blurry nights of love Part 1 of 2 ...she's a dream—not fully realized, partly idealized, but impossible to forget
Have you ever missed someone and felt an aching emptiness made all the more desolate by an inability to picture the person’s face?
Well, that’s how I’m feeling right now.
I love Astrid but she’s gone again—this time on an archeological dig in Iraq.
I’ve returned to my New York penthouse feeling the same sadness I always feel whenever she leaves—and tonight it’s bars of light on the wall.
The red setting sun slants through the roof terrace causing the pergola to cast symmetrically lined shadows.
Everything is ordered and balanced, but lacking heart—and it strikes me as the perfect representation of my emptiness.
I’ve spent months working on my penthouse Garden of Eden—well okay, just a rooftop terrace—but I built it to share with her, and alone, it seems meaningless.
You have to understand—Astrid isn’t simply a woman. To me, she’s the goddess Astraea, the celestial virgin—innocent and pure.
Legend has it she’ll return from the stars in glory one day and initiate a new Golden Age—Perhaps.
But I don’t care if Astrid assumes her rightful role as goddess—I want her to keep her promise to me right now.
She told me when we lay out under the desert stars that we’d be together for all time—but it hasn’t happened yet and now I’m at my patience’s end.
I know I’m the loser in this affair.
To me, a loser isn’t some pathetic geek or wimp who never gets the woman—no, when I think of a loser, I picture someone tossing away someone he really means to keep—in other words, that’s me—giving up on my dreams of a future with Astrid.
But, maybe there are times when you have to lose something, whether you want to keep it or not.
All I know is that if I don’t let go of Astrid, I’ll be her puppy following her the rest of my life. I couldn’t bear that.
I need a clean-cut break with no backward glances, because, just one, furtive, over-the-shoulder look and her gaze will undo me. I’ll be turned into a pillar of salt.
“Astrid’s back and hoping to see you.” I picture Jerrod creeping around packing cases in the Smithsonian and yipping happily to me on his cell about a wine-filled reunion.
“I can’t make it, Jerrod,” I say flatly.
“Can’t or won’t?”
I bite back. “Does it matter?”
His tone softens. “I really do think she misses you, Paul.”
“Oh well—too bad, so sad—life goes on.”
I can sense he’s smirking, “Oh bla di, Oh bla da.”
“Funny,” I growl, “tell you what—why don’t you go and touch base with her?”
“Great idea! —Gloria would be so thrilled—an evening alone with a goddess.”
“Well then, don’t go—I’m spending the night on my terrace.”
“Did I ever tell you were one stubborn guy?”
“All the time.”
“Oh marvelous—I was just checking. It’s not good to drink alone, Paul—but I’m sure you know that.”
“I’ll toast you and Gloria with Shiraz when the moon rises—obviously, you two have found the secret to a happy life.”
“We have,” he chuckles.
“And what’s the secret to your long and happy marriage, O Wise Master?”
“Don’t give up.”
Goodnight Jerrod,” I sing cheerily into the phone.
When he hangs up, I fling the damn cell across the roof and watch it shatter against the brick wall—the one with bars of light on it.
I think I just helped raise the shares of RIM—I’ll be in the market for a new BlackBerry.
It’s after nine in the evening and as the sun goes down, it turns chilly.
I’ve had one too many glasses of Yellow Tail, but I don’t care. I head back into the apartment, grab my sleeping bag and grab another bottle of Shiraz.
It’ll be a long night.
I sit on my chaise lounge and get out the laptop. I’m vexed at Jerrod pushing Astrid on me when he knows how disastrous this non-affair has been.
I’m furious at Astrid too, but also aggravated because I can’t picture her face—why that’s important, I don’t know, but if you’re going to be pissed at someone, it helps to remember what they look like.
I check the museum staff photos but there’s none of Astrid—same with the Smithsonian—what the hell! How can these places employ her and not have a photo?
Of course, I conveniently forget she’s freelance—still, they ought to know who they’re employing.
I waste an hour trying to locate a picture of her. In the end, I realize I never had one—too proud to ask, I suppose.
That vexes me too.
Why are beautiful women so hard to remember? I can picture every detail of Jerrod Mason’s face—but then, there’s no emotional memories superimposed, like there is with Astrid.
I dimly see her bronzed face and hair, backlit by fire. I see her in khakis, scrambling over desert tombs.
And wistfully, I can hear the sound of her measured breathing, as I lie beside her in the desert, watching a star wax and wane.
I can recall everything about her, except the details of her face.
I feel abandoned as the windswept valley where we lay together by a fire. I recall huddling beside her under lonely cliffs—together, sharing the haunts of jackals, where I first traced her constellation in the stars.
I sigh deeply and spread out the sleeping bag on the terrace and lie down, staring at the only star visible in the purple Manhattan haze.
I miss her as if my arms remember what it was like to hold her—and then, my throat tightens, because I think my arms still do.
And now my eyes smart, but not from wood smoke.
I close my eyes and try to dream of us, lying side by side under the stars, huddled together in the Land of Nod.
https://goo.gl/images/j661e8, https://goo.gl/images/b8rKdT
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thanks for the encouragement