Bashert

[Steven Hunley]

Bashert

“What color nail polish do you want this time, Torchy?” asked Olivia. Olivia was holding her hand, the soft warm hand she’d held for over twenty-five years, now transmutated into a cancerous frigid claw.

“Pure Ice,” Torchy whispered, and took her other hand hidden under the blanket and placed it on her stomach.

Inside that distended stomach cancer patiently waited, growing with deadly intent. It was hard to imagine this once proud beauty, one who in her prime couldn’t pass a mirror without seeking its approval and receiving it, had been reduced to this helpless state by a malignancy. Maybe not so hard for me personally, since my mother died in the same hideous manner, by a family of cancerous growths who murder you slowly with deadly precision with incremental doses of poison. Not recklessly, but methodically, one day at a time.

Edythe’s house was full of mirrors. Barbara inherited all the beauty and a taste of Edythe’s vanity, one of Edythe’s sins. Neither of them could pass a mirror without gazing for a moment of self-evaluation. It was one of the things I loved about Barbara, the constant evaluation of me and herself, and our relationship. Barbara is determined to work at keeping them viable, and she is industrious. Strength, beauty, and character, are the three pillars of a woman of substance. I was lucky and I knew it, lucky to bear witness to Edythe’s end.

Outside, thunder sputtered, clouds drew ominous shadows over the hills, the storm raged, then passed on, leaving blue skies. On Monday morning, Edythe was still hanging on. With claws that had once been pale and shapely fingers coveted by scores of men, with nails that had never gone a day without polish, Edythe clung to the precious remains of life. Drawing up two chairs and sitting near, Barbara and I fed her orange slices the size of postage stamps, the first real food she’d had in days. Edythe savored each stamp as if it were a rare issue, an ultimate souvenir of California, something to be tasted and appreciated while it lasted, like life itself.

I savored both women, the mature serving daughter, and the vintage receiving mother about to take her last breath. I recorded their pain. No one else was suited to the work. No one else fit. It was at once terrible and exhilarating to witness. I observed, and I wrote. It’s who I am, it’s what I do, and in doing so I soar on wings as resplendent as any Japanese geese over any marble mantle, over any green narrow island dominated by rays of a setting sun, over snowcapped Mount Fuji for God’s sake and no one else’s, even in the restricting confines and decaying air of the terrible house of death.

The storm didn’t have to be outside as I predicted. Why did it have to be, when it was within all the walls of that tragic house? And Edythe would hang on and on. A Shakespearean end wasn’t her style. Edythe was vain; a queen in her own right, but Edythe was no Caesar. My prediction for her to make her end in the raging storm of March went like the plans of many mice and men. It was put asunder.

Do any of us ever know what we’re doing or how we will end? Who’s to say how many raindrops it takes to douse a Torch? How much rain has to fall, just a minor shower or a grand typhoon? How terrible must the storm rage until her frail body is pelted with enough carcinogenic drops to extinguish her mortal flame?

My Angel and I coaxed Edythe to take a teaspoon of water. How many sips of water does it take to sustain life? How many swallows of Ensure? How shallow must each breath be before it’s deemed an ultimate breath?

Tuesday morning and Edythe’s voice is faint. Edythe no longer moves. You sense the rally of extra strength displayed yesterday is precisely like yesterday itself. It’s ancient history.

Finally Edythe and I were alone. Her hand wasn’t as cold as usual, but when my fingertips searched for her pulse, I found it weakened, only a ghost of what it had once been. The once bold strokes of a drummer were reduced to faint taps, taps expressed by an exhausted organ after ninety-two years of constant drumming.

Edythe was dreaming too, and I understood where her pretty red head was under the effect of the narcotic. There was no doubt in my mind she could hear me. I didn’t want her to focus on the pain so I decided to give her an image instead. It would be something we all need, something to dream on, to float away to our eternal reward.

The image would be based on reality, not anyone else’s reality, but on a singular reality shared between Edythe and myself.

“You know, Edythe, Howard and Ted and Jeff are getting ready to see you. Howard is putting on his whitest shirt and gold cufflinks. Ted is picking out his best shoes. Jeff is stuffing a silk handkerchief in his coat pocket, making sure it’s peaking over the top like a ****’s comb. Howard is excited to see you again. I can tell by the look on his face.”

