Heart and the Other

This is a story about Heart finding the Other.  A happy, love story, for once.

Heart returned. It wandered for quite sometime, traveled far and wide, contemplated staying in the deserts, hiding out in the glaciers, and even joining the tribes and becoming nomadic. But that’s what Heart did. Heart needed to explore the world as if it had never seen the colors of rainbow, as if it needed reassurance that home was where the Heart belonged.

So a journey began. It suffered aches, desperate longing, confusion and ultimately it broke into pieces. It fell off the cliff, taking the body and soul with it, it cried, silently. Engulfed with the nightfall, it wanted sun, faith, a healing hand, or simply the morning dew to feel alive again, but instead it was met with disappointment, destruction and demise.

An expiration date was stamped on Heart’s passport, it must depart or it would risk being deported. Heart left in a hurry, leaving unresolved feelings at the conveyor belt, unclaimed and discarded. Heart arrived at home where nothing was familiar. Heart wondered aloud, where had my home go?

Heart went back out on another journey, this time it carried several pieces of luggage. One named Past, one named Present and one named Future. In the Past luggage, it had memories, ghosts in the pockets and tears of sadness and regret. In the Present luggage, it contained decades of friendship, strange sensation called passion and intensity, and lots of misplaced emotions. In the Future luggage, it contained mountain fresh air, clarity and hope. But Heart could not open the Future luggage, and know the content of the Future luggage, for it was locked and the key was left in the cab inadvertently. Those damn New York cab drivers, they drove off before Heart had a chance to yell – “Stop.”

Heart went to remote places full of snow, glaciers and greenery, with few people around but lots of wandering, idle, content deer and moose. Heart did not bother to stop and smell the fresh meadows or the earthy woodland. Heart needed to find a Sharman, a fortune teller, for it was told that one lived in the deep dark forest where sun would not shine. This magical being would be able to provide directions and shed lights in the otherwise dark, endless tunnel. Heart was crying inside every night to sleep. Heart wanted what heart wanted, it wanted the Other, or as we humans called it, the “soul mate.” Heart knew that there must be another, the Other. Calm exterior, collected and reserved but volcano eruption inside, just like Heart. The Other was aggressive and commanding, it told Heart what to do and how to do it. Heart wanted to give up control and be with the Other. it was really that simple. Heart was and had been born a masochist. Heart knew the Other existed, the opposite, the balancing act to counteract Heart's secret desires. But where was the Other? Heart was lost and withering without the Other.

 Sharman was known for finding other lost souls. Her reputation preceded her.  She made heavenly matches on earth.  She had been expecting Heart. Sharman was ageless, one couldn’t tell if she was 20 or 50. She had a permanent fog in front of her, embodying a sense of mystery. Sharman did not speak but she nodded when she saw Heart. She extended her arm to touch Heart, Heart felt a sense of warmth, a sense of reassurance and even a bit of hope as Sharman took hold of Heart. Then Sharman started to chant. Heart waited, and waited. Eventually Sharman finished her chant and Heart spotted a smile, amidst the fog that surrounded the Sharman.

Sharman spoke in soothing, comforting and a bit hesitant voice. “You will find your way. Patience, my dear.”

Heart was angry. “For this I traveled? I could have said it so to myself. I wanted to know where the Other lived, could the Other belong to me? Would the Other want me as much as I wanted the Other? Tell me.”

Sharman replied, “Patience. You must have patience. Let things evolve. Let the Other know that you are here, by being ready. You must be ready to receive the Other. When the time comes. You will know. You will find the way.”

With that Sharman disappeared into the fog.

Heart was broken. Heart bled. Tired of searching, tired of wandering and tired of the no-news news, Heart went back home. New York was full of lost souls like Heart. Heart found companions in every possible way. They were not the Other but Heart settled. It told itself no more tears, no more wandering and no more waiting. Though Heart found no solace in these adventures, it felt empty, and all those wasted energy in those searches became tiresome. Heart wanted the Other, but where was the Other?

One day, Heart woke up and realized that it was time. Enough aimless nights with random souls that meant so little to Heart. Heart left its loft in a hurry and went for a walk. It realized enough was enough and Heart started tending itself. Heart focused, for the first time, on what Heart wanted. Heart wanted inner peace and a sense of direction. Heart found that happiness had to come from within, and could not, and would not come from  others, not even from THE Other, should the Other have ever existed. Heart erased its phone directory – you see, Heart was modern like us, Heart had used phones, texts and messengers. Heart gradually cleaned up its closet, and removed those skeletons and ghosts. Heart stopped wandering the night clubs looking for other lost souls. Heart was healing from inside this time. Heart found solace in spending time with itself, and dancing in the rain.

