Through a Stranger's Eyes

by Steven S Walsky

  Chapter Five

  When I arrived home I found a message on the answering machine, “Dave…cold feet…no excuse, I’m calling to say I want to see you.”

  It was too late to call her back on her apartment line, so I left a message on her cell phone (knowing it would be turned off), “Your call was eagerly accepted, but you’re not getting off so easy next time.”

  This time I bought daffodils, and delivered them myself to her office; the card read: You don’t have cold feet, just a brain saying it’s time to assess the situation.

  She calls me at the office. I got an ‘A’ again for the flowers. “How did you…you remembered I love daffodils.”

  “I told you this time I intend to listen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why do you keep thanking me?”

  “Because I appreciate your caring, and I’m sorry I got cold feet…the opera…just being such a pain.”

  “Breen, you’re not a pain and I know you do not have real cold feet.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well you never did, or went out of your way to keep that a secret from me…sorry;” that was my first reference to ‘us’ sex from the past, and I was sorry I had said it, but the words just kept spilling out.

  “Don’t be sorry, we slept together, you cannot change history.”

  “I’m concerned about today, tomorrow…I don’t want you to think all of this has to do with sex.”

  I read what she said next as a sign of being unsure of me, nevertheless a good sign that our new relationship had the openness that was missing the last time, “Dave…since we met you have done nothing but please me. I mean, you have bent over backwards to please me and that’s the problem. I can’t get a grasp on the situation because I’m not sure if this is the real you. I like the change, but are you really you? Understand?”

  “You want me to do something to anger you?”

  Hesitancy, “Ummm, okay, yes, do something good angry…a small thing, don’t go overboard.”

  I’m confused, but more importantly, we now finally admit to each other we had a problem communicating our feelings.

  Her ‘keeping it bottled-up inside’ approach had strained our relationship. She would hold it all in until DUMP, and by that time the simple had turned into complex. If Breen and I were to have a chance, we had to be open; which meant both of us had trust each other, be receptive, to listen. A daunting task for me because I tended to stay in broadcast mode.

  That evening I purchased two dozen red roses. I proceeded to ruin the flowers by cutting them off at the stem and placing the petals in a Ziploc bag. Attached to the bag is a note: 'Tonight as you lay in your bed, allow these petals to float down on your fantastic body, so that each petal softly kisses you as my lips hunger to.' I wrapped the gift in gold foil. First thing in the morning I personally delivered the package to Breen’s office, asking a secretary to give it to her when she arrived.”

  Later, when I returned from lunch, Kris stopped me and said she had a phone message for me, her sassy blue eyes dancing at my expense, “the female caller said quote ‘anger Dave, not arousal’ unquote.” Joanne, sitting at the next space, makes believe she is surprised at me; but that is just a cover up so her silent laughter would not take away from the moment; why should they let me off easy.

  How do you explain this one? You don’t, just retreat to your office and make believe it never happened.

  I’m leaning back in my chair counting the ceiling tiles when Breen calls, “Are you angry?”

  “Somewhat…but I’ll live, maybe in shame every time I pass Kris and Joanne, but I’ll live.”

  “See, that’s good angry. You did good romance, not good angry.”

  “How about…Breen, what’s wrong, I’ve used that line before and got no complaints.”

  “OK, that’s good angry…but don’t press your luck. You go to the opera?” I heard her, but my mind was still on the roses. “Dave?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You are. By the way, what was it about the roses that would anger me?”

  “I have no idea; that’s what I was just thinking about. Seemed like a good plan last night.”

  “Good, cause I thought I had missed something. So, did you go?”

  “With my friend Donna.”

  “You tell Donna why I begged off?”

  “I told her you were being smart and needed time to assess our relationship.”

  “What did Donna say?”

  “She said I should do whatever it takes to win you over.”

  “She mean that?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “Does Donna like you…more than a friend?”

  “No, we’re friends. She’s my alter ego.”

  “Everyone needs an alter ego.”

  “That’s part of what I want between us Breen. I want us to be so comfortable with each other that we will never be afraid to speak openly, to share our innermost thoughts…”

  She cut me off, “not now, I know what you’re asking for and I am not sure I can be what you need.”

  “Need and want are different, but I don’t want to scare you away, so let’s table this discussion for the proper time and place, if you’ll give me the chance. Breen, take the chance to travel to that place with me.”

  “Alright, but we need think time. I’ll be out of town until Monday evening around nine. Call me, or I’ll call you; but not before nine. OK? And in the mean time we can think about our relationship.”

  “Okay,” but not happy with the request.