Edythe squeezes my hand with an imperceptible squeeze so full of meaning it hurts.

“It’s like he’s dressing for that first date. And it will be like a first date in a new place you’ve never been before, and both of you will be whole and perfect, vital and new, like that first date in Min-na-so-ta. You’re looking forward to seeing him again too, aren’t you?”

A squeeze of gentle affirmation, soft as a lamb.

“You know, Edythe, I’m going to take care of your Barbara. I don’t want you to worry. I love her dearly.”

One more gentle caress of slender finger tips with red nails and Edythe relaxed. Her tense shoulders finally settled into the heavenly cloud-like pillows, and she slept.

Today wasn’t going to be the day. I didn’t think tonight was going to be the night either. What with its ups and downs, the inevitable downward spiral of life proved more unpredictable than imagined. There had been times when I thought Edythe was surely a goner. There were other times I thought she was better. All of us were counting the days, the hours, the minutes. A piece of your heart is going somewhere, and you feel it’s out of touch forever, forever. It’s like a train platform where the good-bye windows are masked by smoke, and you want to be seen waving goodbye. Or the black and white grainy shots of an ocean liner leaving on a fantastic voyage, with streamers obscuring the close-ups. You want to reduce the experience to a cinematic experience because that’s the only way you’ve experienced it. The real thing is too hard to bear. But the depth of this grief is epic. Maybe one of the reasons time becomes so precious is because we don’t want to miss that last minute with one that’s meant the most to us. Your mom was always there for you, so you want to be there for her. It’s literally tearing me apart to watch their last goodbye. Why?

This was one battle I ducked, but Barb had the courage to face. It’s funny. Men can be brave about taking physical risks, but Hell, women are courageous in spades. Acts of bravery don’t always require critical judgement. Courage, on the other hand, requires a thorough understanding of the situation.

After Barb and I first met, we were talking on the phone and she said we could see each other on the weekend, but on that particular day, she was going up to see her mother right after work. I knew her mom was terminally ill.

I wanted to see Barb, and knew at that point, even though it was early in the relationship, that I wanted to see her again and again. What was I going to say?

“Well, O.K. We can hook up on the weekend then. Give me a call, will ‘ya?”

I’d heard about her mom and seen pictures all over the house. The stories were fantastic and a mother is always a big influence on her daughter. Here was a chance of a lifetime. Learn more about Barbara and get to meet a great lady. If the stories about Edythe’s beauty and graciousness were true, I was game. I was eager. That’s me when I’m interested, the fella with endless enthusiasm. Besides, people say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Oh, then pick me up,” I said. “I’ll pack my umbrella.”

And it’s been raining ever since. If ever into anyone’s life raindrops must fall, then this season of dying is our monsoon. It’s only near the midnight hour that minutes become precious and take on profound meaning. For Barb and I, a new love, a new life, a new beginning, was discovered in the house of death.

At first I was a scoffer, but not hesitant to try a dating site to meet a woman. I figured it was the 21st Century and I was going to do my best to catch up, even if my dating style was forged over thirty years ago.

You have no idea the state of mind I was in. So desperate, so out of touch with the feminine side of our species I was ready to start combing the pages of Plenty of Fish to hook one.

Of course, the process was arduous. It was fraught with difficulties. But I did it. My psyche required it. So I scanned through the pictures and skimmed through the biographies and came across one that really stuck out.

“But what’s this? This distressing fact right here in the last paragraph.”

The pictures were beguiling but the bio is disturbing. It said she was a therapist of some kind. Aye carumba! I didn’t care much for this kind of stuff, for the simple reason I had a magician’s training, and as all magicians knew, you took a magician’s oath to never give up your secrets.

Not by a long shot did I intend to give up the secrets in me. It would certainly make me lose my magic. I didn’t intend to give up my magic. No earthquake or fire or tornado could possibly worm any secrets out of me.

It was a case of Hall and Oates No Can Do. I can’t go for that.

But before you know it, I caved in and we started corresponding. Barbara had no life outside that of her mother and work. She’d work a full day, and after it was finished, she’d head north on the fifteen to her mother’s house in Carlsbad. Her father died in 1997 and she returned to graduate school 2001 to change her course in life. She became her mother’s soul emotional support. She was reduced to trying to date online, having time for nothing else. Pretty soon we were exchanging e-mail addresses and exchanging tons of information. Thank you Plenty of Fish. Mega-tons of info was traded back and forth.


