeditation, no anything but ‘just happened.’ Obviously she cares for me. Fate, or no fate of bumping into each other, did she place any great importance on it. Or was I just trying to believe this to protect myself from harm. I turned out the light, yet stayed in the chair.
Saturday. The rain had moved off to the north, thankfully. Maybe the day would defy the weatherman and turn out sunny. I am sitting on a sofa at Page & Cup; sitting near the book store/coffee shop’s large picture window. It reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons in Heidelberg. Sitting in a large leather chair by the guesthouse’s window with a glass of Pfalz red wine; smooth, Portugieser grape. I would watch the tourists and students pass by, as the raindrops slid down the window.
This afternoon I was far from Heidelberg physically and figuratively. The pie on the plate before me was peach, fresh; no doubt good streusel-topped pie. Yes, I was breaking a promise not to eat to relieve stress. Besides, the slice was only about 400 plus calories. I watch my carbs; so subtracting the 3.5 grams of fiber, made the slab of heaven a mere 63 or 70 grams of carbohydrates. Ah, stress, the only thing for stress is carbs. Donna - my best friend - is drinking tea and nibbling at a gingersnap cookie. Based on serving size, I think I got the better deal; her puny cookie weighed in at a pitiful 12 carbs. We have met at her favorite place to discuss my love life and her quest for a dress that was going to render some poor guy named Fred into a dribbling idiot. Not that I know anything about women’s clothes for conquest, or even serve as an objective sounding board. Donna just likes to tease me with images of what I was missing by not sweeping her off her feet and into my bedroom. Friends are like that. Every guy needs at least two friends. One fellow man who agrees totally
with your irrational behavior and one understanding woman who likes to compare you to the most recent magazine article on true love.
She breaks off a piece of cookie, “So what did you say?”
“Donna, this was not supposed to happen…this was my fairytale…fairytales don’t happen.”
“Obviously Dave she is not a figment of your imagination. So what did you say!”
“You’re right, she’s real. We’re going to lunch Wednesday.”
“Lunch? This isn’t a ‘let’s do lunch so one of us can air-kiss for an early goodbye if it’s a going downhill from here’ lunch. You haven’t seen her for years!”
“That’s the point, I was never supposed to see her.”
“But you wanted to?”
“You don’t understand. Yes, I wanted to see her, but only as a memory. You love someone so much that you long for that person; nevertheless it’s the memory of the person, the visual image of who they were then, not now. And, I could never imagine a scenario that she could have lived the wonderful life I prayed for her, yet still be available to come back into mine. Part of my atonement for hurting her was to pray for her happiness. How could she be happy, yet somehow lose the man of her dreams for me? Her husband died. What do you say, ‘sorry to hear he died, are you available, and by the way I’m divorced.’ Donna, I felt like a real shit.”
“Stop being philosophical; come down to planet earth. You still love her, right?”
“Yes; however, can you imagine how I felt when I heard her voice. I didn’t want to turn to see her, Donna. I was caught between the memory of the ‘her’ I loved and the possibility she had changed and I would no longer find her physically attractive; no longer wanting to ride off into the sunset with her. I believed that I loved her beyond what was humanly possible for a man. Then, here I was face to face with the possibility that I had lied to myself all these years. She would never know; however the thought of my being wrong was terrifying to me. Donna, I was terrified. It was as if…if I was being reminded I could not swim while I was already in mid-air of the dive.”
“Love aside, you do need better analogies. At least you didn’t run. Hell Dave, she should be grateful you talked to her.”
“She did the right thing shutting the door to her life in my face.”
“Don’t be so sure. Maybe she had other reasons. If you say that you were too dumb to know any better to support a relationship, well, what about her? True, she may have been the one who left; however that does not mean she did not have feelings for you. She may have run because she did have feelings for you, and running was her way of dealing with them."
"One night while we were ‘together’ together, I made a comment about something, I don’t remember what it was exactly, but Breen finely opened up about her past. Breen comes from a military family, moving around a lot; that’s why she was overseas when I met her. While she had the financial resources, looks, and brains to be a standout in the dating pool – I know that was chauvinistic – Breen’s choices in boy-men were not very wise ones. It was obvious to me that she used boyfriends to escape her home life, and the soldiers were eager to have a pretty girlfriend.”