One day, Heart was out in the park, admiring the sun and rain. Summer rain was always Heart’s favorite. The rainbow formed a perfect arch across the Central Park, and there it was, Heart knew, it was the Other. Heart was delighted by its discovery, it knew, instinctively,  the Other was near. It felt a magnetic pull, drawing Heart closer to the edge of the park, there was a sense of peace, a perfect contentment, a steady heartbeat, as Heart approached the Other.

The Other waved and smiled. “I know you’d find me. I have been here, waiting for you.”

Heart was ecstatic. “Really? How come I didn’t know?”

The Other continued. “Haven’t you recognized me? I’ve been in your life all these years. I’ve always been here, since the beginning.”

Heart looked at the Other. The Other looked quite different somehow, perhaps it was the sunlight, perhaps it was the sound of the heartbeat, perhaps it was, finally, the right time. The Other looked calmer, self-assured, and matured.

Heart answered. “Yes you’ve always been here. I just did not know YOU would be the Other. I remembered how it all began. How you had lit up my world. I ran away the last time. I didn’t want to feel then. I couldn’t afford a heartbreak. But when I left you, I broke down, I was aimless and I went into wildness seeking for you. I'd do anything to feel that way again so I spent the last decade finding your replacements, but in the end, I realized what I needed, all along, was being with you. You knew me at core. You always had me. I was always yours and yours alone."

Heart remembered a passage it wrote many moons ago as Heart first left the Other.

“About a month ago while on an excursion to the wilderness, I brought you back from a nameless river. You were merely a form of energy back then. But somehow you decided to form an image and appear in my dreams, and since then you became a game player. Pretty soon in my dreams you formulated a list of activities and  you demanded me to play with you."

Heart worried the Other was a player. Heart was one itself. So was the Other.

“I told you that I was a cat. I had nine lives to live. Each one of them constituted its own journey. I told you that our journey was approaching to an end.  I was really quite fragile under the tough surface. My Heart was a clear crystal, if you pressed any harder than you already did, it would break into millions of pieces and I would never be able to put them back again."

Heart was onto its 9^th life, at this point, the last and the final form before transformation would take hold. The Other smiled. Heart remembered the smile being somehow foreign. It used to be radiant and carefree, seductive and playful. Now it was full of grace and grateful, grateful of Heart’s return, perhaps, or just being grateful that life had taken a turn for the better.

As the Other did once before to Heart, the Other announced in the same authoritative way: "You are mine, mine alone. You are beautiful now and you are mine now."

Heart did a dance, it twirled like a giddy teenager trying on a new prom dress. And then it said, and yes you predicted right, it said, “I Heart you!”

Heart returned.

Home, as the story would go, was never where Heart lived; it was, and would remain to be, from this day onwards, wherever the Other would be.

This Season, You and I

Relationships are a lot like seasons. There will be highs and lows. Like trees, it may even go dormant. You think it is dead one moment and then the next a peek of a green shoot sprouting at the top of the dry branches. One must be patient, to let things mature, play out, and not draw conclusions too hastily. Like a good bottle of wine, appropriate aging is needed.

 
I know a woman once. She once loved a man but walked away after getting tired of waiting, waiting for this man to make up his mind. She’s a pacifist. She made no decisions in matters dealing with her heart, she was only good at one thing, bailing. So she left him before he could leave her.

 
On his tenth anniversary with his wife, he sent this woman 21 messages, and when emails failed to convey his feeling properly, he texted her.  He wanted something with her, a fling, a reliving of the past, perhaps. I did not know. This woman never told me what happened after receiving those messages. But if I knew her at all, nothing would have happened. If there was one thing she liked more than bailing, it was avoidance. When she moved on, she really moved on.

I like to imagine a different type of story, a story where two people, old lovers perhaps, would re-meet fifteen or so years later and finally have a go at things, properly. They learned relationship, not anyone else's but their particular brand of relationship, is like the changing seasons: there will be climax, and there will be mundane, but they know through these ups and downs, peaks and valleys, they were going to be by each other's side. They understood each other, intrinsically. 

