Foam

FOAM

 
"After he marries another, " the witch-mother said, "your heart will break, and you will die, and become as the foam on the crest of the waves. If he cannot love you, if you do not make him love you, you will die and disappear in the foam."
 
I thought I could make him love me. I did everything I could to make him love me. I thought he loved me.
 
The first time I saw him, I saved his life.
 
He was wrecked, as they all were, often, outside the bar. A group of strung-out youths had descended on him like a wave, beaten him up and stolen his money, leaving him face-down in the gutter, about to drown in the puddle of rainwater. I would have left him there, but something--maybe the glint of golden hair against the streetlamp--made me go against my better judgment. I waited for the thugs to go away and turned him over. One look at his face was my undoing--for despite the bruises and swelling, it was the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I lifted him up, heavy as he was, and carried him all the way to the nearest emergency room.
 
I don't think he knows that I saved his life that night. He thinks it was someone else. I waited for the doctors to say he was all right, then left., but not before he sleepily held my face and kissed me. "You're beautiful, " he said sleepily. "I love you." I ran away, afraid. I had never done anything like that before.
 
I thought a lot about him afterwards, always wishing I could see him again, he was that beautiful. The trouble with wishes is that they are granted, and whatever fate that does, seems to grant them with malicious glee.
 
The next time I saw him was at the club where I tended bar. He ordered a drink, looking really sad, and I asked him what was the matter. He spilled his heartache to me, people seem to think that was what bartenders are for. He talked about the woman who saved his life. "You look a little like her, you know, " he said drunkenly. "Except you aren't her. You can't be. You're a man."
 
He came in several times after that, with the same story, and every time, I wanted to say, "No, you're wrong, it was me. I saved your life that night. It was me. Me." But I had given up my voice, because I was afraid to speak. I knew he was looking for a girl, and I did not wish to see the shock and horror a sudden revelation like that would cause, so I just smiled, nodded, and poured him another drink.
 
I gave up my voice so I could be close to him. I never spoke, just smiled, and nodded, in conversations, in discussions, even when I disagreed, even when it was stupid, I held my tongue. Only a few words, mostly yes, never no.
 
By the time we were close, I had forgotten how to speak. "You look like a girl, " he said. "You look like her. " When, one drunken night, he asked to come home with me, I could only croak yes.
 
When the worst came, I was silent altogether. It hurt to walk afterwards, but I never said a word, never let him see the tears. It was all right. I would give up my voice and more, if only I could be with him. As long as he loved me. He could know the truth later, after he loved me. After we were already friends. And more. After he realized it was me he loved.
 
He thought I looked like her, so I walked on those stilts they called heels, ever so gracefully, at first, down ramps and through corridors and smoky halls, and afterwards, through dark streets and darker alleys. No dancer ever stepped so lightly, they said, and even though it felt as if I were treading on sharp knives, nobody knew.
 
There were times I wanted to ask if he loved me, but the words would not come. Once, he said, "Oh my pretty dumb darling, I would marry you if I could. If I had to choose a bride, it would be you, but ... "
 
His voice would trail off, but that would be enough for me. I would be happy, and smile, wiping the crystal glasses till they shone. "Maybe in another country, we could," he thought aloud, and I would smile. And plan. And dream.
 
Until the day he said that he had found her, the one who saved his life.
 
I wanted to laugh when I saw her face. She looked shocked when we were introduced. It must have been like looking at an evil mirror. I knew I had the same shocked look on my face, for she looked just like me. Like me, she recovered quickly, and we smiled at each other, and falsely held hands like long-lost siblings.
 
They got married yesterday.
 
I was the best man. I held the ring, and her gaze, right at the very moment when the pastor said, "If there is anyone here who has any reason for these two not to be married, speak now, or forever hold your peace. "
 
She looked at me, almost afraid, but I did not speak, of course. I held my peace. My voice was long gone by then.
 
I drove them to the pier, where they boarded the ship for their honeymoon to kingdoms far, far away. And as the ship sailed, I felt my heart break.
 
The foam smells of jasmine, and a little bit of the sea. The water is warm, and I am sleepy. I run some more of the bath gel under the faucet, and watch as the fragrant bubbles rise, first white, and then pink-it would never be red no matter how much of my blood spilled for there is too much foam-- soft bubbly foam, high enough for me to disappear in.