 
## Through a Stranger's Eyes

_A story of finding love anew, and wanting to be the man she desires_.

### By Steven S. Walsky

Copyright 2005 by Steven S. Walsky

Smashwords Edition

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### Chapter One

When you are dealing with something that is uncomfortable,

your mind subconsciously retreats to a time in your past

that was comfortable. Memories are the only truly personal

thing we have in this life; with time, so much more vivid

they become.

The drifting snow blanketed the ice-covered sidewalks, rendering passage death-threatening. I hated the damp winters, and longed for a time and place of perfect weather; with, of course, perfect typography. I enjoyed the ability to travel easily from seashore to mountains within a few hours, the lush rolling farmland in between, and the spring flowers and fall foliage. But the damp, bone-chilling winters were growing too old; having long-lost it's welcome. Today, if it were not for a short fused project I was working on, I would have stayed indoors, admiring the snow through an office window, with my spirits reinforced by fresh coffee from one of the shops downstairs. No, I was walking along the streets heading for a meeting, briefcase in one hand, and the other gripping closed the collar of my business dress coat.

Wool dress coats may be warm, but they require scarves, and I had failed to grab mine as I left the office. It was a high quality scarf that had been given to me as a gift years before. The quality bespoke of the woman who gave it to me. Just looking at it brought back hints of memories I had long ago stored in the back recesses of my mind. A closed chapter, journey complete; but journeys are never forgotten. As I reached the corner of Fairhaven Avenue and Main I caught sight of my reflection in the window of the Italian bakery. The image looking back at me was startling reality. My reflection exposed just how depressed I really was. And my mind questioned was it truly the bleakness of winter that darkened my thoughts?

No. Sure I had a desire to move to a new city, but winters were winters, and I could deal with them; albeit not happily. It was the sight of my hand at the place where the scarf Breen had given me should have been. A trick of the mind telling me that something important was missing from my life...the want of love. The failure of my marriage, the divorce, and thoughts of more pleasant times all summed up in a missing scarf. Life is many journeys; my marriage was itself but a journey that had come to an end. I started thinking about Breen; and even if those days were pleasant only in my memories, it gave me something to cling to.

Over the intervening years since Breen left my world, I had gone through a transformation. I remember the exact moment that I unconditionally recognized I had become a better, different person, and I needed to start living it. I was at the Pub on Trinity Street, my place of haunt.

"Davie, your mind is asea tonight." It was the change in the rhythm of Gaven's voice that brought my attention back to the small group of fellow patrons, not so much the words. "If you had been paying attention lad...you would have jumped right in when I mentioned James over there was late for his wife's nagging."

"Sorry Gaven, I seemed to have slipped away for a second." Gaven hates when his audience is anything but glued to his every word.

"You've got Heather on your mind. I told you she would wrap her fingers around your...the look in your eyes says it's serious this time. Best we leave that subject alone for talk and buy you a drink and tip to your good fortune! Dennis, a Scotch for Davie and one for me!"

"No; come on Gaven, no toasts!"

"Nonsense, besides, we haven't had a decent toast in this fine establishment since United won their last match. Bill how long ago was that? Never mind. OK, a toast to Davie. To Davis and the lady of his dreams!"

'The lady of my dreams?' No, I was thinking about life's journeys in general; recent and long past, and why this one was ending. The journey to this last evening at the Pub was not a short one. Nor was it a journey that started with a proverbial first step. This one started with a cataclysmic, paradigm shift in my life.

Her story is for her to tell. Mine, I was standing on a corner and saw the most desirable woman in the world. It was a most beautiful day of early spring.

Then, as the Italians say, I was moon-struck. I felt her presence long before I saw her. It was as if the world stopped turning, people and cars stopped moving past, even the birds were enveloped in silence. 'All' was defined as this beautiful girl walking on the far sidewalk, moving within a sea of out of focus objects. At the corner she turns to cross to where I am standing. I'm captivated, and my heart spoke the words that lifted from my lips, "I know I'm in love." Before I could say something to the vision of my dreams, the world came back into focus and I could once more hear the noise of the traffic, I felt a chill from the rush of air. As fate would have it, someone else called her name. I remained silent.