Not to say it was all good. Dump trucks of generic trash were interspersed with galleons of personal treasure. But after a while, indicators began to pile up.

“You have a daughter named ‘Nichole’? Me too, but we spell it ‘Nicole’.”

“You’re an English teacher? I was an English teacher!”

“You’ve been to Peru? Me too!”

“You sent me Rat Pack songs. My dad knew all the Rat Pack songs.”

“Hey, we’ve got a lot of synchronicity going on. You like Jung? Me and Carl are just like that!”

I cross my fingers but she can’t see, it’s over the phone.

“Carl wrote the introduction to my copy of the I Ching. You don’t know the I Ching? I’ll throw it for you one day, got the bronze coins and all.”

Next thing you know I’m sending her links to You-Tube, songs, and movies like Pather Panchali.

The reason I sent Pather Panchali is because although the sequence shows children, it’s a sensuous sequence. It’s a clever way of being suggestive and tender too. That’s me, Mister Tender and Suggestive, soft yet sexy. Something about Barbara brought it out in me.

Well, to be truthful, I’m lying here. Me sending her a link to Satyajit Ray’s film wasn’t just an example of my masculine seductive prowess. Her mother was dying, and life for her at this point was a collection of storms and hostilities. I intended to stand by her side and brave the storm with her, that’s what it was really about. That’s the truth of the matter.

Of course, I had reservations. Any private no-admittance man with his head screwed on straight has reservations. So me, the clandestine me, the hesitant me, the covered-up covered-up me, had a sh*t-load of reservations. But her image was so compelling I have to go for the gusto anyway and made a date to have coffee.

Oh my God, and by the Beard of the Prophet, I suggested having coffee!

That was me, Mister Bold and Reckless, Mister Take-A-Chance, Mister I Don’t Give A f*ck, because she’s so lovely I just hadta, make a date with a good-looking woman to have coffee simply because her image was so damn compelling. Mister Me, the Dude who didn’t care to have anyone, and I mean anyone, peering around inside his noggin.

The rendezvous was at Starbucks in North Park. Even romance can have a practical side. I jammed out the door and flew up the street and figured I’ll arrive there about the same time she did, not a minute before, so as not to appear the needy bastard I was.

Sometimes I dripped more neediness than a Van Husen drip-dry shirt, only twice as pathetic. I imaged she would take one look at me and hang me out to dry.

When I got to Starbucks I realized there are more white Lexuses than I imagined in this world, and plenty of other cars that look similar, especially since it was dark. Scanning every white car for a good-looking dark-haired woman is wearing out my brain. After several impatient minutes, I gave her a call and she answered,

“I’m here on the corner.”

I was so nervous I scanned every corner in sight.

I jetted across the street in front of the wig shop and by that time I was so keyed up I was about to explode. Right then I saw a woman getting out of a pure-white Lexus.

She looked up.

The smoldering eyes, the dark stylish hair streaked with brilliant highlights, the high-as-Everest cheekbones and expressive mouth curved in a tenderly delicious welcoming smile, oh please, Momma, please!

Let it be her!


I sprinted like an Olympic ice-skater to her side and scared the you-know-what out of her when I screeched to a halt, nearly knocking her down.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Nothing like a great first impression.

That was me, King of Great First Impressions. It was her, Queen of Style and Good Looks. And speaking of good looks, I couldn’t wait to get her inside of Starbucks for a first- rate-reconnoiter under the unforgiving klieg light of ol’ stimulant coffee Arabica.

We hugged a friendly hug hello. At least for two strangers, it was supposed to be a rather casual friendly-fied hug, nothing special mind you, nothing suggestive. But I noticed certain warmth, a certain je ne sais quoi, and whatever the hell it was, I liked it. I wasn’t supposed to like it that much, but I liked it… that much and more. I could feel her smile in the hug and it touched me somewhere deep inside.

We slipped into Starbuck’s for coffee. I shot the windows here one night and posted the picture. She saw it on Facebook. You’ve seen Starbucks, it’s the McDonald’s of coffee houses. Cool, but not too cool, if you know what I mean. The literary camaraderie like back in the day with Boswell and Johnson, like Elliot, Balzac, and Byron, was totally lacking.

