"Dans vos silences j'entends des cris/ In your silence I hear screams,
Dans vos absences je sens l'ennui/ In your absence I sense boredom,
Dans vos errances des interdits/ In your wanderings, interdictions,
Qui vous démembrent et nous détient/ That dismember you and untie us."
(Les Voiliers Sauvages De Nos Vies – Vaya Con Dios)
The car door closes firmly behind me and I feel as if I were encapsulated in a dreamlike atmosphere, as if I had stepped inside that teleporting box for real. Inside is warm and smells of good cologne and well-pampered car. The engine purrs soothingly, obediently, like a tamed feline and the luminescent dashboard touches everything with an eerie glow, adding to the surreal sensation.
I don't know what to say. I'm shocked by his unexpected appearance. Why has he chosen to do it? To show up like this? My town is part of his homeward route and maybe he has only just thought of it. That is a possibility, but it doesn't seem likely. He doesn't usually act on impulse.
Oh, but I know too well when I'm clutching at straws!
"Don't you dare get your hopes up…"
I sheepishly look at him and see that he watches me intently, with a little smile. His eyes are warm and mocking.
He looks good. Thinner. Grayer. He's wearing black jeans and one of his amazing shirts. He looks good, damn him, and I wish he weren't! I wish he'd be an antipode to the male pin-up standard, I wish he were as ugly as Quasimodo, so that no other woman would give him a second look. Ever.
If I were to be honest with myself, I had to admit that I've - unjustifiably - hoped I would be among the exquisitely few women who'd found him attractive. Because in a semi-self-derogatory way, I fancy myself as being so special and unusual, that's why. Because he is so fucking amazing that I want exclusive rights, that's why.
And as it has oh – so - disappointingly turned out, there is actually a plethora of us, all smitten and beguiled, enticed by the same things: his intelligence, the edge of menace about him that actually hides a teddy bear core, his latent, 'promissory' energy.
"Good evening, Isabella..."
His voice is even and smooth and a million times better than I remembered it. Hearing it again so closely, after so long, triggers something inside, so quick, so abrupt, like a falling. Suddenly, I become agitated, breathless, like there's no time, like there's no tomorrow… I watch him squarely now and feel as if I couldn't look at him enough; I'm so thirsty for him, I have been for so long and I'm greedy to sate my eyes, to absorb as many details as possible. To filter them in my mind when he'll be gone.
I attempt to keep my face composed, not to reveal my true inner state but my voice betrays me. I don't trust myself to say more than "hi".
"How are you?"
There are carefulness and warmth in his voice. And traces of amusement, of course.
My throat is dry and I swallow hard. As always, when it comes to speaking with him, I turn into an idiot. I turn my gaze away from him and stare blankly through the windshield.
"I've been better…"
I pause then add in a whisper: "And much worse."
Of course he already knows that - he knows it with that unerring instinct of his that also tells him what drives people.
"And,"- he emphasizes the 'and'- "physically?"
"Oh, Lord… He wants to talk physically. I want nothing more than to get physical with you, thank you very much!"
"My health has been good in the last months. No major setbacks. I'm just a bit tired."
"I'm very tired, milord. I didn't ask for this to happen, you know… I didn't ask for this love. Not so late in life, anyway. Not when I had my plate full already. I'm too old for this crap. The guessing games, the endless questions, the pain; yet I hold no defense against them. Against you… You are a walking, talking contradiction. Fire and ice altogether. You let me close and then you cut me off. You give me something then you take it back, without any explanation, not even the polite lie."
I clear my throat.
"The summer though…well, it was particularly hard," I hear myself answer unsteadily as painful flashbacks quickly succeed in my mind.
"It makes me sick just to remember it. My skin on fire… Literally. Not once, not twice, but thrice… that evil medication making me even worse…you, gone…my heart burnt to ashes…"
"Sorry for that. It was never my intention to cause any harm…" he says softly, with a barely perceptible pause in the conversation. I exhale, almost audibly.
"It's not your fault. Not entirely, anyway." The tentative joke has more bitterness in it than I intended. "You could have stayed."
"I would have left eventually. You know this."
We're almost fighting now, which is absurd.
"Yes," I whisper and my voice is barely there. "I know it."
Things have gotten too heavy too soon and a change of subject is in order; I wait quietly for him to lead further the conversation, acutely conscious of his presence, of his breathing next to me.
I look at him again only to realize once more that he still remains something of an enigma to me. I imagine him so serious, down-to-earth and realistic, with clear, stable values in life. Analytical to the point of scheming. Painstakingly methodical. The protector for whom I have long waited for. I'd like him to soothe my scars and promise me that he will never leave me wounded.
But he has been involuntarily wounding me from day one.
His voice – ah, his voice! – beckons me back to reality.
"How's the new guy treating you?" He has inserted some lightness into his tone.
"All right, I guess. He knows my name."
He laughs at me softly. I want to say that he is twice the size of this new guy; twice the size, and surely twice the man; but then, I am forced to admit that in my more besotted moments, I think he is twice any man on the face of this Earth.