That, is the ending I’d like to read.
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It started last year, exactly this time. Before you could feel autumn in the air, before the leaves were turning into crispy papyrus, twirling as they fell, lingering in midair, unrelentingly grabbing onto the last bit of air before breaking into millions of pieces. 

Market Street was getting dark just after 7. End of August, I remembered it because I started shopping at Bebe's like I once did in the nineties. I could see the store from where I jogged, on a treadmill, before I had a private trainer, before my very first long distance race, before I knew the seasons would change in this city – I thought it only happened in the rural parts of the world. Not here, not when one fashioned pink dresses and yellow sunglasses all year long.

For a while the air was intoxicatingly sweet, exhilarating and unpredictable; there were white and pink flowers covering the skyline, falling petals covering the tree-lined street. It was like a snowstorm, except that it was not going to melt; it remained at the bottom of your shoes, and from there, it took shape.

But then inexplicably, winter came and we went into hibernation. You and I. After the blossoming flowers were the falling leaves, dark, brown stains covering the pavement, mixed in with the raining hail. One might have thought that those trees were dead, the branches were bare but more importantly, they appeared to be giving up on living, tired of struggle with the brutalities and abuse of the weather, tired of losing its canopy, feeling exposed and vulnerable and no one would hear their silent cries. The tears in the form of rain drops dripped slowly from these lifeless branches, puddles accumulating just below the roots of the tree. Occasionally a dog or two being walked would stop and scratch their itches against the trunk of the trees, no one noticed the rotting piles of leaves, until one day the street sweepers came by and scooped them all away.

Hearts were hardened, and we became sarcastic, cagy and doubtful of the prospect. We stopped self-congratulating and trusting our gut instincts; we thought we would never see those petals again. The winter nights were long, and dreary; they smelled not death but despair.

One day, without warning, unexpectedly, came the spring. The ice was thawed out, and we were at a brink of turning over a new leaf. You and I. A new beginning. The clock was reset. This time, we seemed to find our rhythm, the steady drumbeat of our hearts, and the high and low tides of our moods.

So we wasted no time at all and declared a celebration of the spring. In honor of the past errors and misunderstanding, the imminent yet unknown future, and the fleeting, however precious, present.

We held our hands, ten fingers interlocked, tight grip full of reassurance for each other. But alas, we were not full of bravery; we were only full of melancholy.

But if the seasons taught us anything, it was not courage that we needed; it was patience, and the acceptance of inevitable.

And if the turning of the seasons was inevitable, so were you and I.

A little story - about love, and everything mattered

“At the heart of love a la francaise lies the idea of freedom. To love truly is to want the other free, and this includes the freedom to walk away. Love is not about possession or property. Love is no prison where two people are each other’s slaves.  Love is not a commodity, either. Love is not a capitalist, it is revolutionary. If anything, true love shows you the way to selflessness.

In his recent book, “In Praise of love,” the French philosopher Alain Badiou reminds us that love implies constant risk. There is no safe, everlasting love. The idea that you can lock two people’s love once and for all, and toss the key, is a puerile fantasy. For Mr. Badiou, love is inherently hazardous, always on the brink of failure and above all vulnerable. Embrace its fragility, wish your beloved to be free ad you might just, only just, have a chance to retain his or her undying gratitude, and love. But don’t ever dream of locks and throwing keys overboard, especially not in Paris.”

- An affront to love, French-style by Agnes C. Poirier

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He sat on a straight back chair; he was dressed, in her favorite shirt, a bespoke shirt, small checkered print, blue on white. His back was erect. He was just sitting. In his own apartment, he sat by a lonely chair, all alone.

“Are you going somewhere?” She came up to him.

He sat there, patiently, like a gentleman caller. It looked like a scene from something she’d see in PBS Masterpiece Theatre, production of BBC, something from the bygone era.  So formal and proper, as if he was waiting for the arrival of his lady friend, or surveying a roomful of dancing people. He was simply content, and waiting. She was shocked by the contrasting imagine from just half an hour ago, and feeling a tenderness she’s not felt before.

 “No, I am waiting for you.” Man answered.

“Oh.” She came up to him, straddled him and draped her arms around him. She was the person he was waiting for.

“Let’s go to my bedroom.” He took her hand and led her back to the bedroom. Bed was not made and it was a bit of a mess.