It was much too sterile for that, and there was not one, not one I tell ya, stinkin' speck of camaraderie. Oh, there were plenty of people but little interactions, the gentrified patrons were much too busy, playing with their fingers on 'smart' or 'dumb' ‘devices’.

We were the only two that were interacting, and I’d say that exactly but no, we were nowhere near acting, but somewhere closer to the home plate of Reality Central. You’ll think it’s crazy but inside I was a ball of seething tension. On the surface, I was calm! Her kindness was soaking into me.

My soul was steeping its bag in her strange brew!

Funny, because when I was still at home, I was nervous as all get-out. I was pacing so much I wore a trench in Jim’s rug. His two dogs, Morgan and Stanley, where scared out of their doggie-wits. I even e-mailed her last minute:

“If this doesn’t work out with us, I have nothing.”

OMG, OMG, if I wasn’t Desperation personified I don’t know who was. Oh. Jesus, I was a desperado! Saints preserve me, Antonio Banderas was gonna be jealous.

And the best line I came up with was, “Your eyes are two different colors. They’re crazy eyes.”

When what I meant to say was, “Your eyes are magnificent, like a birds-eye view of a tropical island thousands of leagues distant, surrounded with deferential coconut palms, enclosed by a peaceful green lagoon.”

And she wasn’t wearing a white lab coat and neither did she take notes on a yellow legal pad. I bet she didn’t smoke a cigar and wear glasses either, like Sigmund You-Know-Who. I mentioned this.

“Sometimes I do but now I have contacts in.”

Oh, Jeez, she was soo sweet and honest.

She was wearing a black coat with purple trim and a purple tank-top under that and soft creamy shoulders under that. Her hair was cut fashionably shoulder-length and she had this dark-hair-light-skin thing going on, which is rare. That made her exotic, made her hard to resist, made it easy to have romantic ideas concerning her and no one else. She gave me a fond look and noted,

“I saw in your pictures you had black hair and blue eyes. I used to have a crush on a guy with black hair and blue eyes. We met during Easter Break one year up in Newport. Balboa Island.”

Oh, I’ll be damned; she’d been to an island.

We exchanged mega-tons of information and calculated that Debbie died at nearly the same time her divorce became final.

“How old was Nichole when her mom died?”

“I’m not sure. Nunny hadn’t graduated high-school yet, maybe junior, maybe senior.”

The mom in her showed disapproval but the Doc retained her balance and professional demeanor.

“You mean you weren’t emotionally present for your little girl? Was she a senior, a junior, or what?"

"I don’t remember. I wasn’t emotionally there for myself.”

She gave me a look of condolence and understanding. I’ve never seen more celestial understanding in a down-to-earth human face.

We talked about her work and about things in general and before you know it I excused myself to the men’s room. Coffee, ya’ know how it can be. Like roughage for your soul.

I washed my hands and splashed water on my face and caught a look at my head and shoulders in the mirror, and gave my image an unforgiving look.

“This isn’t making it, not measuring up, not working out. I’m too laid back, not making an effort, not talking about things that matter. I’m struggling to understand what’s she’s saying about a concept it took her years to understand and she’s much smarter than me!

What if I can’t change? What if the old dried-up Chameleon Man can’t change? I don’t see how that’s possible. It took change to get me here, wherever here is, so why isn’t it possible to change in the other direction?”

I was fearful, apprehensive, on edge, and becoming more guarded by the minute. So you know what I did?

I took a breath, screwed up my courage, and strutted back out for round two.

I sidled back up to the table.

We start prying information out of each other like professionals, like low-life car thieves who always carry a screw driver in their back pockets and scan parked cars for opportunities.

“Tell me something about Deb.”

I took a sip and then a breath.

“In my family, Deb was the one to make up nick-names for everyone. Michelle was first, and after a while we just called her Elle. I told her years later they named a fashion mag after her. And Sean became Mister Shaboombombs.”

“Mister Shaboombombs?”

“He was always getting into accidents. I took him for stitches plenty of times. Sha-boom, this would happen, sha-bomb, that would happen. Chain link fences, metal poles, accidents of all sorts. Hence, Mister Shaboombombs.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“Nichole became Nunny. Maybe because she was always so proper and good and upstanding.”