"He's a bit looney, though… He has no moral compass. Throws fits, commits indiscretions. I don't think he cares much about what others think of him."
"Unlike others I could name…"
"Yeah… I've heard some of that. And how's that boss of yours doing?"
I sigh again.
"You know…back in your days in office, this was the only thing you would ask me: about my boss. Is he in? Where is he? What is he doing? You never asked how I was doing… At some point, I even wanted to make a T-shirt. On the front: 'My boss has arrived.' On the back: 'He hasn't.' But I feared you might not have tasted the joke."
"Probably I wouldn't have."
He loves a great sense of humor, but never at his expense.
"Well, we'll never know it, now, won't we?"
"No." A heartbeat. "We won't."
His tone is uncompromising and I feel like I'm wizening. He is never coming back. I know that, of course, but it's not comfortable to be reminded. I breathe, defeated, and I force my mind back to the discussion.
"I don't particularly like him. My boss. Is something unnatural about him, like he's forcing himself to be a good guy. To be compassionate, impartial. I don't believe that's his true nature. But equally true is that I could have ended much worse. If I had returned in Accounting, probably I would have been long gone by now."
The neutral subjects help me; I have slowly begun to relax. But then he shifts a bit in his seat and the frisson of excitement that consequently shivers through me is disconcerting and out of the proportion to the event itself.
"Is he pleased with you, working hard, like a good girl?"
"Well, I don't know about that… I have been working hard for years and that didn't get me far. At the risk of gaining your disapproval, I confess that I have been indulging lately."
"Maybe it's time to quit working hard and start working smart."
I laugh. He is funny. That is a large part of the attraction, of course. He's funny but he also has a point.
"Yeah, you should talk about it! You work harder than anyone I know, completely ignoring the fact that one day you're going to die. You're not a man, you're a damn machine."
Living for the moment is not his strong suit.
"Yeah, maybe...but I don't think I have the level of ambition you would deem satisfactory."
I have questions, a thousand or so, that I would like to ask, but I force myself to be patient. Perhaps subconsciously, I don't even want to know the answer to some of them.
Like, why has he come? Has he come to tell me to gather my toys and go play in someone else's backyard? Has he come to assess me with a fresh eye?
Oh, to hell with it! I'm so happy that he is here that I'm more than willing to ignore the elephant in the room. Or the elephant in the car, to be precise.
Unfortunately, he clips my wings with surgical precision next:
"It's late. Let's take you home."
"There's no need to…"
But he has already put the car into gear. I insist, a bit alarmed.
"The road to my house is dreadful! You will break your car in two!"
He keeps silent for a beat then adds very-very quietly.
"I think I can deal with a few bumps in the road, wouldn't you say?!"
I know danger when I see it, even when it comes wrapped up in a gentle smile. "God", I think. "He can be so severe…"
So severe and so off the mark! I'm not abashed by his sternness. On the contrary, I secretly thrive on it. He doesn't know how I need, how I crave discipline, discipline that is imposed on me, in order to feel secure. I need order and tranquility; to be looked after, in an old-school way by a classic man's man.
Oh, the hunger to belong!
"All right," I say shyly. "Just as long as you don't hate me afterwards."
He smoothly maneuvers the car back into the traffic and I watch him doing it, completely mesmerized. It's like a dance; a slow, delicate, perfectly synchronized dance. I watch him and almost forget how to breathe. Maybe he has picked up on my mood, because when he speaks again, it's as if he were weaving an irresistible spell.
"Besides, I was under the impression I have some test to perform…. Weren't you interested in seeing my driving skills?"
I bit my lip to prevent myself from smiling. Inexplicably and intense, like a smoldering, like a sickness, I have yearned to see him drive. He knows it and he is now granting fulfillment of this impudent, bizarre desire that has been long eating at me.
"What better surface to prove myself than a little macadam then?"
"It's not macadam. It's cobblestone. With lots of holes in it. Or more like crevasses…"
I'm nervous again so I talk gibberish.
"I'll consider myself warned," he interrupted firmly. "Which way?"
I give him the directions and then abandon myself to the secret pleasure of watching him. A sudden freedom pervades me, as if nothing said in this car would matter afterwards, so we could say anything, anything at all. Which is not true, of course, but as long as I can listen to his voice, imagine the warmth of his body so near, anything else really doesn't matter much.
I feel safe. I trust him with my life. I have faith in him but this extreme belief also exposes my heart and makes me defenseless.
I admit that I have made mistakes – quite a few - in dealing with him. And I will make more. Big ones. But I pay. They are my own mistakes and I'm always paying. No matter how hard I try to reign myself in, I remain as vulnerable, silly and idealistic as ever. A dreamer. Imagination is the highest kite one can fly and mine has probably reached the Moon by now.
But if I could only learn to think twice before I speak! Or write…
In the last few months, I have given myself so many ultimatums, that I've lost count. Each more 'final' and more ineffective than the previous one. "This the last time I reach out to him. This message is the last… Don't text him!… Not today… Not again! Don't you dare touch that phone! No! No! Don't!.. Damn!…
Alright, then. Just this once…"
And yet, how unhappy am I when I manage to refrain! Stoicism is proving to be a double-edged sword, indeed.
