Chapter

Chapter Twelve

Background Theme:  Born to Love You

       As I sat back in my comfortable chair near the living room window, I looked up into the night sky.  Despite the rain of the day the clouds had cleared away significantly to allow for a beautiful view of the heavens.  Off the right corner of the window, as I faced the south-southwest, I could see the moon beginning to crest at its highest point.  Slightly more than three-fourths full in phase, its pure luminous light filtered through the branches and leaves of the trees just beyond the window, adjacent to my to my second-story apartment.  I could hear, in the distance, the occasional dull roar of a jet aircraft as it left or approached the airport some two miles away.

       In front of me, along the two-foot wide portion of the recessed south wall containing the window was a small table on which stood a one-and-a-half foot high by slightly more than two feet wide compact disc display unit.  Constructed of unvarnished but well-sanded white pine, the unit had rectangular cubbyholes that each held two CD's each, altogether holding ninety-eight of them.  The unit had been a gift from a friend about five years ago; it was one of a few items that escaped the ravages of a terrible hurricane that had hit the Gulf Coast in 1995, doing untold damage to the beach area.

       As I looked the titles over, the names of songs jumped unbidden to mind, the melodies softly playing as I remembered times and events associated with them.  Images of faces from my past and present faded in and out of conscious thought as I glanced above the unit, where a smaller CD case sat with another thirty jewel cases, their spines displayed horizontally to allow for quick and easy reading of the titles.  Leaning forward in my seat and reaching out with my left hand, I ran my fingertips over several of the spines, stopping at one near the bottom of the first row.  Released during my Senior year in high school, Chicago's album Chicago 17 had become one of my all-time favorites.  Especially dear to me was the beautiful yet bittersweet ballad Remember the Feeling.  The song, strongly based in piano with slight touches of synthesizer and guitar, depicted a reminiscing dreamscape of memories of the singer meeting and being with the love of his life.  The happy dream resolves into melancholy with the realization that meeting her, knowing her, and being with her -- was all a dream.

       I have often compared the song to my endless quest to win the hand and heart of my Beloved Alisha.  So many times I had come so close, reaching out to take hold of her at last, to take her hand and take her into my arms -- only to close my hand around thin air and embracing emptiness in her wake.  It brought to mind words from Man of La Mancha's "To Each His Dulcinea", a heart-rending but sobering account of what happens when a man lives far too long with dreams of attaining the love of a woman:

If you build your life on dreams, it's prudent to recall

A man with moonlight in his hands has nothing there at all.

Far too sobering, yet I'd be damned if I was going to give up.  Love makes for the most resilient and enduring of fools.  At least I was her fool.

       I turned my attention from the collection of music to the digital clock resting on the couch on the opposite end of the living room.  The couch ran parallel to the north wall that bordered the kitchen.  Behind the center of the couch I could see through the kitchen and beyond the sliding glass door on the far end onto the darkened balcony.  Often I would walk out onto the balcony, especially at night, and gaze at the sky.  I always took time to face the Southwest, casting my gaze, my thoughts, and my heart in the direction of where my Beloved lived.

       I looked again at the clock.

       "9:33," it read.

       I was beginning to worry.  Alisha and I talked almost nightly, and if we weren't hanging out together she'd normally call around eight o'clock.  The only exceptions were on weekends since that was the only time she usually got to see The Jerk, who lived in the next town about an hour away.  This was Wednesday, and he had the nerve to infringe on my time with her.  I was seething.  I was livid.  I wanted to do irreversible and permanent harm to his personal being.

Irascible cur.

Peevish peon.

Splenetic swine.

Okay, maybe I was being a bit harsh.  I had nothing against him, personally.  That is, if you don't count the fact that he had the attentions and solaces of the woman I loved.  My anger and frustration was almost so tangible I felt I could blast holes in the wall with my thoughts alone.

Petulant bastard.

Of course, I was jealous.

Isn't that obvious by now?

I made a conscious effort to calm myself.  The call Alisha had received this afternoon had visibly upset her.  I knew that he had to have been the one who called.  This scenario was not completely unfamiliar to me.  Alisha simply had been more adept at hiding it from me --  or so she might have thought.

Alisha and I share a bond that almost borders on supernatural.  The regular incidents of well-time calls or comments made at the appropriate times, not to mention frighteningly accurate dreams of even the most intimate nature; restless hours of the night that often coincided with the other's sleeplessness.  We are so in tune with each other it's hard to put anything past the other.  To her, I know I am an open book.  And I know I am right about things with her far more often than she's willing to admit.  Far too many things make for far more than uncanny coincidences.  Over the last few years I've actually begun to believe that we might actually be Soul Mates.  I don't think Alisha or I have fully realized the implications of that belief, but we are finding out more with each passing day.

I was quickly brought out of my reverie by the insistent warbling of the phone.