You find yourself in a bar. This seems so familiar. You did this same routine every night for six months, after she left. Went into a corner dive and spent most of the night drinking. You borrowed some money from your mother and now you're nursing your third Scotch on the rocks.
There's a pretty girl a couple of stools down, with an empty glass in front of her. A pretty little redhead. She could be fun. You're wondering if you should go talk to her, offer her a drink, when a tall dark-headed guy steps up with a leather jacket in his hands. Boyfriend, you guess, watching him drape it over her shoulders. Damn it.
You finish your drink and order a beer. That was always her drink of choice. She stayed away from the hard stuff and you never once saw her falling down drunk. She always had a two-drink limit. You guessed it had something to do with her mother, but you never pushed it. You didn't want to hurt her. You never wanted to hurt her.
There's a jukebox in the corner of this pit. You've ignored the music, till now. When you hear the old, slow, country song, it reminds you of the situation you're in right now.
Nickels and dimes, memories and wine. She's on his mind once again. The same old stool, the same old fool. Played by the rules, but didn't win. There's an old love in his heart that he can't lose. He tried forgettin', but he knows that it's no use. He's got a fool-hearted memory. It won't let him see that she walked out the door. He's got a fool-hearted memory. And he sits patiently here every night so it can fool him more.
She was yours. And even now that she's gone, you can't get rid of her. She's always there. Sometimes drifting around at the back of your mind, to not distract you, but during the lonely nights, her memory's the only thing you can see and feel. You did everything by the book and played by the rules, but you couldn't win the girl.
She was his girl, his only world, that string of pearls that slipped away. A thousand dimes, a thousand times. He doesn't mind what they say. He fills the jukebox, then plays the same old song. He fills his glass and then he turns her memory on. But it's a fool-hearted memory. It won't let him see that she walked out the door. He's got a fool-hearted memory. And he sits patiently here every night so it can fool him more . . .
You can't get rid of her memory. You can't let her go. Even though she left you, you can't let her go. You just can't. You love her, but you just can't see that she left. You didn't make that choice. She did.
You're letting her have power over you. No woman should have power over a man, but she does. You remember what it was like, to go out with her. Every guy in the place was either drooling or snapping their necks to look at her. The women snubbed her and the men adored her. You were always so proud to know that she was going to go home with you, at the end of the night. She was yours.
Another song on the jukebox - a song for the couples in the bar.
You down your beer in a single gulp, hearing the piano and fiddle part. She didn't like to dance, but she still believed in love songs. She liked them. It was almost childlike, her faith in those old songs. Like they could actually come true.
I'm not the hero who will always save the day. I don't always wear the white hat, don't always know the way. I may not even be the dream you wanted to come true. But I'll always be the man in love with you. I'm not the key that opens every door. I don't have the power to give you all you want and more. But when you're needing something special you can hold on to, I'll always be the man in love with you. I never could work miracles. There may be others who can do what I can't do, but no one else could be as good as me at loving you.
You order a second beer and sigh, watching the couples on the floor, swaying in each other's arms, whispering and laughing. They're mostly young and in love. Like you were once. You could have been happy with her. But she walked away. And you still don't know why.
You don't know why she had to shatter your dreams, with a single word, a few tears and a closing of a door. When she closed that door, it was the worst sound you've ever heard. You have to find her and find out what went wrong. What you did to make her leave. You have to see her.
You tried calling her old number, one that will be permanently ingrained in your memory from a payphone, but it was disconnected, probably a long time ago.
So when the world won't turn the way you wish it would and the dreams you have don't come a-right as often as they should, remember that there's someone there whose heart is always true. I'll always be the man in love with you. Remember that there's someone there whose heart is always true. Someone there to help you make it through. I'll always be the man in love with you . . .
You're going to be in love with her till the day you die. If it's lasted this long, it's not going away any time soon. When did she leave? Before Christmas of 1989. That was it. Your sister-in-law had just had your twin nieces in November - Julia and Jennifer. God. They'd be fifteen now - all grown up. And you haven't seen them in years.
You were happy - you'd bought her an engagement ring and you were going to give it to her on Christmas Eve, but then, two weeks before Christmas, you came home from class and she was packing. When you asked why, she started crying. You hated to see her cry.
You tried to calm her down and talk to her, find out what was wrong, but she didn't want to talk. She left. You gave her a couple of days and then called her friends, her boss, your brother, your sister, your parents, and then, finally, you called her mother. When Serena gave her the phone, she answered and she sounded so beaten, so heartbroken, it hurt you.
When she realized it was you, she hung up, promptly. That hurt you even more that when she left. The pain stabs through your heart. Seeing the pain on her face, when she left, then hearing it in her voice, then having her hang up on you - it feels like she was determined to hurt you.
But you still don't know why. And it's been with you for years, that one burning question. You sent her letters - she mailed them back. You tried to call her - she wouldn't take your calls, according to her mother. You don't know what you did to her, but it must have been pretty damned bad, because one day, Serena gave you hell for hurting her daughter, before hanging up.
You must have done something to her, to get her mother on your ass. To get her mother to care. Either you did something to her and don't remember it or she's a liar who fed her mother a bunch of crap.
You've checked the phone books and called every Benson in Manhattan, to no avail. Either she got married and changed her name, her number's unlisted or she's moved. You don't think that the last possibility is a really solid one. She loves this city. She was born here.
You think about calling the Police Department and asking if she's still with them, but you doubt that they give out that kind of information to just anyone. But you have to see her. You grimace, inwardly, thinking about what her reaction would be to seeing you. She probably knows you're a convicted rapist - she reads the papers, probably, like every other normal person in this city. And she's a cop.
You wonder if she knows that you've spent the last twelve years in Attica. You wonder if she'd care.
Of course she'd care. She's sworn to uphold the law. She's a cop. She'd care that you've spend over a decade in prison. You know that things don't always work out the way they do in the movies - the guy doesn't always get the girl no matter how many times he screws up or how badly he screws up. But you can't seem to get yourself to listen. You're still convinced that she loves you.
But you know she doesn't. She's moved on. It's been fifteen years since she walked out of your life - she must have moved on, by now. She might even have a family of her own.
You put a few bills down, to cover your tab and stumble out into the street. It's been years since you've been able to drink and it's hitting you harder than you thought it would. You stumble, as you walk out to the curb, to hail a cab.
You don't know how you make it inside your building, into the elevator and through your apartment door. But you trip on the floor and go sprawling, face down. It takes you a minute to drag yourself back up to your feet.
You shed your clothes and crawl into bed. But you don't sleep. She keeps you up for most of the night. Her smile, her eyes, the feel of her skin under your hands, and that body. She was built like an actress or a model from the '40's or the '50's. But it wasn't just her body that had you wrapped around her finger and under her thumb. It was her personality. She was stubborn, yes, but gentle. She would have been a fine mother for your child.
Again, you find yourself wondering if she'd care, if she knew you were a convicted, paroled rapist. She would.
You remember, once, while you were curled up on the couch with her, she admitted something. About her father. He, too, was a rapist, who'd assaulted her mother. That throws the whole thing out of whack. She's not going to get involved with you.
Damn it. You know you never had a chance, anyway, but it still hurts to know that she'll never even want to give you a shot. She'll be repulsed by you, so maybe you're better off just leaving her alone. Being without her won't hurt as much as her rejection will.
(A/n: The songs are 'Fool Hearted Memory' and 'The Man In Love With You', by George Strait.)
