Archive for reunions

Heart Side

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2010 by 1writegirl

I sleep on his heart side. Even when I’m in bed alone, I don’t cross over the invisible boundary into that space where he would be, where he will be, hours from now. I count them down, even while I sleep, as my own heart stops and starts again in irregular, unpredictable intervals. In my dreams I’m waiting for him, looking for him, pacing the floors, the streets, the skies. At last his face floats into view and I relax as he comes toward me. I smile and turn my face up to his. Mi corozon, I whisper. He kisses me in reply and I surface like an erstwhile, reluctant swimmer from a cold and murky depth into the warm, aerated embrace of life. I breathe in deeply and exhale his name. For a moment my eyes flutter open, just long enough to take in the sight of him, then close again as I drift back to sleep, this time to dream that he’s here beside me, memories and shadows and ghosts unseated by live, scented, sense-evoking flesh, enfolding me, freeing and cherishing me, all traces of boundary released and soon, so soon, forgotten.

The Road to Monterey

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 3, 2009 by 1writegirl

I was nervous about our reunion, afraid his feelings might have changed. Yet he held me tight when he saw me, and we talked for hours over late night breakfast at Denny’s, where the coffee is always hot. When we fell into bed, it felt to me like coming home after an exhaustive journey to a faraway place. Fever held within gradually released, hungry hands and mouths seeking and finding, replaced by trust passing through layers of body and soul all mixed up together. The following night I asked for the words. Do you love me? Absolutely. And I sighed with relief, all was right with the world.

The next day we grabbed a coffee, headed north out of San Luis Obispo. We thought about taking 101 all the way to Monterey, and my mind flitted briefly to Steinbeck and Cannery Row, and flop houses where hookers were groomed to be wives. But I got the stupid idea to go look at studios instead; I thought it was what we both wanted. But that night he told me, I don’t want to make plans of any kind right now. I just want to work and take each day one step at a time, Ok? I agreed, and drove back to Oregon, where the days pass much like they did before, except now when he writes to say, Nothing’s changed, he’s careful to never say I love you or even to say I miss you; too afraid, I suppose, that doing so might give me the wrong idea. It feels sometimes like we’re going backwards, until I remember that we have never been here before.

So I follow his lead, putting my right foot forward as his left goes back, wishing for Audrey Hepburn’s grace, my form shadowing his. Letting him set the pace and holding on ever so loosely, just enough to keep the connection. He makes occasional reference to us in the unveiling of his soul, as only a true poet can do, letting the frayed edges of his hope slide across the face of my beating heart. Reminders that there are no formulas, or calendars in love, only roads that sometimes take unexpected turns, with yield signs, or miles of traffic that hamper your yearning for speed; sometimes closed for construction, sometimes newly paved. Reminders that it might take more than one cup of coffee on the road to Monterey.