Wading in (the beginning)
He remembered a hazy summer day, lunch at the park near the office. The world seemed washed is a cool yellow haze, full or promise and hope. He ate his lunch admiring all that went on around him. His training taught him to notice the mundane and normal around him. The direction the clouds moved. The pattern of the shadows made by the migrating sun. Most people tended to walk on the right side of the pathways and sidewalks. Lovers tended to walk closer, touch more and look at each other more when talking. Some people tend to talk with their hands; others strove to keep their hands quiet. Children, while playing, would occasionally look over at their parents just to be reassured that they were still there. The way the confident and the timid carry themselves. The way some people are always checking their surroundings and the way some completely ignore the pageantry around them.
A wayward scarf caught by the sudden breeze, a flash of red and blue on the wind. And a beautiful woman trying to catch the streaming silk. The scarf falling out of the current near his feet. The feel of cool silk on his fingers and the scent of roses. She played damsel in distress and he played knight in shining armor. Her red lipstick against pale skin. Her shining brown hair barely contained by a low barrette. How long had she studied him before enacting her plan? How did she know of his chivalry? Was it orchestrated so well that a game player could not even recognize the game?
She offered a hand and a cup of coffee as payment for his assistance. The boldness of her offer caught him unaware and he smiled in response. She returned the smile, almost. She, a student on holiday, learning of the capital city. He, a fairly new employee of the government, with no social life, too new to know and too reserved to be approachable. She commented on his smile, making him laugh, not an easy feat. She asked for a tour guide, he asked for dinner. Wine and pasta and he was mesmerized.
She was everything his previous girlfriends were not. Bold and decisive, daring and opinionated. She would debate for hours with him. She was finishing her degree in literature, in hopes of teaching at the college level. Her knowledge of the world amazed him. Her adamant disbelief in God challenged him. In times of strong disagreement or when she was talking so fast to make a point, he noticed an accent. Very slight, but noticeable. Her explanation was that her grandparents, who fled Russia to France following during the Bolshevik Revolution, raised her. Her parents had died shortly after she was born during World War Two and her grandparents had immigrated to the United States following the war. They would only spoke Russian at home. It seemed the reasonable explanation; he even, eventually, met the grandmother. Who was he to question what bright eyes and red lips told him?
She kept him up late with coffee and poetry. They explored the undiscovered parts of the City together. The discussions and arguments were passionate and lively. She was the pursuer and he was the pursued and he enjoyed that. She was passionate and their lovemaking bold. She did not know fear, laughed a danger; a heady brew.
She became a fixture in his life and his friends adored her. Arvin was completely enthralled and barely contained jealousy. Arvin made her bristle like a startled cat. He sniffed around and she hissed him away. Oil and water, but he didn't care. Soon, he couldn't imagine his life without her. There in the park, where they had first met, on a hazy, sunny summer day he asked for her hand. She accepted, but no tears. Shouldn't she have cried, that was what all his friends' wives had done? But she was not like them at all, cut from a different mold.
A small wedding amidst friends and family. A long week in the Poconos, where they never left the room. Soon they moved to accommodate his new position and she obtained a job teaching literature. They were happy, he thought.