  The moon, large and bright, hung in the just-before-morning sky; that time moments before the awakening sun begins its slow march above the horizon. Sitting on the cool rock, knees hugged, I watched Breen make her way down to the water’s edge. My every thought walked with her, torn between maintaining my idyllic watch and breaking the magic of the moment by calling her name. I had become restless and only a few minutes before left the warmth of our bed to seek the solitude of the beach, the soft roll of the tide, and the birth of a new day. I thought I would return before she awoke and noticed my absence. I just wanted some time to think, to sort out my thoughts, to…

  The shrill of the alarm clock cut through my dream, breaking the spell. Startled I sat up, looking around the room. The dream had been so real…only a dream. ‘Please don’t let this be a premonition’ I repeated over and over as I made my way to the bathroom. ‘Mirror, mirror…what say ye, what was I doing at a beach without Breen; why would I ever want to leave her side, to ever wake up without her there next to me. Tell me.’ Then, mirrors only speak in Snow White; in real life they just reflect back our morning faces in overly bright bathroom lights, distorted reflections. Hands resting on the edge of the sink, leaning forward, looking into the mirror, suddenly remembering the feel of Breen’s skin; the way her body molded to my own when it was not a dream.

  Sometime between brushing my teeth and combing my hair I finally comprehended today was day five. Telephone Day. Nine o’clock Tonight Day.

  Two days, three days, four…each day brought its own reflections; facing each day had become harder.

  By day three I had lost interest in food, eating merely to sustain life, no enjoyment. TV and newspapers had bitten the dust by day two. So I spent my time in purgatory, when not at work, tossing a ball for Dog to fetch, walking Dog, talking to Dog, becoming angry with Dog, and drinking far too much coffee. Donna had called only once, day three, and quickly decided to leave well enough alone. You would think that years of separation would have conditioned me, given me the stamina, strength, fortitude to be cut off from Breen for five lousy days. But no.

  At 9:01 PM I dialed her number, busy. I tried again, busy. At 9:05 my phone rings and Breen jumps right in, “Your line was busy.”

  “So was yours.”

  We talked for several hours and I am not completely sure what about. This was not an incident of not hearing what she said; just b
eing lost in her voice.

  She asks if I remember the public gardens near her house.

  “The one by the college?”

  “That’s it.” A pause, slight change in her voice, as if she was telling me a secret, “One day, not long after you visited me that last time, I was walking my Mom’s dog and there was this little boy who was giving his mom a difficult time. The boy was running this way and that; a real bundle of energy. Well the boy runs full tilt into this large bush, and you know the gardener would have had a heart attack if he had been there. No real damage to the bush or the boy, but I know the mother was embarrassed. The boy dropped the tennis ball he was carrying and Mom’s dog on seeing the ball started to bark at the boy, to play. But the woman gives me this indignant glare and proceeds to tell her son that he was acting like ‘the woman’s poorly trained dog.’ The boy yells at the dog ‘nasty dog!’ I responded, ‘Oh, she’s trained, watch,’ and I let the mutt pick up the boy’s ball and we walked off with it. I knew that was a rotten thing to do, but I did it.” Pause. “You know what was worse than being angry with myself for doing it? As I walked off I thought ‘I hope Dave doesn’t find out I did this.’ And then, like I had just run into that bush full tilt, I remembered you would never know.”

  She asked me again about my writing, “Am I good inspiration?”

  “You have always been good inspiration.”

  “But am I…I was a distraction from good inspiration, wasn’t I. You wrote for me. You were the only one who ever wrote for me.”

  “You touched me in more ways than I can describe on paper.”

  She paused, then, “I know I don’t have the right to ask this, and I will understand if you say no…would you read something you wrote about me after I left.”

  “You’re asking a lot…I don’t want to drag up old memories. Some got pretty dark after you left.”

  “But you’re going to one day anyway, I know you at least that well, so why not now. Dave, I need something from the past, not something from today. I don’t want you to bring up old pain, however let’s get the pain out of the way. Tell me about it so I can never be accused of not touching it with you. You choose, you be the judge, I know you will hide the strongest words, then again, I also know you need to tell me. Don’t you see we need to open up to each other, you said that first.”

  “Hold on,” and I reached for my book of thoughts, prose transcribed from the scraps of paper they were written on at moments of inspiration, desperation, contemplation. I chose quickly, hopefully wisely, desperately. “Thirteen March,

  Close your eyes and trust me

  let my hands guide you through

  our love

  Please, ask of me

  I shall provide

  Lay your head upon my chest

  sleep

  sleep with soft gentle dreams

  And when you awake,

  kiss me

  kiss not just my lips

  but your lips as well

  Two years too late, five years too early.

  So much change,

  or is it too little difference?

  But it’s over.

  Goodbye

  A soft, “thank you…you mad at me?”

  “No, we need to be honest with each other. Please don’t ask me to look back again for the sake of dragging up memories.”

  “Do you want to know about me, my past both before we met and after?”