I would carry my soul's secret around with me. My secret was baggage that would become so heavy to carry; my heart burst. Then one day, years later, I held Breen in my arms. The very thought of that first moment still today inflames my heart. Then it was over.

The hard part was not my acceptance that she had made the smartest decision in her life, turning me away. The hard part was accepting the slow setting in of the reality that I was so selfish when I had my chance to kiss an angel. I turned to my writing. The words poured out on paper. Prose so deep and haunting, that I finally became too scared to write. I stopped photography because I saw only darkness in the images. Life went on, nevertheless.

I just had no idea where I was going. I knew I had to change. I worked at it; nevertheless I just could not believe change was taking place. Then one day as I was riding to work I realized I had changed as a person, and it was only me, myself, and I that was keeping me from believing in that new person. That baggage of love lost was still sitting in some corner of my mind, reminding me of what I should have been...keeping me from believing I had truly become a man who could not just say he loved, but could show it, live it. I realized I was on a new journey.

Not everyone is given a second chance, so you must watch for it. That's why it is so important to recognize life is a series of journeys; not one long continuous, unbroken birth-to-death trip. Maybe it's the cause and effect factor, chaos principle, three (five?) links to everyone else on earth, the butterfly in Brazil flapping its wings, that all inconclusive predestination, freewill, predetermination, philosophical rhetoric that education empowers us with that puts blinders on our eyes.

I once bet on a horse that died on the back stretch of Pimlico; at a point where, if you are standing at the fence, the infield tote board is right in your line of sight. The horses zip out of the second turn, then disappear behind the tote board. They zipped in, the gaggle zipped out less the one I bet on. You wait...your mind does not accept the reality...your brain does not process the fact eight horses went in and only seven came out. The horses cross the finish line and still you look for your horse. You move further over to the left and can now see the horse lying on the ground. You see the meat wagon roll onto the track. They cart the horse away. I turned to my cousin, "obviously the blinders worked, he was too distracted looking straight ahead at death to finish the race." Life is a race. One day life will be over. I don't want blinders on my eyes...there are too many wonderful things to be missed if I only looked straight ahead.

It's not that I have a disdain for conservative people, I just feel sorry they never take the time to look right and left. Blinders on their eyes keep their memories so blasé. You meet someone who at sixty-five suddenly professes, reminisces about the good old days. You know full well in his twenties the guy would not have been caught dead listening to psychedelic rock music or riding in the rebuilt 70s muscle car he now drives to the Pink Floyed cover band show. Conservative lives become rewritten history once the commercial symbols of the society "rebels" they disdained in their youth become K-Mart retro purchases. Poor Jimmy H., if he only knew how his detractors now wear tee-shirts emblazed with his picture.

True happiness does not require danger or rebellion. True happiness only requires taking the time to see the beauty of a flower, to savor the smell of fresh baked bread, to really feel a woman's touch. Life is a series of journeys and it's never too late to start enjoying yours.

As a person I had to change. As the years passed I became more understanding of her feelings, her dreams, and, most of all, her hurt. My quest to atone for the hurt I caused her by my childish, selfish, self-centered ways gave importance to my becoming a better person. She would never know because she had closed the door to my existence, moving on to find a man that would want her, and she him.

Thus, my last night at the Pub on Trinity Street. I eventually learned to live with the memory and move on with life.