Her hair was wet.  She had freshly showered. In the shower she’d been in before, in his bathroom. This was his apartment; she had taken a confined space in a confined time interval. She was part of his décor like the antler’s horn on his wall. 

He was wearing the same shirt, the same pair of pants, all dressed up, ready to go. She knew that he was going somewhere. She had, despite her best effort not to be in tune with him, had become in sync with him. She knew more than he wanted her to know.  She knew him more than she thought she knew.

And she knew he needed to leave soon, which meant she needed to leave soon.

He let her put her wet head on him. She carefully extended her hand through his shirt, resting on his bare chest.  He grabbed her hand and made sure that it was only on his chest and not down below. He was spent and he needed a break. He was satisfied with what just took place.

The room became quiet. The window was cracked half way, and she could feel the cool, summer fresh air, blowing in from the bay. She had gotten to know this place, this place that had become, strangely, a home away from home. She recognized the blue toothbrush. She sometimes used it when she was in his place.  She knew enough to know where he kept their toys. She knew enough to know – in a rather strange, and limited way, he had carved a piece of his world for her. And she fit right in, in that small box with her initials on it; and in return, she had carved out a piece of her world, just for him.

“I love you.” She heard a strange voice, coming out of her mouth.

“And I love you.” He touched her wet hair.

“I like spending time with you. Lying here.” He said.

She was drifting into sleep. Never could she feel this restful with anyone else.

They stopped doing reverse date, as of late. A reverse date was a term that he invented for the two of them. When they first started seeing each other, they barely left his apartment, and on rare occasions, when they felt compelled, when they needed food desperately after, he and she would go and grab a bite to eat. It was a reverse date, because the date portion of it started after they’d already spent hours, devouring each other. The last reverse date she could remember, was at a Belgium restaurant, after they had unexpectedly exchanged “I love you’s.” She remembered it well because it was in the shower stall he blurred it out, after she had just returned from the east coast, and he had asked her if she missed him while she was in Boston.  It was his other home. Ever since she’s met him, she knew he spent significant time there.  It was not a world that she knew, but she knew enough that he had a life out there. She did. She missed him and she was frantic. He declared “I love you,” and she found myself crying and said “I love you.” And the rest was a blur. She pondered the meaning of the word and it caused a terrible heartache. She had failed to see it coming, and the aftershock paralyzed her for sometime. She believed that was the reason that they did not see each other for weeks on end.

When they had finally did meet up again, they had reset. New rules were created. They had proper dates. Man took her out for dinner, then a show, and they spent a lovely evening together that night. She was quiet. She had no voice of her own. She had decided at that moment, what went wrong was caused by that impromptu declaration of love for each other.

The subsequent meet up was sporadic, short in duration and never again in that uncalculated risk-taking mode.

One time she told him, “You know what went wrong? I said ‘I love you,’ and I’m not good with the word love. I can’t do love.”

Man was listening carefully and held her tight, and said, “I know, baby.”

Man knew what went wrong was what went right. But man was afraid of losing what they had.  He knew he had to let her be, for she could be leaving and never be seen again. Man was falling in love. Man didn’t want woman know how he felt at that moment, when woman wanted to stay away from love. Man held the woman tight in his arms, and put his hand on her head, rubbing her head gently, and said “I know.”

Woman knew what went wrong. The act of declaration of love for each other was alright, but it was the expectation of change. Neither one of them wanted anything to change. They were creatures of habit; they had routines, lives outside of each other and circumstances,  changes, would not alter their lives, but of those others, others they cared about, others they’d call as their families, respectively.

For his birthday, she bought him cufflinks. One set was made of German stamps, represented man’s heritage; one set was made of Iceland flags, represented the country man wanted to move to if he had a choice; one set was made of actual Legos, representing man’s pastime game with man’s young son.   In a birthday card that had bicycles on the cover, which represented man’s favorite sport and commuter venue when man’s not with the woman and driving, it wrote the following: “I think I love you. In a I-don’t-want-anything-to-change and I-am-glad-you-are-in-my-life way. And not in a jealous, possessive, suspicious, clingy and traditional way.” Woman wrote the paragraph in pencil, she presented the card and said, “If you don’t like what I wrote, I can still change it.”

Man read the card, and smiled. He reached over the dining table, and grabbed her hand, and said, “I love the card.” She smiled.

Then, the unexpected happened, he said, loud and clear, “And I love you.”

Man did not ever declare emotions in public. Man was always thoughtful, reserved and emotionless.