“The night Breen opened up about herself she voiced maturity; she did not hide her responsibility for her situation; to the contrary, she placed the blame on herself. Sure the men in her life had taken advantage of her; nonetheless Breen recognized her role in the drama and she was determined to change her life around.”
What I did not tell Donna, and never would, was that the young Breen I loved dealt with a complex situation at home. This was an emotional and spiritual conflict. Breen’s path to today was a tightrope walk that, even then, made me admire and love her more deeply. “You have always told me that I was a good person and that has been important to me. It’s just, you have to understand the bad traits you saw, but chose to work to correct, where not much different from those of others in her life. Only mine were a minor part of my make-up, not the dominant part. Nevertheless, I really think Breen had matured enough to recognize you cannot change someone if they do not want to change, and she did not want to chance it with me. My immaturity both blinded me to her plight and blinded me to the outward appearance she, and others, judged me by. It was only after she left my life did I recognize the need to change.”
Donna looked at me with real friendship eyes, "And now, what now Dave, are you questioning yourself again?”
“Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe my true feelings have no reason to surface. We have lunch and move on.”
She smiled, “Sure, and people really can dodge raindrops if they are quick enough.”
“Thanks, you are always so helpful. Here finish this. Least you can do, is keep me from gaining weight.” Donna greedily grabs the pie. She had been waiting - knowing I was not going to eat it - hoping I would decide not to take it home with me. That’s OK, I do the same with the family-size orders of Chinese food she selects from the menu and usually never makes it to the shrimp egg roll. That’s also why I eat my egg roll first, just in case.
Forking a mouthful of my ex-pie, “has she physically changed?”
“Yes, but I’m...wait, this has to do with you doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, have I changed?” “We all change, we cannot avoid changing physically.”
“You’re avoiding the question Dave!”
“OK, you have changed, you’re older…”
“BUT not that much older, RIGHT.”
“Right. Why did you ask me if you don’t want to hear the answer?”
“Cause you’re easy.”
“Nice of you to think so highly of me. I see you all the time. You know how hard it is to measure change when you see a person all the time and the physical change is slight, non-perceptible changes, not a sudden, wham.”
“You're so scientific, the hundred dollar words you use, ‘wham,’ Mr. Webster must be rolling over in his grave.”
“Donna, why is it I like you?”
“Wham, sums it up. So have I changed?”
“Yes Donna, you have changed. Breen changed. She’s no longer the ‘twenty something’ I remembered in my dreams. More than that, she’s no longer the flawless, ‘twenty something’ I remembered in my dreams! That is the change, the change I dreaded. Not age lines, no…Donna, what I truly dreaded is I would see the imperfections. She would be a person with 'person’s' flaws. Not the timeless ‘Barbie doll’ image I want to remember.”
“Did you play with Barbie dolls?”
“No, be serious.” Stop, think, “You’re right, I almost got on a soapbox.
“More than that Dave, listen to yourself. Did you play with dolls, meaning women in general. You and I have already gone over this territory. When I met you, you treated women like they were without feelings. You ended relationships without even a goodbye; just moved on, no phone call no...no nothing, just moved on. So now suddenly Breen is a Barbie doll...better, more important than the others? Dave every woman is important, every woman is a Barbie doll. You have changed. I know you have changed. Please don’t throw all of that away by doubting yourself. Love Breen because she is special to you, but treat her as you would all women! I’m done.”
“You know one of these days I may have to admit in public you’re right.”
“Your mom pays me to bring you down to planet Earth when you launch into a diatribe.”
“Does your mother know you use words you don’t know the meaning of?”
“Latin diatriba, Greek diatribe, or the French…”
“OK, I get the point. Where did you learn to be so abusive, law school?”
“Dave we all have changed - you, me, Breen - so get over it. I could tell from the way you hesitated that you were not believing your own words. Non sum quails eram.”
She was right; none of us are what we used to be.
—////—
Through a Stranger's Eyes Page 2