It was her turn.

“My dad called Nicole, Schmizal. He saw in on the side of a truck. It said Schmizal Plumbing”

The sound of it enchanted me, and I liked how it rolled off my tongue, like a bite of cheesy Jalapeño bagel.

“But she didn’t like it. Later, when she was a cheerleader, the kids started calling her Bip.”

“Bip?”

She adored the Padres and they had a guy named Bip Roberts.”

“Bip, Schmizal, what a great history."

I couldn't wait to kid counselor Bip/Schmizal about it.

“What about Allison? Did Allison have any names?”

“Just Alley Cat.”

Pause for effect, a moment of contemplation.

“I suppose that was enough.”

I began to see an opening. I knew it was time to be bold and let her rip. “I got a nick-name.”

I’ve decided to tell her the nick-name story. It was a funny story. She’d like it. I wanted her to like it so that she’d like me; it was a case of do or die.
She’d better not tell me No Can Do or I’ll think of Hall and Oats. I’d been thinking of Hall and Oats too much lately, their songs were beginning to pray on my mind. Many songs popped into my consciousness like Ready-Pop popcorn. But they only contained kernels of psychic truth.

“Tell me all about it,” she said all clinical-like, but with a smile on her lips as sweet and transformative as royal jelly.

She submerged six packets of Sweet and Low into her coffee and gave it a stir. Some non-offensive muzak was playing but I didn’t know what.

“ I used to work for Sears, Division Ten, and on the loading dock I was the only one who was allowed out there, the girls in the office weren’t covered by insurance. So I’d have to go into the office to collect my paperwork. At home, Deb and I would spend Saturday afternoon watching old black and white movies from the thirties. I got into the Thin Man.

“Mirna Loy, William Powel, Asta?”

“That’s it. The Thin Man, After the Thin Man, you name it. Deb started calling me the Thin Man. But Deb, being the Queen of Names, shortened it and started calling me Thinny." When I said this I crinkled my nose.

“Thinny?"

“Yes, Thinny.”

She smiled again and crinkled her eyes.

“So one day I’m getting ready to leave and I get a call from the window to come pick up papers and I stroll in the office and make the rounds of the secretaries desks, all eight of them, and start to bid them goodnight. And one, Anne, accosts me just as I’m leaving. She’s real sweet; in fact she gave a killer recipe for brownies-from scratch. She shouts out,

“Oh, and Deb called, and said to pick up some pan dulces on the way home.”

“Oh, OK. See ya.”

I’m right at the door with my back turned, about ready to make my Great Escape like another Steve I know.

“And don’t forget the milk….Thinny.”

“The whole office exploded in a bubble of laughter. Eight desks full cackling women, a regular laugh riot. Public humiliation at the work place, there’s nothing like it to sear your brain and leave a lasting impression.”

We both stood up and decide to take a stroll down University Avenue towards 30th Street and watch the crowd pass by. It was as packed as a can of Yuppy Sardines any day of the week, and on Friday, as busy as Disneyland on Date-night.

Now that she was smiling it was alright, I felt assured for a few precious seconds.

There was a funny thing going on with her mouth. It turned down in the corners like a sad marionette. But when she was happy it turned upwards towards the heavens and her eyes crinkled like an angel’s wing. So when I saw her smile, it was like winning some kind of tangible trophy.

And it wasn’t a brass or silver medal like in the Olympics. It wasn’t not even the gold medal, as pure as it is, but something beyond value and measure and even more enduring. It was the promise of eternal happiness leaking out the corners of her exquisite mouth.

Oh my goodness, I was of two minds about this woman! On one hand I was attracted like a magnet, and on the other hand, repelled and getting nervous! Oh my goodness gracious!
Barbara was getting to me! She was under my skin! Cole Porter would understand my situation.

Sometimes I think I made the ponderous humorous. You have to be really neurotic to do that. I think I’m inching my way there, thought by crazy thought. Grab neurosis by the balls and ride it like a mechanical bull in a cowboy bar. Do it like Clint Eastwood, a beer-drinking cowboy who hoots and hollers about it later, after he’s survived the hang-over, that’s what I say.

I was getting all schizoid about her. I had to relax, calm my *** down. There. Now what did I say?

How about,

“Let’s go outside. Let’s blow this joint. Let’s vamoose."