Man said “I love you” in three occasions. The first was just after Christmas, She thought she heard it wrong and laughed it off. Man didn’t want to repeat it, it was too soon. In March, man said “I love you” and disappeared from her life for a while.  She thought man changed his mind. And now, in August, it was clear, and it was natural.

For once she found her voice again, and without trembling or hesitation. She knew. She found what powered their relationship, and what fueled her creative freedom. It was not the prediction of known; it was the expectation of unknown.  Love and passion lived in a world of unknown, for if we were at risk of losing both, we’d make a conscious effort to preserve them, treasure those feelings, and not take each other for granted. She finally knew, because she had learned the French way of love.

She was also finally willing to set him free. Not that he was never not free before, but she had learned to relax, and knew in her heart to love someone she must let him be free, she must be willing to have him walk away anytime, and be okay when he denied her. It was until then could we value love as we ought to - precious, fleeting and unapologetic ally overpowering.  It was the only way. The French way. 

  

Along the way she thought he found it to be a disrespectful way to treat her. He wanted to right the wrongs. He stopped asking her going over to his place in the middle of the day. To have sex and then go back to work. To stop those booty calls. Along the way he started to treat her like someone he truly cared, with respect and with a tenderness that often broke her heart.  One could always tell a man was falling in love. A man felt in love in ways a woman couldn’t comprehend. One moment man called all the shots and dictated how the game was played, and another moment he put a woman on a pedestal and wanted to treat her like a princess.

Man started to care, to want to please a woman. He did not know when it happened; man thought it would be a perfect little game. Fuck her, use her, and he could do whatever he wanted to do outside of that arrangement, it was a lustful relationship. Man did not expect to fall in love.

Woman thought love was a complicated matter. It involved heartache and sorrow. It involved the absolute faith; faith woman did not think she had. But love, as it turned out, was a simple math equation. Love equated setting the other person free. That was it. It was logical and mathematical. The ingredient to love was freedom. Love made one become selfless. Love was not an act of demand, or even a commitment, it was the act of generosity. The act of letting go; let the man she loved be free, free of doing whatever he wanted and whenever he wanted.  Woman found her rhythm in the end.

He told her once, “Good things in life are often free.” He was jokingly referring to a specific kind of sexual act, which she promised to perform. But she realized that it applied to love also. Love was free. Free of expectations, free of jealousy, and free of sadness. In the end, it was just that simple.

Exactly a year ago. A note that carried a simple hello set everything in motion. 

A year later, they began, again.

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Man produced two white nylon ropes. Woman looked at the rope, puzzled.

She said, “No.”

Man paused, “No?”

Man would never have considered what woman wanted, man usually just said “yes,” but not that time. Man stopped what he was doing and looked at her, genuinely concerned.

Woman looked at the ropes longingly. It had been sometime.

Woman had not been fucked for a while, and certainly not in a way only he knew how.

She appeared frightened. This was the game they often played. He was always forceful, and she was never quite sure what could happen to her next. Sometimes she wondered if her life would be threatened, and how long she’d endure the pain. They had never established a safety word. She thought for a short while and wondered if they should.

But instead, all she said was, “Yes.”

And then the game began.

Echo. Hat. Love.

Since I'm really just a cynic, I am going against my M.O, and tonight's writing, is on falling in love and love itself.
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On rare and unconventional moment of clarity, or stupidity, one should try to actually write what one thinks. Baring soul is no easy feat. But a leap of faith should be taken, on occasion. If anything, so that one could finally sleep at night. And if one should be so lucky, a rather ther rare phenomenon of echoing may occur unexpectedly and serendipitously, by the reader of the noterare phenomenon of echoing may occur unexpectedly and serendipitously, by the reader of the note.

Upon hearing the echo on the other end, one may even wonder - "Is this how they ought to sound aloud?" Those three soundless words on a piece of paper all of sudden came alive, wrap one around like a winter scarf.

Toasty and warm, Calm and enlightened.

So… words are being spoken. Declarations are made. But one should not be easily convinced, because one must try to utter the same words, to give it a swirl, just like a good looking hat, you don't know how it actually fits, until you put it on.

"I.Love.You."

Just like that.

The hat fits snuggly but the price tag is outrageous.  She feels depleted after. But when could one ever obtain such an unusual hat? It’s a once a life time acquisition.  

One hears another echo, "I love you baby."

