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.