“Sure. Let’s.”

Outside we turned east and walked toward 30th Street. The bus stop on the corner had benches that looked like turned over wooden blocks. Trees on the sidewalk were wrapped up with LCD Anaconda lights like Disneyland’s Main Street. It wasn’t the North Park I grew up in, now gentrified as all get-out. Times changed and people with them. We checked out the blue and white tiles on the entrance to the old Woolworth’s store. Every single couple surrounding us was holding hands. What was wrong with me? Had I lost my dating game? Not by a long shot. I deftly used the opportunity of crossing 30th to take hold of her hand. Even after we reached the other curb, I didn’t let go. Like Sade, I was a Smooth Operator.

Now Mister Nervous was magically transformed to Mister Bold and Cool. Oh gosh, thank god for small miracles. But I’d take advantage of them, they don’t always last.

So when I slipped behind her and took her side, facing the street, doing the old Gentleman comes between the Lady and the Horses flicking Mud on her Dress Thing, at the same time, and not a second or half-second behind that move, I touched her with the tips of my fingers on the small of her back, gently, you understand, gently as a diaphanous butterfly wing. It was one of those touches that could be perceived as light, but if you did it inexpertly, without the proper degree of suavity, it could be reacted to like an unwanted ton of Rudolph Valentino's sexual menace.

Not that night. Not that magic moment.

She reacted as if it was the most natural move on the face of the earth. Oh sh*t this was beautiful stuff. I loved it. Somehow she sent me to my comfort zone instead of to my room. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, there was no escape.

Her gorgeous mug radiated light, even under the street lamp. The pale luminous skin, the coal-dark hair, the crimson lips, so wet, so luscious, so inviting.
Oh gosh-golly, by George, and all that. Momma, oh sweet Momma, come save your baby boy. He’s about to lose his virginity...again.

Life was suddenly fair. Life was suddenly sweet. Life was at once deliciously sanctified and caloric.

We passed shop windows and peered inside. They were all so very hip now, and there were many more restaurants and coffee shops than when I was growing up. Now that I was mature it hardly seemed fair that the lovely setting was reserved only for the young. Well, Barbara and I were young at heart, and maybe that counted for something.

She looked in a vintage clothing shop and spotted a floppy hat, and I pointed out a black sequined dress with a radiant butterfly patterned on the back. I recognized beauty when I saw it, knowing beauty always seduced my eyes first. If it’s true Beauty, the rest of me comes later.

Next to that shop was Streetside Thai Chicken so we dropped in while silently praying we made it in by happy hour.

We ordered a bottle of Saki and they delivered the goods in a discreet black ceramic bottle with a lip. Around the neck was a bow tie made out of a paper napkin. The bottle was hot so the napkin saved your precious fingers. Clever Orientals anyway, if they weren’t saving face they were saving fingers.

Now the words were flowing like rice wine. It was Friday night and Streetside Thai Chicken was stuffed with people and you had to get close in order to hear each other. Every phrase became a close encounter. Every casual glance spoke encyclopedic volumes. My lips brushed against her hair and almost touched her ear. With every point she made she touched my arm and smiled.

It occurs to me that something unusual is going on. We share instant rapport. It’s like Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice. It’s takes but a flash to prepare! It’s unexplainable! But then again, maybe it does have a scientific explanation.

I know what it is. Frank Sinatra told me once. I shoulda remembered. It’s witchcraft! She’s witchcrafting me! I’m being witchcrafted!

Finally the place is ready to close. Our conversation is carried on outside on the way back to her car. My defenses are so far down by now I’m ready to answer anything, and truthfully, do you hear, truthfully. I’m ready to be invaded, ready to hoist the white flag and surrender. So then she comes up with this one.

“Did you ever cheat on Debbie?”

“I never cheated on Deb, never. But on Kristina, plenty.”

She says nothing. She hesitates. She pauses. She waits and considers, and then says,

“You live close. Want a ride home?”

“Sure.”

We hop in her car and head west. Left turn at Tobacco Rhoda’s and we’re there in five minutes. There are so many palm fronds on the street due to the storm she has to park a couple of places down under a street lamp. I look over to say goodnight and decide a hug goodnight might be appropriate.
It turns into a kiss. Let me say right here that for me, first time kisses are usually like exploratory operations, you never know what you’ll turn up. They can be awkward affairs, after all, they are first-timers and you haven’t had an opportunity to exchange notes yet.

