Bluedenim INK Linkwell
.....by Fran Alt
Dear Michael,
I needed to tell him about us Michael. I worried since the story was published, that he might ask about it . . . about where I got the idea for it. I did not plan to tell him during our walk but . . .
***** We went for a walk at dusk - took the dog. The little house between the two mansions around the bend had a for sale sign. I always liked that house, and mentioned it to him. A woman exited a car parked in the driveway, and walked toward us. We exchanged hellos and he inquired about the price. She gave us a quote and started talking.
My guess said she was 65 - maybe. She was spry and bubbly, and I warmed to her quickly. The dog, a monstrous mix of shepherd and wolf, strained at the leash. He let the dog lead him toward the corner while the lady and I talked.
Helen, at 83, looked incredible - no real wrinkles, no noticeable afflictions. She didn't have a secret. She guessed her youthful looks an inherited trait. From there I got details of her life - which I won't go into - while the dog ran between me and him.
I left Helen and we moved on toward the park, where the dog likes to play in the creek.
***** I wanted to talk. I can't be duplicitous. The story I wrote about us was nagging at me. The story, so steeped in truth and the feeling of cheating . . .
I worry about him and her - that we (you and I) are hurting them regardless of whether they know. I am always explaining us away (to myself) as different things - today it is inspiration. Writers need that, and we provide it for each other. I tell myself all sorts of ridiculous excuses for this relationship each and every day. But I know what I feel and I can't really explain that away. (Surely some psychiatrist probably would have fun with us.)
***** We are in the park and we watch the dog run into the creek. Behind us is a picnic area. He takes my hand and we walk toward it.
He sits on a cement table and pulls me toward him. We hug quietly. His hands run gently down my back and he sneaks them under my shirt. I think about how romantic and caring he always is, and how much I love this attention and I start to feel guilty.
***** I am thinking about my life with him, Michael. He makes life seem like a Hollywood movie - dancing me through the kitchen, down the aisles of the supermarket. I don't even care that people are looking and shaking their heads. Deep inside I know I am most fortunate to have him.
There was never a moment of infatuation, of crazed love. He was sweet and thoughtful and I liked that.
***** I am leaning my head on his chest and gazing off into space. I begin to cry and he asks what's wrong. I tell him I care for him deeply, but I am not really in love . . . not really . . . not even knowing what love is.
***** My not being-in-love was something he knew before we married, but he said I would learn to love him.
***** I tell him I need to talk. He tells me he knows.
***** He knew about us - he sensed I was falling in love through our correspondence - through the Internet. I told him that it was absurd, that you were so much younger. He said that he had read your poems and that age would not matter to you.
So we were not news, but the story - he didn't know about the love story. I had to tell him. I think, the story is what awakened me. After I wrote it, I knew we were not just playing a childlike innocent game.
Yes, you are my inspiration. And yes, I don't want us to ever end. I like things the way they are, but I am so mixed up and I think you must be too. Why am I always questioning? Why can't I just say this is beautiful - enjoy it? Michael, I wonder do you have these problems too?
***** He is hugging me tighter, and telling me not to worry. He is consoling me! Kissing at a tear running down my cheek, and he brushes it away with his lips. Life seems so simple, so uncomplicated. He smiles and tells me not to worry, that he feels safe and all will be well. Someday, he says, I will understand his love, and maybe even write a story about him.
He still has a hand inside my shirt, and he is pulling me closer, and I am feeling warm and sensuous and oblivious to the world. We are in a wooded area and I he pulls me closer and I can feel what he is thinking.
Suddenly the dog emerges from the creek, shaking the water off as she gets closer, and reality bites us.
He puts an arm around my shoulder and holding me close we head for home. The dog runs ahead, then stops and looks back to make sure we are following.
Helen is working in her yard as we come back around the bend, him holding me close, the dog a few paces ahead. Helen smiles. 'What a wonderful couple,' she remarks. We look at each other, then smile back at her.
***** I want to share this because duplicity works both ways. It is implicitly understood that we have our realities. That this, however real it seems, is our fantasy world. This relationship of words is the substructure of our souls, it enhances our talents, it moves our minds into the aesthetic realms of creativity.
See. There I go again trying to write-off my feelings for you, trying to explain away our feelings as though this love-like emotion does not exist.
It does, and I am surely duplicitous.
As Always . . .