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.

Ferry Building Encounter

At the Ferry building earlier, at Cowgirl Creamery. Was trying to decide: green olives, black olives, mixed olives? I could tell I was about to drop one when a hand was extended and caught the falling plastic container of black olives. I was still engrossed in my selection process, so without looking up, I said “thank you” and continued my mental debate.

A voice came up: “What do you think of this cheese?”

The same hand that caught the plastic container extended a round cheese log to me.

Again, without looking up, I said, “Oh it’s really good. I have gone to their factory in Petaluma and sampled it and I really liked it.”

 “Good.” The voice said. Then it continued, “where did you get the bread? They look really good.”

At that point, I finally raised my head, I was getting really impatient, despite the stranger’s help in catching that falling container. There in front of me was a gorgeous, breathtakingly beautiful, smiling, tall young man with those impossible blue eyes.

Instead of answering his question, I said, “Oh, you are not from here aren’t you?” I was still annoyed that he interrupted my thought process of green vs. black vs. mixed olives, which by the way, is a rather important decision to make when you have a loaf of ACME sweet baguette and a sourdough ebi.

The gorgeous young man continued to flash his bright smile, exposing his white even teeth, “No, I’m not from here.”

I finally had to stop what I was doing, putting back the olives and then said to him, “ Down a couple of stores is ACME bread, they are based in Berkeley. Freshly baked bread on site. You can order a Salumi sandwich, or a cheese sandwich, made of sweet baguette, very good.”

He stood there, not leaving. “What are you doing later tonight?” He asked.

Seriously?!

So the ever-not-so-smooth me answered, “Going back to work and then go home.”

“Ah.” He said.

Then I went back to my olive mental debate. Ignoring the man who’s standing next to me.

“Well, then, thank you so much for the cheese and bread recommendation.” The man picked up the cheese and finally left.

I finally decided on green olives AND mixed olives.

As I walked out of the Ferry building, I wondered, “Did I just become the target of an ill attempted pick up? Did I just turn down the opportunity to hang out with a super gorgeous young guy just so that I could go home and enjoy my olives and baguette? Was he really not from here?” I have decided the answer for all three questions is yes. And I’m rather proud of it.

Spring and Fall

He said, “Do you have other boyfriends?”

She looked at him, a funny look, “No, why? Are we boyfriend girlfriend now?”

He said, “No, I thought we agreed this was just a casual sexual encounter.”

She said, “No, I prefer the traditional term of boyfriend, girlfriend. Lovers maybe.”

They sat on the bench, looking at the ferries coming and going.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon. His spouse was out of town on a girls’ weekend out. Her spouse had gone back east to visit his family.

“When are you moving?” She asked.

“I don’t know. We are still searching for a place. A big house with an acre of land. In Marine. Where we could raise children.” He said.

“That’s great.” She said. But she wondered if she meant it.

“But I’m keeping my place in the city.” He said, nonchalantly.

She found her spirit lifted, just a little.

“I’ll need a pad to crash. When I work late. We’ve had our apartment for 10 years. It’s largely paid off.” He said.

“I’ll need a place to stay when I work late. Driving to Marine is far.” He added

“I’d agree.” She nodded her head. She’s now chewing on her Blue Bottle Gelato instead of licking the top of it.

“Go and hurry up and get your house in Marine. Your wife can raise your children, build a garden, and raise some chickens.” She smiled. The image of his beautiful young wife working under the sun, while having her children running around in the yard made her happy. She liked that serene image. She had met his young wife once. She was beautiful, had the brilliant smile and so innocent and trustworthy. His young wife would make a great mother. Something she’d never do for him.

She’s already a mother, to her own three children. All grown up now, two in high school, one in college back east.

“So what do you tell your husband about us? I should know so I could synch up with what I say to my wife.” He asked in earnest.

“I told him that I hang out with you. You are young, bi and we have gone out and done things. He knows that I attract non-straight men.” She said while stretching her legs.

“What have you told her about me?” She asked.

“I told her that you give me career advice. We have gone to dinner once with my buddy. We have grabbed lunch sometimes.” He answered.

The secret to an affair is that you try not to lie. You tell your respective spouses of the existence of the other person in your life, in a non-sexual way. That way, the truth is largely truth. You have not, technically lied.

