“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien
I watch his hand on the clutch. Such smooth fingers. I imagine them holding a gun. Pulling the trigger. This man has been through war. Something in him feels dangerous. What is it about this that draws me to him?
He glances at me sideways, cigarette hanging from his lip. How can you love and hate a smell so much at the same time?
It seems that what happened last night won’t be discussed. This man drives fast. Teaches me about defensive driving. I just shrug at him. That’s his thing. Not mine.
I wake to him sobbing. He is out of the bed. Clutching the mattress with those hands I love so much.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. I put my hand on his back in a feeble attempt to comfort him. He does not notice. In that moment I feel like a ghost.
He seems to recover instantaneously. Stands up. Sniffs. Wipes his eyes on his t-shirt.
“I need a cigarette,” he says. “I just need a cigarette.”
Now we’re in the car. He’s joking with me. Boasting. Insecure. Always joking. Always lying. I know it. See beneath it. Where does this love come from?
The people around me don’t make it a secret they don’t like him. I simply do not care. He tells me how grateful he is to have me. How much he loves me. How there’s no one like me. Calls me Baby. Writes me letters from overseas. We have a story. I like our story. I like my role in this story. The one who waits for her love. To come home.
When we make love, he talks to me. Let’s me know he’s there. When he’s coming. When he’s leaving.
He’s leaving soon. Another tour. He talks big about our lives. About our future together. I can dream with him. With him.
Except. He doesn’t want children. I thought it was a joke at first. He would change his mind at some point. He would change his mind for me. I just knew it. Didn’t I?
He asked me if I wanted children the first night we were together.
“Yes, eventually,” I said.
This wasn’t a deal breaker for him. He stayed with me. Maybe he thought I was going to change my mind? Change my mind for him.
I see him now sitting up in bed, black rimmed glasses on his face, book in hand. He likes to read. I like that about him. I like his sense of humor. I like how he is. Until he isn’t.
Those nights. Those nights out until three in the morning. Me falling asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep on the couch. His friends lounging, drunk around me. Talking about things I care not to talk about.
He’s in the other room. I am waiting for him to come out. Feels like hours. That’s okay. I am used to waiting for him. Seeing those empty sneakers by the door. Black lines. White lines. He knows a thing or two about lines in the other room there with that other girl. The waitress.
***
“What’s this?” I ask him, holding out the porn magazine, knowing full well what it is.
“Come on,” he says to me. “You really think it’s a big deal. They’re just photos.”
“No,” I say, thinking about the wedding photo of my grandparents –my grandfather in his military gear, my grandmother in the white dress with the flowing train. That was just a photo.
“It’s not just photos,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly.
I take his letters from my bag and dump them across the floor. “But these are just words,” I say, walking out.
I drive home as fast as he drives. Crying. I get halfway home and turn the car around. I go back. My eyes have dried. I get there and he’s watching television.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Can we start over?”
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs but is quiet. This is not his normal. I want to see him happy again. I was the one who was supposed to make him happy.
I don’t hear from him for days, but slowly things ease back into their old pattern. Something doesn’t feel the same though. There is something different in me now. Did I stop loving him? Isn’t he the same person that I thought he was before. I guess he’s not.
I still kiss him at the airport. Tell him how much I will miss him. Look down at his boots with a lump in my throat. His family has been sure to impress upon me how important it is to keep him happy so he can come home again in one piece.
I am thinking that some pieces may already have gotten lost somewhere there in the desert.
Look, there’s a letter. Let’s read it together.
“No, let’s not. I think this story has gone on long enough,” he says to me now.
“I never was a fan of standing in lines,” I respond.
“Until you had a stroller in your hands. Then you didn’t mind so much.” He leans in to kiss me. Smelling of cigarettes. I breathe him in for the last time. I will miss him for a bit. Won’t miss that smell though.
“Is this really how we’re ending this?” I ask.
“How else do you think it should go?”
I think about my grandmother in that dress. I think about the baby in the stroller. “I see no other way,” I say.
“Well, there you have it.
“It doesn’t seem like it should be that simple.”
“Those are just feelings.”
“Do you feel them now?”
“No, I am trying, but can’t. Not a single tear.”
“Then yes, they were just feelings.”
“Isn’t Love a feeling?” The question stands on its own.
“I don’t know how to answer that question, but I think you do.”
“I wanted to answer it for you,” I say.
“You are not the one who placed the call; therefore, you are not the one who can answer it.”
“I like to think I prayed for you. In fact, I know I did. Even then, I believed.”
“And that is why we are here. Be good. And remember, there’s no crying in baseball.”
If he ever taught me anything. That’s the one that seems to have left the biggest impression.
“It’s a good thing I never learned how to play that game,” I say and walk away.