One tries again. "I love you."

This time, it sounded more natural, not a murmuring, but three separate words, clear and purposeful.

Then the echo, "I love you."

One attempts the third and final try, just to be sure.  This time, the trained ears hear them right. It was indeed those three words.

One finally concludes. "This is how they sound. Those three magic words."

Words are magical, because they carry an echo.

One has to be patient.  Words spoken too soon will crash and burn. Words spoken too late will reduce one’s life into regrets and sorrow.

Words must be spoken, at the right time.

Like anything in life, timing, must be perfect to feel right.

Just like that, those plain three words, written, erased, and rewritten, used and abused often, have turned into a commitment.  

And it shall go on, until the end of the day.

One never cares about how it starts. One looks forward, until the end of the day, until the last sun set, the last sail, the last breath, the last time one’s hand is holding the other.

She takes out all the cash one has, put it on the counter.

“It’s a lovely hat. It fits you perfectly. You look great in pink.” The sales lady is all smiles.

“Indeed, the hat is splendid. I had never worn pink before.” She smiles back. There is no return policy.

But on occasion, splurging is good. After all, a pink hat that fits, so exquisitely, does not come often in her life.

A catamaran ride, a boy and a singing mermaid

A dream came to me last night. This is my dream.

You held my hand, such firm grip, I felt that you claimed me, at that moment.  I was, indeed, yours.

 “They started saying that I’m your girlfriend.”  I looked at him. Feeling uncertain.

“So I shall be your boyfriend.” You nodded.

“It’s the end of era.” You added.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because one shall never go back, to being single, to being free.” You answered, still holding my hand.

“I don’t want anything to change. You and I.  I want everything to stay the same.” I replied, trying to assure you.

“It won’t.  It never does.” You answered.

I had nothing to add. I knew better not to argue with you. When you disagreed, you just simply did not reply to me. I was trained. It had always been a dichotomy, one puzzle I failed to solve. I was always the commanding one. I had a habit of ordering people around,  and made decisions for everything, but not with you. I had always been the submissive one in this relationship. I had let you take charge, willingly, never with others.

“Let’s bike.” You got on yours.

“Cross straight over the bridge, follow the water.” Then you were gone.

I walked my bike slowly, and then I discovered a large catamaran waiting to board.  I locked the bike and boarded the boat, with his son. Boy held my hand and I held him back, with a tight grip, like the way he held me.

It was a packed boat. It set to sail shortly I boarded. The water was calm, glassy water at the beginning but then the waves came in, carrying strong current. The catamaran fought to stay on course. The water was seeping into the cabin. The boy held my hand, tighter, appeared to be intimidated by the boat and the water.

“It’s alright. Look at these people. They are my friends. Look at those lights far away.” I assured the little boy.

“My dad is training for a race. He bikes a lot.” The boy told me.

“Yes, he does.” I answered.

Boy was curious.

“Do you bike too?”  He asked me.

“I do, sometimes. I like to run.” I told him.

“I like to run too. I like when you lift me up with my father.” He smiled.

I had lifted him up once, with his father, and swung him forward, like I used to do with my son.

He was becoming less frightened. I was always maternal towards little boys. I had a little boy once myself. He was always sick when he was young. When he was six weeks old, I thought I had lost him forever. I fought hard to keep him alive; lived in the hospital for two years. He got better. I aged. Wrinkles everywhere, I had no regrets. He was my life. I would have done everything and anything for him. I did not know what love was until the day I held him, watching him helplessly as he fought for his own life.

“Have you ever cried?” You had asked me once.

“I have cried twice. Once for my little boy and once for you, my dear.”

You did not say anything. I did not know where you were at that moment, you seemed far away and you were lost in thought. I wondered if I had made you feeling guilty. I didn’t like to make anyone feel obligated.

I didn’t want to be made into an honest woman. I didn’t care for definition or have any expectations. I had lived long enough to know nothing in life was for certain. Nothing would stay the same, yet I expected you and I would, stay exactly the same.

I loved little boys. They could so easily break my heart. It was the one weakness I had.  My boy had left home. He was no longer mine.

“Look at the lights.” I pointed at the far away land.