  “Yes, but like my travels in life, let’s tell our stories as good reading, not darts on a heart.”

  “Darts on a heart?” her spirits lifted, “Did you just make that up?”

  “No, some people try so hard for a triple twenty they don’t see an easier combination. Love is like that, some people try so hard for perfect love they miss it.”

  “Don’t you want perfect love?”

  “Yes, but I want us to work our relationship out as a team, not as two separate people with blinders on.”

  When I hung up the phone I found myself unconsciously leafing through the book. So many pages of so many thoughts; some good, some bad, and somewhere in between. Then I saw what I knew I was looking for.

  I remember yesterdays

  just like they were tomorrow

  I recall everything

  the love, the pain, the sorrow

  I recall the words she said

  the way she used to hold me

  but most of all

  I recall

  the lies that she told me.

  I tore out the page and threw it away; no hesitation.

  We met the next night at Friendly’s; ice cream is the best medicine. Thankfully it was one of the few times they were not crowded and we sat in the back, away from the other patrons.

  “Why did you move on from the friends you introduced me to?”

  “I had an acquaintance at the Pub, a woman about your age. I was attracted to her. Jackie was different from the rest of the cast of characters. Well everyone was different in their own way…but Jackie was more mature, she was seeking a career in public relations, not simply an existence. She had an intelligent approach as to how she viewed the Pub. I really don’t remember why we finally went out; don’t even know where we went. She agreed to go with me.”

  I paused, thought, “I’m not even sure if it was a real date, but it was important at the time. Jackie had been hired for a job that would put her firmly on the road to adultness; career, responsibility, meaningfulness. Me, I did not have the self-confidence, the belief in myself that I was mature enough for a woman like Jackie, more importantly a woman like you.” Breen listened quietly. “At some point earlier to our date Jackie had given me some sound advice; she said that Trinity Street was not me. I had to put the place behind me and move on. She knew about you, knew I was searching to be the man I wanted to be for you; Jackie saw something in me that said I was different from the rest of Trinity Street…I…I would never fit in. When we arrived back at the parking lot at her apartment complex we did the ‘Thank you for going with me, I had a good time’ routine. Then Jackie leans over…here comes the perfunctory kiss on the cheek lean over…no, it was a real kiss, a long kiss…and when she moved away she asked ‘was the kiss worth the wait?’ I told her it was definitely worth the wait.”

  “However I knew it was not a ‘first kiss,’ but the only kiss. Then she said goodbye. As the door to the car closed I told myself that Jackie had just told me that her boat was sailing into the sunset and I better wise up and recognize I had changed as a person if I wanted to sail with mine. The next day, while on my way to work, I decided to take her advice. That evening was my last on Trinity Street, and soon I moved away from the neighborhood, and even away from the people you had met.”

  “Have you ever seen Jackie again?” the question was for my feelings, not to test my devotion.

  “No, from time to time I would check articles to see if her name was mentioned, but, no. Maybe she married and uses her husband’s name.”

  “Do you think she…do you think she remembers you.”

  I was not sure if that was a question, even a rhetorical one; Breen phrased it in such a way I had to give pause, but making sure I kept eye contact to reassure her I was not avoiding the answer. “No, I doubt she remembers me. Oh, if we were to bump into each other there’s a possibility she would look at my face and try to picture where she knew me from, why I looked somewhat familiar.”

  “But she obviously cared for you, or why would she…Dave, I’m not trying to put you on the spot here, just trying to understand something…you remember her, obviously vivid memories, granted to some point, about when and how she had an effect on your life. But what about Jackie, was it a momentary passing of goodness? I’m not trying to sound stupid…just, I don’t know.”

  “Breen, my philosophy is that we all affect the lives of others. Some people have professions or interests that by nature are influential; a teacher, a priest. Then, for the average pers
on like me, and the zillion others out there, we never realize how we have touched the lives of others that we meet in passing. Sure she may remember me; however it was a fleeting moment in her life. And if by some chance we would meet and I told her what I just told you, she would scratch her head and wonder how in the world…I mean, she would think how impossible the event was in the context as I just related it to you.”

  “To Jackie I was just someone she knew, someone who she talked to at the Pub and went out with that one time and, as I said, she probably did not even consider it a date. And there was nothing special about the date, just an ‘I feel sorry for you kiss,’ probably a long forgotten kiss.”

  “Do you think we forget kisses?” almost an accusation against all men, but by the tone of her voice I knew she was referring to the guy she was with when we first met, the shit who stole her youth by promising the stars, and when she committed her life to him, he only gave her rain.

