An Anecdotal Life

Now I Know How The River Feels

"...when it reaches the sea, and finally finds the place that it was always meant to be." -- Diamond Rio

         In my life, I have known love and have been confused by it. It has hurt and healed, forsaken and forgiven, been quiet and wild, and above all, deep. Like everyone else, I've had my share of hits--my dear friend, Dan, who took the dissolution of romance into platonic kinship gracefully--and misses--the tremendous one-sided adoration I had for my high school football player.

         But in the end, as the Highlander so eloquently puts it, there can be only one.

         I met Mike during a role-playing phase that I'd gotten into rather deeply after the whole Kentucky incident (nothing like sexual assault to make you want to be someone else). I was his boss in the game, and I found the part to be quite pleasing. As an older sister, I will always be a bossy little nag at heart. In any event, Mike didn't seem to object to the situation either; in fact, he rather delighted in calling me "ma'am" just to see the steam billowing out of my ears.

         As our characters become closer, so did we, until the dividing line became indistinguishable. I was still afraid of all things male, so our relationship was the very definition of fragile for the first few years. I loved him, I was intimidated by him, I wanted more, I didn't want that much...back and forth with him being patient and me being infuriated by his inability to be shaken.

         The first real "moment" we had was actually years into the relationship. We had just spent a lovely weekend taking a tour of the NASA facility in Houston (he's an engineer) and strolling through the Museum of Fine Art (I'm an artist) and were wrapping things up on the quaint boardwalk in Kemah. The sun was setting over the Gulf of Mexico and the sound of the ferris wheel clanged gently nearby. We sat on a bench, dimly aware of our peaceful surroundings as we talked. What we were saying, I can't remember, but I know I was midsentence when he reached over and casually lifted a lock of damp hair off my neck, nudging it over my shoulder.

         My brain literally shut down. There was a spark, then a wee puff of smoke, and all the gears ground to a halt. I carefully refrained from looking at him--bumbling idiot that I was--and continued to speak mechanically. Presumably, I finished my sentence, but I may have done a Hail Mary or two for all I know.

         Frightened, and quite thick, I wavered again and put the poor boy off until my revelation on September 11. There was no doubt I was in love with him at that point, but just what to do about it was a different matter. Most sane people know exactly what to do when someone loves them and they feel the same--go out with them. Let it run its course. Get married, grow old, have a good life. Could I ever have something that simple, though? Ohhhhhhh noooooo. No, I'd rather tear my love's guts out, throw them on the ground beside my own, and do a lively Irish step dance on the whole affair.

         Mike took it all with grace and a quiet perserverance until one summer night when I knew there was no turning back.

         Cunning lad that he is, Mike had gone out of his way that evening to look rakishly attractive in a filthy ballcap (bearing the name "Fighting Cocks" for all to see), an old t-shirt, and worn blue jeans. He squinted in the candlelight at his hand of cards then peered at me over the top of them. And he winked. My heart literally did a back flip.

         "Mike, are you going to go or what?" his older sister, Daria, asked impatiently. Daria is a large girl, built like her broad six-foot tall brother, with a mind to match. Woe be the fool who challenges the likes of those two in a game of Jeopardy.

         "Yeah, yeah." He flung out a heart grumpily, ending up with yet another unwanted trick under his belt at the end of the round.

         "Mike's never been very good at Hearts," his mother informed me primly across the table. The four of us were seated outside at a patio table on their deck, enjoying the warm Pennsylvania evening. I slipped my sandals off, dropping them onto the boards of the deck, and propped my feet in Mike's lap under the table.

         "He's just trying to make us feel sorry for him so we'll play Trivial Pursuit," I said, grinning. Mike gave us a sarcastic smirk without looking up from his cards.

         "Are we going to play, ladies?"

         Giggling, I carefully chose a card and tossed it out. While I waited for Mike to do the same, he dropped a hand to cover my feet, massaging one absently.

         "Hey, did I tell you about that book I just finished?" Daria asked her brother, drawing his attention further away from me than the game of cards had. And still his hand caressed my ankle.

         Everything else disappeared in that moment except for him. Usually, all the time we spent together was alone and, by necessity, we were constantly focused solely on one another. This was the first time that I got to see him as was when he wasn't around me: witty, brilliant, attentive (that hand was still rubbing my foot), sarcastic, relaxed--and sexy, I realized with a start. Truly, ungodly sexy.

         Cupid had just taken a two-by-four to my forehead and had the bad manners to do so in front of the man in question's family. Stupid little bugger. Surpressing the urge to grab Mike's hand and drag him behind the butterfly bush, I forced myself to turn back to the game.

         There have been so many moments since then when the world has dropped away and he has been brought into sharp relief. During a lecture about war at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. On a quaint little tour boat gliding across Mobile Bay. Looking at his terrified face as I balanced precariuosly on the porch railing taking down Christmas lights. Watching him bent over the exposed engine of his ancient Mercury Cougar.

         That car was something that we both loved dearly. It died recently after carrying us some three hundred miles across Michigan and delivering us safely in Flint. All three of us shuddered as the Cougar took its last breath and faded quietly away. Mike patted its dashboard affectionaly, but gave no other outward sign of distress as he gathered half our things to carry into the house.

         Struggling behind with the other half, I came upon him around the dark corner of the building, our things scattered at his feet, his head on his arms as he leaned against the wall sobbing. And no wonder. It was his first car, the vehicle he had driven to manhood. It had been as much a part of his life as anything else he held dear, inanimate object or no. I immediately dropped everything and went to him, pulling his head down to my shoulder.

         "Shhh," I cooed softly in his ear. He clung to me tightly, straining my ribs as he snuffled in my ear.

         "I'm sorry, this is so stupid," he said in a muffled, miserable voice. I rubbed his back.

         "No, baby, it's okay. Cry." To my great horror, it felt good to be able to hold him so, to croon gentle words into his ear and stroke his hair. To make it better. The need to fix it, however irrational, surged within me. I suddenly realized how husbands must feel watching their wives give birth, standing helplessly by as she screams and writhes in pain.

         He paused long enough to take our stuff inside, throw a quick explanation to his housemates lounging in the living room, and make it to his room. Once there, he collapsed onto a chair to cry again, dragging me onto his knee to use as a teddy bear.

         I had rudely chosen to wear a shirt with thick glitter on the front, quite inappropriate for comforting a tearful boyfriend. I pulled my shirt off and we sat holding one another until he had cried himself out. Sniffling, he lifted his head and gave me a blurry-eyed smile.

         "Thank you," he whispered, kissing me lightly before I rose to let him up. We both heard steps in the hall near his door and I did a frantic scan for my discarded top. And Mike did an extraordinary thing.

         He reached out and put his hand firmly against the door, effectively preventing anyone from being able to open it.

         I tugged my shirt over my head and gaped at him. "Baby..."

         "Hmm?" He looked up at me distantly, obviously distracted by his own thoughts. I shook my head slowly.

         "Nothing."

         He had thought of me. In a moment of grief, when he was thoroughly focused on what he had to do next and how he was going to function without a vehicle, he had thought of me. I realized then that always, deep in the recesses of his consciousness, he is thinking of me because that's how much he loves me and it comes naturally to him.

         And always, I am thinking of him, too.