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If you were to speak with me, I'd talk about the irony, the laughable angst you're certain that you and you alone are in. I have feelings too that are not all sweetness and light, feelings well beyond those measured fleeting moments when I'm submerged in dusk glow with the one you say you love. Who wins in love affairs? My dear, no one. Bodies are strewn everywhere, before, during and after. Someone is always targeted by the moving end of the barrel. We trade positions, hand off the gun, aim and shoot. But that's not the worst of it. The true dilemma festers inside each of us, the doubts, the jealousies, the ramblings to ourselves when driving. Let's be frank. Three's an odd number impossible to balance for any length of time. Although I've tried. On occasion. Yes, I have spoken kindly of you, taken your side, defended you. I suspect this is no consolation. In fact, I'm sure you are appalled and rightly unsympathetic. Just goes to show the precarious position I'm in — damned if I do, damned if I don't. Still, I must go on . . .
At first, you weren't part of the equation. It was about other things, bodily things, and the rush beating hearts cause, that welcomed madness, that delicious descent into deep swelling waters. We spoke of nothing. Our bodies did the talking. I'm being gentle here. We fucked hard, mindlessly. Yes, in the conjugal bedroom with your scent still in the air. (Perhaps you remember an early morning phone call, a voice from the office? You had passed the phone over. After the hang-up, your dearest heart asked for a favor. You agreed and rushed out to buy flowers. That's when I snuck into the flat. That's when the sheath between us, you and me, began to split and dissolve like old celluloid.)
We, your honey and I, were standing naked, performing in front of the dresser. A movie of ourselves reflected back. I was leaning over at the time being taken from the back. Each thrust rattled the lotions, make-up and early morning coffee cup. That's when I saw your picture tucked into the corner of the mirror. I hadn't known, suspected, considered your dark eyes until that moment when the tentacles of you reached out. I challenged your gaze and performed. It was delicious to have an audience.
Anyway, such was my first recollection.
A month later I followed our dear heart. Let me say I don't normally hover. In fact I treasure the time I am alone, unencumbered, but it was a melancholic rainy Saturday afternoon, saturated with gray. You both were to meet in the bookstore café where you worked. Before the appointed time, I sauntered over and settled into a wingback chair conveniently located in the poetry section with a clear view of the bistro tables and chairs.
Of course my interest was initially drawn to our honey and those familiar gestures we both know so well: the arched brow, the dramatic sweep of the arm, that easy, deceptive smile. Naturally, my attention swayed toward you, not in competition (I play by my own rules) but with detached curiosity: the scarf around your neck, the strands of hair that curled into those eyes. Props. And then I wondered, what would it be like to remove the dressings, to strip you down to your core?
During my next visit to the flat, I took some liberties and peered into the bedroom closet and top dresser drawer. I was on an anthropological dig for puzzle parts that make up the whole. What I found were: fuzzy slippers, a recently filled prescription of Prozac (three pills left), an M&M snack pack tucked beside satiny underwear, still tagged. My conclusion? Those penetrating dark eyes held some insecurities.
In the weeks that followed I began to notice certain things about our honey, shortcomings obscured by freshly brushed teeth and a hungry mouth. While we all tend to compartmentalize, a necessary trait for survival, some behaviors suggested a troubling uncurrent: the comparison of my body parts to yours, the enthusiastic smile when I got up to leave, phone calls not returned.
Which brings me to this moment where I write, where you stand less than ten feet away, where your fleeting gaze, those dark eyes alight on me, taunting me breathless. My dear, change is in the air. Honey is about to lose us both. You are singularly mine.
Linda A. Lavid is from Buffalo, New York. She has published four books: Rented Rooms, Paloma, Thirst, and Composition: A Fiction Writer's Guide for the 21st Century. To learn more visit her website: LindaLavid.com or her blog: llavid.blogspot.com.