  When Breen had sought me out that first time, for whatever reason, our relationship ended with her feeling used once again. I’ve had a lot of years to ‘study’ our relationship. No matter how bad I felt about my selfish actions, there was the undeniable fact that Breen willingly participated. Maybe I had not given her enough negative credit. Breen is intelligent and, even then, she was successful in business. She was the one who had experienced marriage, while I was still exploring commitment. In hindsight I realized the blame was not all mine. The misunderstandings were not all mine. If she had really cared for me, as in ‘I want to make a commitment,’ she should have used her experiences to try harder; not just to judge me for the moment. “No, I think the giver and the receiver can have vividly different memories of the same kiss.”

  She paused, then, “Do you remember kissing me?”

  “Yes…but we never lip-locked. We shared kisses. Breen, this is part of what I hated myself for…I remember intimate details of the first time I touched you…but we never really ever kissed. It took a long time for me to realize that you and I viewed our time together so differently. The time we spent together held far more relationship importance for me; my quest for your love was not a discussion point in that relationship. I asked you to marry me out of love, even if that love was only mine.”

  “Dave, we never lip-locked for an extended period, not even for a short period. But we did have a relationship, regardless of how it seemed at the time, or how it played out.” Breen lowered her voice, leaned forward and warmly said, “When two people sleep together it’s a relationship; at least it’s considered a relationship in the three or four countries where we progressed beyond mere kissing.”

  We left it at that for the moment, Breen patted my hand and said the conversation was too much for Friendly’s; we ate our ice cream, stealing glances and passing smiles.

  She played with her straw, “When I was a very young girl we went to Nice. It was the first vacation I really remember. I was standing on the beach deciding if I wanted to go in the water. I wanted to, but nonetheless, I just stood there. My father asked me what the problem was. I wanted to go in the water, but I did not want to get wet!”

  The exchange was telling. This was why I believed all of this was a fairytale that was not supposed to happen. For years I had told myself the whole relationship thing was a one sided memory because Breen had not cared for me the same way I did for her. The passion in my heart was not there in hers, so why would I ever think I would be seated across from her, discussing lip-lock kisses. What did I expect to build on if there was no foundation? That was a perplexing question. I could not forget the past, nor could Breen, but could we leave it alone so we could objectively discuss the future. Damn, how confusing love is!!

  I ask, “The roses, did you…?”

  “Yes.”

  Back to ice cream.

  She looks up at me, “Lip-lock…such a 60’s verb, Dave.”

  Leaving Friendly’s we walked through the shopping center, window shopping. “Dave, I remember everyone I have ever gone out with.”

  “I can picture almost every girl I dated; let's face it there weren’t that many. Not names, but faces. One day Billy - the one good friend from the old neighborhood I still occasionally see - and I were discussing old times. Well, just before you sent me that ‘hi remember me’ card I had stopped seeing this girl my friend referred to by the descriptive nickname, ‘the virgin;’ and yes, was still one when we parted ways.”

  “Billy, or the girl?”

  “Funny. As I was saying, everyone in the group I spent the most time with eventually met and knew her nickname. So here we were sitting in a small sandwich shop talking about the old neighborhood, when I mentioned the girl by the nickname, which he had bestowed on her, and he did not remember her. Even after I described her, he did not remember her. This took me by surprise since Billy seems to remember everything. The point is, what we consider as major memories in our own lives are trivial events in passing in the lives of others.”

  “Would he remember me?”

  “Yes, but he felt you were too pretty, too smart for me...out of my league. You’ll like his wife.”

  Later, as I replayed in my mind the hour or so we spent window shopping, the reality seemed so…I don’t know, enchanted. That’s it, enchantment. She had reached out and taken my hand, an unconscious, possessive move in reaction to the Victoria’s Secret window display. It was not the first time she had held my hand, but this was the first ‘he is mine’ time since we discovered each other anew. She was the one who had the courage to say good-by, to cast me off, to seek a new life for herself. For her, it was to forget the past, look to the future. For me, I never stopped loving her. We had now met anew, we talked, and we started seeing each other again as friends first. It was my desire “to become comfortable with each other first.” So we found ourselves that evening having ice cream, discussing lip-locking, and window-shopping. Just being who we were as individuals, being who we were as companions.

  When she took my hand and pulled it to her hip I immediately knew something had quickly changed between us. I had wanted to reach out for her hand this way my entire life - not just today, or last week - not just the moment she spoke to me in the building’s coffee shop. She had held my hand against her body for what seemed an eternity before realizing what she was doing. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, trying to gage my thoughts; me hoping she would not suddenly release her hold on my heart. In a quiet voice I asked her “do you know the difference between need and want?” A slight movement of her head, no words, just listening eyes that asked me to tell her what was on my mind. “Need is when you reach out in the middle of the night to touch the woman lying next to you; the need to reassure yourself she is still there. Want…it’s desperately wanting to be there next to her, to be the only man she reaches out for.”

  The increased pressure on my hand confirmed we were traveling from need to want.

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