Confessions

 

He was drinking wine in his apartment with her. Music playing in the background as the last of the October light was fading, as was the wine in the bottle. Each of them in their separate chairs, just as their lives up to now had been. They were sitting in silence without awkwardness and talking without pretense. Time flowed as it does when two people are comfortable with each other and content with themselves. He wondered what she thought about him. His life, his oddities, his predilections, how he spoke, what he wrote about, how he looked, and if his poetry moved her soul. He thought she must know how much he liked her, how he craved her company.

Since he was a child he had difficulty expressing in spoken words how he felt. So much he kept inside of himself, in his head. The feelings unable to find a way out of his mouth. Is this why his marriage crumbled, why he saw women he liked disappear with other men? He felt deeply and truly about so much but could not say it when the he needed to. Maybe, that is why he started writing - it would be the salvation of his inner world. The way to tell those he cared about what he feels.

He turned his stare towards where she was curled up in the Papasan chair holding a half empty glass of Chianti. He imagined she was dreaming of visiting Italy with him someday and how she would smile - how her eyes would be excited with the ancient ruins of Rome and the beauty of the sights and smells of the Mediterranean. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to reach out across the space between them and hold her hand. He wanted to touch her and look into her eyes as he gently moved his face to hers and softly kiss her lips.

He desired all this but was afraid. Afraid he would scare her off and loose the friend he had. But he wanted her. His mind spiraled off again into the infernal questioning of himself: would he regret never touching his lips to hers? What is life without risking for the sake of making it beautiful? He thought if she knew what he was thinking she would say, "just kiss me you idiot, I will kiss you back."

Part of him really believed she would kiss him back. Part of him wanted to believe that and trust that and still all he really wanted was not the kiss but to trust someone again with his whole being. Really trust with all that he is. That is why he initially had turned to her. He wanted to ask her, "how do you trust someone, how do you really know what you give to someone is safe?" The words of a a Springsteen song floated into his mind, he knew if he quoted them to her he would receive a disparaging look with a smile and if she was feeling generous a snarky comment as she so loved Springsteen. But the lyrics were true and the song played on a cassette tape in his mind,

"On his right hand Billy’d tattooed the word love and on his left hand was the word fear ~ And in which hand he held his fate was never clear..."

He didn't quote the lyrics to her. He didn't ask her how do you trust someone. He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't kiss her. He blamed the final ray of sunshine dancing on her hair which distracted him. Or was it her beauty and kindness which overtook his senses and will to speak and act. He just looked at her, all of her and loved that she was sharing the same space with him, the same seconds of life.

So they sat in their separate chairs and drank the wine while the music played and the sun sank in the west. And, the being together was enough and made him feel whole.