Not this time, not this kiss.

I could say it was ‘as easy as falling off a log” but it was far better than that. You see, I can’t swim. So for me, that’s a close image but a bad simile. There wasn’t any danger attached to this kiss.

It was like Johnny Weissmuller, falling off a log into a calm cool pool of crystalline water, on a hot African afternoon, and knowing all along you could swim like crazy and hold your breath forever.

It’s didn’t matter if there were crocodiles, ‘cause you were Tarzan. You feared nothing. You felt good. Tarzan King of the Jungle good. Fear no Evil, Hot Monkey Love good. Jungle Love, Get down Boogie Good.

At least that’s how it felt. Actually, I’m lying. I’m fabricating. Words fail me on this one, that’s how good it was. Sometimes in the most descriptive phrases fall short of the mark. But writers? All we have are words.

After I got out of the car I motioned for her to roll down the window.

“Call me when you get home, so I know you made it home safe.”

“I will,” said with sparkle, and a crinkle, and a smile.

I went in and got undressed; put on my Hugh Heffner’s, and tucked myself in. About forty-five minutes later she called and we talked. I don’t remember one word of the conversation. I was in a daze. When she hung up I tried to go to sleep, attempting to rewind the events of our meeting and replay them on my brain screen. Even that was obscured by an unidentifiable mist.

I would have tried to dream up what it was like to kiss her, but I’d already done that. The next step was to imagine some sort of everyday sexual fantasy, but this became problematic. This feeling growing inside of me wasn’t the standard lust a brute feels. Something else was happening.

I pondered this a bit and wondered what the hell was going on. Then my mind went blank as a frustrated English teacher's white board. Empty. Erased. Nada. Nothing. Zip.

Next thing you know I’m so submerged in myself I’m convinced I’m falling asleep and the oddest sensation occurs. Only people that have been wading in the Pacific Ocean during summer could appreciate this. You know, when you to go to the beach and step into the surf just up to your ankles, how waves make a warm sensation lap up against you?

You remember, don’t you? It caresses your ankles, and you, being the analytical human you are, realize that if you stood there long enough you’d be able to feel the tide was coming in because the warm water would eventually inch its way up your body.

You don’t know where the tide's at just now, but you can feel it marking you, making an indelible impression that can’t be ignored. I had this feeling creeping up from inside me and I recognized it. It was a protective feeling, the one a man has for his wife or daughter. And I knew if I stayed there long enough it would cover me up head to foot. But I didn't fear it, you must understand.

Instead, I wanted to drink it, to inhale it, to drown in it. This feeling was something I needed more urgently than sex. What it engendered made my reptilian brain’s needs ignorable, because it was even more primal. It was the yearning of one heart to join with another.

That’s when I understood why I wasn’t falling asleep. I was falling in love. I had my reasons. Men always have their reasons.

When a man and woman share this much chemistry, when a couple’s every meeting is a close encounter of their minds, when I can’t get enough of her look and laugh and the sparkle that lights up her eyes, and never tire of the sound of her voice, something must be going on.

This isn’t your every-day hook-up. It’s epic, and epics take time.

You don’t question it, even though it’s unexpected and out of place. It’s something so positive and electric; you can feel the truth of it in your bones. You just go with the flow. I was more trusting of this woman than any woman I’d ever met. Meeting Barb was like an intoxication that never wore off, and the only hang-over was like Diana Ross’s Love Hang-over, and same as Diana, “I don’t need no doctor”.

The race for each other’s hearts began, and that was three months ago. She’d pick me up after work and we’d drive up the coast to her mothers’ and stay the night. The next morning we’d drive south and do it all over again. I remember that part of the season was cold and raining, and how speeding cars would leave towering rooster tails that obscured our vision, since they wouldn’t slow down to save their lives. Our windshield wipers could never catch up. That never deterred us.

We couldn’t be separated, not even for one night. For ninety days we slept together, over the covers, but as close as possible. I expected this night, a night full of watching and waiting, would be just the same.