They were blue, purple, pink and red. They were blinking. The sky had turned purple, reflective of the lights. There were millions of stars, and mysterious floating objects in the sky, shining and blinking. I wondered aloud what they were - Alien objects? Decorations? Airplanes?   The lights changed color, they had become yellow, and then blue, and then they stayed light blue, blending into the darkened sky, they were just blazing lights, blinking rapidly, forming shapes in the sky like they were dancing, as if it was the end of the world, and we had entered heaven.

The waves continued to rock the boat. I saw something ascending from water and I exclaimed as it became clear to me it was no ordinary object, it, no, I should say, she, was a mermaid. She was beautiful like the ones my daughter drew for me. She wore beautiful gown draped with seashells and she sang, and danced as she continued to ascend, she waved at me as I waved at her back. The hostess of the catamaran, who I must have known before this trip, came up to me from the back cabin, interrupting my exchange with the mermaid, “You doing alright?” She asked.

I remembered who she was. She owned a fancy restaurant on Embarcadero. I used to go to her private tasting evenings. She was half Japanese and half Chilean, an exotic combination, smart and classy lady in her late 50s.

“I’m great. Did you see the dancing mermaid?” I asked.

“Yes, she comes out to play in this stormy weather. You will see, she’ll protect us, as she always does.” She smiled and padded my shoulder and walked away.

It was mesmerizing, the lights continued to change color again, this time from blue to red, and the clouds were forming and one could see the rays just behind the cloud shadows. I had never seen anything like this before. I took out my camera and started to snap photos. Mermaid started to cross over to the other side of the shore, I could only see her red hair, disappearing into the deep blue water.

Then I heard the boy calling me. “Come back.” I looked back, and he was standing now, holding the seat and waving at me frantically with his little hands.

So I returned to the back cabin. The seats were getting wet, so I stood next to the boy, holding his hand, and his hand was trembling. I felt a tuck in my heart. I lifted him up.

“Did you see what I see? I saw a mermaid!” I asked him as I lifted him high above me.

“No. I didn’t. My dad is a really good at biker.”

Instead of cyclist, he used the word “biker” like my son used to say about his sister, who was an avid bicyclist. 

“I have been on many rides with my dad.” 

I know little children like to repeat things that were on their minds, things that were familiar to them and things which made them calm.

So I followed the cue.

“Yeah? Tell me about those rides.”

The boy proceeded to tell me stories of his many bike rides with his father.

A man whom I recognized to be my girlfriend’s ex boyfriend passed me by.  He was with three younger women. I pretended not to recognize him.

Another woman, whom I was friend with, who dated another male friend of mine once before fifteen years ago in New York, came passing me with a wet suit, and jumped into the water. She got into the water and waved at me and said, “It’s not bad, the waves are fine.” Then she swam away like a fish.

I followed her with my eyes, just to make sure that she was okay and she appeared to be doing just fine, so I turned my attention back to the little boy.

“One time I saw a giant dinosaur on our usual bike route.” The boy was telling me.

I played along.

“Yeah, how big and what kind?”

“It was a Tyrannosaurus rex. It was so huge.” Boy gestured.

“Did it try to catch you guys?” I asked an obvious question.

“No, Dad rides faster than it can catch.”  Boy said it proudly.

“That’s fantastic. I love T-rex. They are also my son’s favorite.” My son, when he was little, and sick, always held a little plastic T-rex.

“Sometimes we see construction vehicles, and sometimes we ride trains.” Boy continued to recount his life with his father.

“Yes I have heard.” I squeezed his hand, smiling.

I had decided long ago I’d never make a good stepmother for anyone. I already had children. I love my own children. I adored other children, but the days of raising one with someone, even with a man I love, was over.

I wanted my freedom, more than anything else.

I also feared of losing those I love. I almost lost my son once, and it broke my heart. I had never recovered. I feared to be attached to anyone ever again. The heart healed, but heartbreak never could be forgotten.

Those were private thoughts; I’d never share it with the man I love, the one whom others referred now as my boyfriend.

The music came on. There was festive music playing at shore. Fireworks started to take place from an island not far to the left of us. The sky had turned into dark purple, and it held onto the last bit of rays before the sunset. Darkness was invading our open space. The air became cool.

“Do you think dad has arrived at our hotel?” Boy asked.

“Yes, I’m certain of it. We will be right behind him.” I assured him.

“Good. I miss my dad.” The boy became quiet.

“I know, boy. I know.”  I looked up, and the catamaran was slowing down, and approaching shore. This had proven to be a short ride.

As the passengers disembarked, the boy and I trailed behind.