“You should also tell her that I’m a mother of three, I’m approaching 50, and I’m not attractive, overweight, and I’m nearly 20 years older than you.” She smiled. She knew that she’s older, but she’s not by any stretch of imagination, not attractive, she’s in fact, in excellent shape, very attractive, a yoga instructor by night, and a VP of a financial firm in downtown. People constantly thought of her to be in her early 30s.

“So I like this.” He touched her necklace, and then just so ever gently he touched her neck. It’s a matching set. He liked her attire. She’s gorgeous for her age. She’s someone he always wanted to have, exotic, olive skinned, black hair, toned body, petite, full of radiant smile, happy, intoxicatingly sexy. Even though she’s nearly 20 years senior than he is.

“So your place or mine tonight?” She asked.

“It’s up to you. I like your house, it’s huge and it’s in Pacific Heights. I dig it.” He smiled. He’s tall, fair skinned, blond hair, fit and young. His eyes are blue green, he could pass to be her adopted son. He lived in SoMa in a loft.

“You know, you make me feel old.” She said lazily.

“You always bring this up.” He whined. His arm stretched across the backseat of the bench, pulling her closer. The drastic difference between two were unmistakable. He’s at least a foot taller, and a lot younger. He’s in jeans and t-shirt. She’s in Max Mara’s red poppy suit. 2013 runway edition, specially couriered from Italy via her personal shopper.

“I saw what you sent to me via email the other day.” He said.

“So, what do you think?” She asked.

“I’d like that. To go with you. As your date.” He said.

“Wonderful. Then it’s settled.” She’s now turned her face to him. She smiled.

“I should take a couple of photos of you and send it in.”

“That’s pretty perverse.” He said.

“We live in the city. Isn’t everyone a pervert here?” She reached for her purse.

“Ever since we started to hang out, I started to do more yoga.” He said, trying to please her.

“Good. Come to my Saturday evening class then. I can teach you to be flexible.” She began to get up.

“OK. I think I am pretty cardio worthy. I kept you up all night, didn’t I?” He asked.

She did not answer directly.

“See you tonight, darling. I have to go.” She presented her cheek. He kissed her gently.

They parted. The man went to the left, the woman to the right.

It’s an atypical San Francisco afternoon, it was unseasonably warm and the pier was crowded with tourists. Sun began to come down. If you paid closer attention to the leaves, you’d see them turning brown. The autumn was coming.

Synchronicity, Lost and Found

Synchronicity cannot be manufactured. It’s either there or not. We do tend to, however, imagine it sometimes, and wish that it with those we care for, because we’d like to convince ourselves that we have that with those we care for - we are humans and we want to feel that we are wanted, cared for and we deserve the time of the day. But a lot of times, we just feel that we are hitting a wall, or that we are being played, or that we mean so little to them, yet we make excuses for those people. 

We are in a deep well and we look up and there is not even a sliver of blue sky. It is just darkness. We sink into deep depression, we wonder if we’d ever see lights again – can you breath in a deep well, and for how long will you be alive?

After a while we realize that perhaps it is not we who are out of synch, it’s they.  They are those who can not, will not, reciprocate our kindness, our openness or return our love.

When we are little, we like to do stone skipping on a lake. We may still do as adults. When we attempt that game, we wish that it could skip and create a ripple, a disturbance on the otherwise mundane, quiet lake. We are happy when we succeed but when instead the rock just sinks, is met with silence, we begin to wonder if our attempt is a failure, or if we’ve just dreamed the whole thing up.

Some people are like that. You expect that they would make a huge impact to your life, but they just sink to the bottom of the lake, soundlessly, exit left stage, and you wonder if your chance encounter has ever existed, meant anything or just an imagination.

But occasionally you find your rock actually does exactly what it is intended, it skips on the surface, causing a ripple, and it goes on and on, like a soothing melody, and you can see the rock is heading all the way to the other end of the lake, happy as a Mexican jumping bean, right into the setting sun. And you know that you’ve found it, that synchronicity, inexplicable and enchanting. So the older soul in you finally vaporizes, ascending from the well, leaving your physical body bewildered. You feel young once again so you hold your hand up high, looking at your palm through the rays, with the fascination that you’ve not experienced in decades, and you wonder if that act of skipping is just a fluke or if you can repeat that performance. So you try again, and again... And the stones skip forward like a synchronized dance team, one after another, the ripples are now forming a song, and you are singing along.

You have climbed out of the well, in body and in soul.

That synchronicity, so elusive and so rare - Lost. And. Found.