Out of love's favor, food has no meaning or joy for D.
It serves only to sustain him now, fuel used to face every morning he must wake to the bone crushing realization that his love affair has ended. She won't speak to him, won't explain to him, wants nothing to do with him. He, who used to savor every bite, note every texture and delight in all the flavors, now chews with rote numbness. Wine has been replaced by the more utilitarian beer; though one night he asks me if there is any hard liquor in our house. The aged single malt scotch which has seen many a friend through bad moments comes off the shelf -- but D., contrary to expectation, pours maybe a splash or two and drowns it in water. For a moment, I have to wince (it's so wrong!); but D. is not planning to get drunk...he just can't taste and wants something sharper, more piquant than water.
He doesn't cry. Not because he's not in pain -- oh he is, he most assuredly is -- but because there doesn't seem to be any point. His tears are private, a personal grief that needs neither assuaging nor witnesses. He's a warrior. His horrors exceed the tragedy of a broken love story. All the same, what a grown man endures in understanding that death is an inevitability of life and of wars has no proper equivalent when his heart is being ripped out of his chest.
"Why doesn't she love me love anymore?"
Do you know this phrase?
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Juxataposed against this heartbreak is the unfolding of my darling G.'s affaire. G. finds herself exploring the reaches and the boundaries of a new love -- It is entirely too new, too green to be anything more than flirtation, but all the same, oh what sweetness it is...
G. and B. make eyes at each other over a group dinner, and he lacks the arrogance to assume that his interest is mutual; and so G. asks a third party to forward her phone number. The first query on his part is a simple statement...a text message that reads, Good morning, beautiful. It's a modern epistolary romance, facilitated by Motorola.
Like a phalanx of Cyranos prodding their turns as Roxane and Christian (though contrary to the story, an articulate and intelligent one), it is hard for us not to smile and be delighted by the quiet flirtation.
The beginning is full of wonder and of possibility.
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The end is crippling.
D. is consumed with memories. A decade is a long time in which to store a stockpile of good moments. And sadly, of bad moments too. But surely in all their time, the good moments have outweighed the bad? There are seven days in a week and if six of them are good, why does he get punished for the seventh day? Why doesn't she remember the nights he has held her in his arms when their love was unbreakable, unshatterable; why are her reminiscences only of the cold moments, the angry moments, the hurtful ones?
Over dinner, what proves to be their finally meal together, he tries to reach her, to find a way to connect. Please come back to me.
She is the immutable object, resisting his force. She says she needs her space.
Go away.
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Come to me.
The plea flashes up on G.'s phone. And later that night, in contemplative conversation, he reiterates the request verbally. She'll be two hours from him in a few days. Please come see me.
She's touched. And uncertain. Logistically, she hasn't the faintest clue how to make this happen. Her plans are set. But in the throes of nerve endings and phenylethlyamine, all things are possible. Three flight delays later, after midnight, G. finds herself on the road towards him -- roads she has driven a thousand times, in daylight, in rain, with the sun setting over the lakes -- but for the first time ever on this familiar trip, she is nervous. B. must be, too: he called four times in 20 minutes for assurances that she is still on her way.
765 butterflies -- she knows, she has counted -- crash into one another in what used to be her stomach. It's a sensation she hasn't felt in oh so long...Why's this one so different? Why does he make her feel like this?
I will be asleep. Just come in. But despite the long day ahead of him, he isn't asleep: his lanky frame is outlined in the shadows, leaning against his door.
In the darkness, their sudden shyness is masked by the immediate and emphatic smiles: You're here! Hello! I've been waiting for you! A warm hug and a quick kiss pressed against her cheek relieve the momentary awkwardness.
"I have ice cream for you." She holds out her gift. Cookies and cream ice cream.
In the kitchen, B. grabs two spoons and opens the Toft's Old Fashioned cookies and cream carton. The top comes off and G. bursts out laughing. Instead of a pristine top, someone has gotten to the ice cream first. She knows who: her dad. B. just laughs; he doesn't mind being second...he knows Dads are always first.
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The last time D. kissed her, she began to cry.
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G. is too nervous to eat, and declines the proffered spoon. Besides, it's far more appetizing to watch him. Prince Charming revised: tall, lean, and fair, with the bluest eyes she has ever seen. And his mouth...oh my. His smile is wide and she can tell those are soft lips. He moves efficiently, smoothly. There's a stillness within him that makes her think of someone far older, more mature. But he seems nervous too. A dozen bites later, he puts the ice cream away and moves around the counter, reaching for her hand. Pulling her close, they head into his room. Tired young bodies stretching across the bed, they are content just to cuddle, talking, whispering, and laughing through a meandering hour before she finds herself noting the curve of his mouth again.
He is not stupid: he is aware, intensely attuned to the turn of her thoughts. And that mouth curves slightly in a smile as he pulls her close.
HIs eyes are very very blue, and his hands, when they move from playing with her hair to frame her face, are very very gentle. He tastes like cookies and cream. He tastes perfect. His lips are much softer than she imagined.
And this kiss is so much sweeter than any ice cream she's ever had.
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Beginnings are so much sweeter than endings.