He was looking anxiously through the crowd on shore, searching for his dad.

I knew that you’d be there, you might not be consistent, but you’d always be there, down the road. That much I was sure.

 I found the man boy was looking for.

“There is dad.” I pointed the man in a black shirt and blue jeans, standing erect, holding his hat.  You appeared to be looking for your son also, searching the crowd, getting impatient. So I waved and called your name.

Then you saw me, and you smiled, or perhaps you saw your son.

Boy ran to his father. “Dad. You go fast.” Boy was so proud of his dad.

I let you two embracing each other. Standing behind.

“Let’s go.” You came up to me, extended your hand to hold mine, again, tight grip.

Boy saw his father holding my hand. So I let go of your hand, uncertain of boy’s reaction, feeling observed.

“Can I be in the middle?” Boy asked.

“Sure.” Feeling relieved, I extended my hand to boy.

Boy put his other hand to his father.

We lifted him up.

Boy giggled, feeling happy and content.

“Let’s count to 100 this time.” Boy requested.

And there we played the game the boy liked: boy counted 1-2-3, and we lifted him up in the air, and he counted again 4-5-6, and we lifted him up again, higher this time, so on and so forth.

I smiled at you, you were looking at me, smiling also, Then you opened his mouth, soundlessly. I read your lips and you said, “thank you.”

I wanted to tell you about the strong current, the waves,  and the lights, the fantastical lights, but I knew at that moment, nothing in the world mattered.

Things might change, and freedom would be lost, but you were going to be okay with it.  I was not sure of it, but perhaps I would not let my uncertainty trouble me any longer.

I saw a singing mermaid, and if that was what change would bring, I was going to be fine after all.

The Blue Truck

He said, “you bought me a toy truck, blue, and I still have it.”

She looked surprised. “I did?”

“Yes. You’ve always treated me well. You were generous and kind.” He reminisced.

“I was?” She asked.

“Yes. You were good to me.” He said.

The line went silent.

“So?” She asked.

“Come and see me. We will play croquet.” He suggested.

So that’s how it felt like, to reconnect with your old lover. Someone whom you thought you’d love until the day you die, but you didn’t die nor do you still love him.

“We should have married.” He said.

She wanted to say “I’ve given you hints, opportunities, and I would have done anything for you. But you never wanted to marry me. You said that I was the unmarriable kind.”

But she said nothing. It would not be appropriate. It would sounded complaining. She never complained.

She remembered someone else. Someone whom she used to get over him. The German. Someone whom she then, subsequently fell for, unintentionally, and then years later, that someone would still haunt her.

“You were the one you know.” She said casually.

He was indeed the one. Tall, dark, handsome. Ivy League, East Coast, European descent. He fit her M.O.

They travelled, and they laughed. They remained in each other’s lives as good friends. 18 years of life. That’s quite a long time. They even got married one after another, to their respective spouses and had children who are of the same age.

“Send me a photo of the truck.” She asked.

He never did.  It was among his prized possessions. It held her heart, her heart that once, belonged to him.

“You were the only one who sent me flowers on my birthday.” She said.

“I remember opening up a package, flowers, yellow roses, a dozen of them. Beautifully preserved. I never received roses before or after.” She said.

“You were very generous, and kind to me.” He was being sentimental and he repeated the same comment he made earlier. His voice sounded funny on the phone.

She felt a tuck. It was not there before.

She knew what he meant. She has only been this way with three men in her life. He was the second.

She was otherwise confident, carefree and never went out her way to please anyone. In another word, she was herself but with these three men.

She cried for three different men in her youth. One Swedish, one Italian, and one German. Those days were over. But her entanglement with these three types of men continued.

“So that’s how it feels, to get older, to look back, and see what could have worked, and not look forward, and anticipate whom you would meet down the road.” She commented.

“Yes, I suppose. We make choices and mistakes. Not marrying you, was my mistake.” He said.

The other day she woke up and she saw in the mirror, one single gray hair. It reminded her that she need to make an appointment with her hair dresser. Aging, was really never avoidable. Regrets, were made when you were least expecting it. We don’t know what we miss, until it’s gone.

She was gone.

“I will let you know if I make it out that way.” She answered.

But she won’t. She won’t let him know. It would be a mistake. She knew what he wanted. She didn’t want that, not when he’s now happily married with children.

“And send me a photo of the truck.” She reminded him.

But she knew he would not.