Maybe he's not even here. Maybe this is just a dream. Dreams are so good…that's where hope lies. When you have nothing but dreams, that's all you think about, all that matters, all that takes your mind away from the tedious and sometimes, hurtful routine.
I look at him again. He does seem real.
He's driving, attentive and silent, intent on the tricky road, making me wonder what he's thinking about. I could ask but he won't tell me. It's neither the time nor the place for him to open up. He may never do it; not to me, anyway.
"You're awfully quiet. Are you upset?"
"Great! Just great! So bland, so easy. So obvious!"
"No… I'm just tired." Abruptly, he turns his head to look at me and adds with an especially rich tone: "It comes with age, you know…"
"That's my man! Smart as a whip! Always teasing me, sometimes sharply enough to draw blood!"
"Some things get better with age."
"Is that so?!"
He feigns incredulity. Maybe he is in a playful mood, after all.
"Yes. Take a good pair of jeans, for example. Or whisky. Or one's self-confidence and the ability to make tough decisions. Empathy, judgement, wisdom, all get better with age. Even one's vocabulary… And since you've brought it, also certain men. But of course, that doesn't fit all tastes."
I'm trying to imply that I'm particular and unique, with the same elegance and subtlety of a cargo truck. His answer is neutral, perhaps as a lid over the topic.
"Taste is a very personal issue."
"One man's food is another's poison." I mutter in accord, pensively. "But I'm not worried about that. I have great taste."
"I'm sure you have…" he says, with just a pinch of sarcasm.
"In men, above all…" I proclaim, with a false and joyful confidence.
He chuckles again, but refuses the gambit.
"You, stubborn, inflexible man!"
I can't add anything else to tempt him into argument, because my joyride has reached its end.
"There," I point the direction. "At the corner."
He pulls the car to a stop but still doesn't kill the engine. I hurry to put his mind at ease.
"I would invite you in but then I would have to make you my prisoner, as Calypso did with Ulysses. For seven years or so..."
He laughs softly. "Yeah, right."
I stare at him until he realizes I'm only half-joking.
"That would probably suffice…" I murmur, my voice slow and slurred. I suddenly ache for him. My mouth goes dry with desire.
He laughs again, but the tension in the car has become unbearable.
My eyes openly feast on him. I want him. I know I amuse him, that there is an intellectual attraction, but this is different. This is an animal thing, and I know he isn't really used to it. Perhaps he thinks that most women see the size of him and nothing else. See the size and are repelled by it.
"With a few notable exceptions, milord…"
He shifts uncomfortably and then I know I've just committed yet another 'faux pas'. This time, without even opening my mouth.
It looks like the more I try to please him, the more I will fail. He's obviously embarrassed and I regret deeply that he is. I take it as a rejection. A sharp, hurtful one. I know I'm much too outspoken at times and that that creates troubles for him. He is the quiet type and can be sometimes painfully shy until he gets comfortable in his surroundings.
He may also be rusty.
Well, that's alright; I'm not exactly well-oiled either.
"Let me tell you that your generosity is greatly appreciated," he answers in kind, but keeping his voice light with a real effort.
Then there is silence. I lick my lips. "When in doubt, change the subject."
"Will I see you again soon?" I ask, mildly.
It flashes through my mind that I sound like a whiny schoolgirl.
"Will see."
He doesn't know yet and he won't promise what he can't deliver.
"Fair enough. Thank you for tonight."
He knows what I mean and that I mean it. It's time to let him go. I don't want to but I must. I lean toward him and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then I just get out of the car and shut the door, without another word.
"A très bientôt, milord."
I know what he's going to do now. The best indication of future behavior is past behavior. I've seen it before and he's predictable in this regard. He is going to retreat into his cave, in a cut and dry manner; he will shut down, withdraw and fall silent. He won't call, nor return my texts and I will be placed back up on that shelf to gather dust, to feel wretched and utterly disposable. I'm not yet sure if he's aware he's doing this, that he gets so caught up in his work, in his own emotions and thoughts, that other's aren't even on his mind.
It would be so refreshing to be wrong but I doubt that it will happen. When bad, he truly can be the most heartbreaking of men.
But when he's good, he is amazing. I simply know it. And that is what keeps me here, in this tragi-comical roundabout. He can make a woman feel alive, desired and wanted beyond any measure. Or at least, he succeeds that – without even trying! - with me.
Oh, but not quite tonight!
But then again, he hasn't told me to 'get lost' either.
He may have not given me much, but for once it is something he cannot take back, no matter what: his precious time. And as the taillights of his car are dimming into the night, the verses I have set as my New Year's resolution begin to revolve in my head:
"Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light…"
"Yeah, sure…" I snort to myself. "Like that's ever gonna happen…"
I smile like a Cheshire cat all the way into the house.
But my heart is still heavy.
Maybe I'm not yet wise enough to appreciate the deliciousness of the suffering.