The calming music was still playing in Edythe’s bedroom when we climbed the stairs. With each step higher on the white carpet staircase, the music became fainter, and by the time we got to the top and passed the player piano, the song was more a memory you heard in your head instead of the song itself. When I closed the double doors behind us, we couldn’t hear Edythe’s song at all, only our doors and their click. It was so quiet on the other side it was like stepping into a thirteenth century cathedral.

“Draw the blackout curtains, Baby.”

Then we changed into our pajamas. For over ninety days we’d slept together like two silver spoons nestled in a red velvet case, but it was always on top of the sheets. I’d never experienced anything like it; just being that close to Barb was rewarding. I’d always been a man who, if he couldn’t see a payoff just around the corner; wouldn’t take the time to invest his emotions. I was one skirt-chasing cold bastard as a young man. Then I grew up. When you finally meet the love of your life, old habits have to change, if you want a chance to find sanctuary.

Barb reached over from her side of the bed and pulled down the bedspread. Then she did something I’d never seen her do before. She turned down the sheet itself, and slipped so far under only her shoulders and head were showing. Her black spaghetti straps drew dusky lines on her creamy shoulders, and resembled Belgian chocolate strands dripped over French vanilla ice cream. My mouth began to water like one of Pavlov’s’ dogs, and why not? I was only human, and a man can only take so much. There were many endless nights when I hungered for Barbara, but forced my primal instincts into the background and attempted to ignore them.

“Will you turn out the lights too, and make sure the black-out curtains don’t open until after we wake up? Pull them tight.”

“Can do.”

I checked behind the black-out curtains to make sure the sliding glass door was locked. Right before I switched off the lamp, I gave Barb a look. Barb has most expressive face I’ve ever seen. Every nuanced emotion is there, you just have to look. First there was need, then sadness, then resignation. Her face has always been, and will ever be, a magnet to me. There’s always been electricity between us, but the surge I was experiencing wasn’t just a spark alone, it was a spark heralding a magnificent storm. It was life, death, love, and eternity, all rolled into one.

Getting under the covers too, I reached across the darkness to find her hand. I said nothing, trying not to upset the spell. Our world was about to tip on its axis. Change was inescapable. You could feel it coming.

“Hold me,” her voice whispered, “I need to be held.”

We found each other in the dark and connected. I held onto her like never before and realized from our first embrace that making love is not like having sex. It’s so much closer in spirit. Making love not only satiates your physical hunger, it feeds your soul and spirit, and satisfies you eternally. My arms reached around her and my hands clasped over hers. I could feel my ring on her finger. We were making love with the sanction of marriage. I never felt more complete, or really mated. Life, death, Holy Communion, a new life, a new love, springs into existence and the circle of living begins again.

Around two forty-five Olivia awakened us with, “Barbara, Barbara,” from the foot of the stairs. Barbara sprang up one final time and while I was still searching for my clothes she came in and began searching for her phone book in her enormous purse.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s dead,” Barbara whispered mechanically, and even through her cold protective mechanism I felt searing pain.

It was over for Edythe. Her silver cord had snapped, and her golden bowl of consciousness was set free. Finally, I found my pants and shirt and was ready to go downstairs. I was facing the patio and the open area below.

But before I opened the door to the stairway, I opened the black-out curtains and the sliding glass doors to the balcony overlooking the patio and hillside. I expected to see Edythe, or at least her trail, like the faint tail of a comet streaking through the night sky.

I searched the heavens where the lights of civilization were reflecting on the clouds leaving silhouettes of Eucalyptus like black construction paper cut outs against grey brooding heavens.

But I saw nothing.

It occurred to me that I was looking for the wrong thing. Edythe, for the vast majoring of her existence was vital and throbbing with life and good humor. Only for a fraction of that lifetime was Edythe restricted to the remains of her glory, and it was only the remains I’d witnessed. I was looking in the wrong place for the wrong thing.

So I looked once again and saw what I wanted.

It was Truffaut’s Red Balloon. Edythe’s spirit was drifting across the Seine, past Notre Dame, over the Louvre and the Arc de Triumph, watching over the City of Lights and lovers and romance as if it was her charge, gleefully snapping all connections, transcending all boundaries, gladly jettisoning the corporeal world of earth wind and fire, and gracefully ascending to Heaven.

Edythe’s timing to give up her earthy spirit was decided the moment she knew her daughter was cared for and loved. In other words, the moment Barbara found her Bashert.

©Steven Hunley2016