As a romantic I believe that memories are the only truly personal thing we have in this life; with time so much more vivid they become.

my one wish

is to hold you once more

in my dreams

only

in my dreams

On the day I woke up and started to live once again

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### Chapter Two

Sometimes, when you realize that what you are doing is so out of kilter from your routine of life, you actually laugh out loud at yourself; hopefully the people around you do not think you're laughing at them, or that you're a nut case. I had waited for the elevator for what seemed to be an eternity, and in a rash moment of poor judgment to get back to my office, I stormed through an exit door to take the stairs. Now having just come back inside the building, in from a real storm raging outside, because I remembered too late, once the hallway door had shut behind me, the stairs only exited to the outside, I stood wet and feeling stupid. In situations such as this all you can do is laugh at yourself and leave it behind you. I did. I was still having a random chuckle in a small takeaway as I started to pour coffee into a paper cup.

"Still have a sense of humor; good. Here, pour mine." A cup is placed next to mine. I hesitate to turn to see the woman who spoke...my mind is saying 'no, it's not her'...but my heart saying otherwise. It was Breen.

"Dave, you can move now. At least you're not pouring coffee on the floor." I looked at the coffee urn and saw it was frozen at an angle just to the right of slosh. Had she spoken a split second later the pot would have been frozen in slosh mode, cup overfilled, coffee everywhere, as I stood mesmerized by her presence.

One step at a time...put down coffee pot...smile...slight shake of the head..."hi." There are few words in the English language that if said with feeling can say as much as 'hi.'

She smiles; a radiant, wonderful smile. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was not even sure you would want me to speak to you...it has been quite some time, hasn't it." Just short of a question, but equally short of rhetorical.

"A few years." What an understatement. I was lost for words. I just did not want to say something that would scare her away; like 'I love you and my heart is telling my hands to reach out and touch your cheek, to take you into my arms, to hold you'...to tell her the sun still rises and the moon still sets in her eyes. Be strong Mr. Brain, stay in control.

As if reading my mind, playfully, "For someone who likes to talk, you seem to be lost for words."

I grin, smile, do that movement with my head where you kind of look down and tilt it first left, and then right as you lift your eyes to her, "Breen, a thousand words are waiting to be spoken, I just don't know what ones to say first." Good one, fast on your feet; not too glib, spoken with feeling. It was glib, why lie to yourself; that was way too glib.

She grins, she smiles, "Are they good words?" So tentative; not scared tentative, testing the bath water with your big toe, searching tentative.

"Good words. Can we go somewhere to talk?" Animated movement...hand gestures, head bob...pleading with my eyes. "Please don't rush off."

"I won't."

I finish pouring the coffees, pay, and we walk over to the tables. She has changed. Maturity of age has made her even more beautiful, if that were possible. The softness of her voice was a good sign. I loved her voice. I admired her for the strength of voice she could intone when she wanted to.

I play the gentleman, holding her chair, waiting for her to sit. The other patrons are watching. I am not sure why. Is it me, am I outwardly showing the confusion, uncertainty, the mesmerizing effect she is having on me? Is it her? She has on business attire; stylish, professional. She is radiant, alive, sensual, alluring. I feel the perfume, so soft; she is not one to wear a scent, but to carry it on the current of her presence.

Knowing that she dislikes me watching her every movement, I steal glances, to both reassure myself that she is still there and to take pleasure from the warmth of her closeness. She toys with her coffee cup, running her finger on the lip. She's waiting for me to say something. Her eyes have already studied me; taking measure of my clothes, my personality. I cannot help but remember that she had the power to see right through me; so much for the false appearance we drape ourselves in with clothes and verbiage. Years ago, finally understanding what she was seeing, she disliked what she saw.

I look down at my hands, I'm holding onto my cup so my hands won't start visibly shaking, in a half question, "Do we ask each other how we are...what do we say to each other? Obviously it's going to take some time to tell the stories of our lives since the last time we spoke. I...I want to listen to you talk. I know that sounds stupid, but, I missed your voice...I missed you." Saying the words was easier than I had thought it would be. And saying them brought a measure of relaxation to my voice, nonetheless not to my shaking hands.

"What do you want me to say..." she smiles, "Okay, I missed you too. No point in hiding the truth. I...Dave, I'm not sure what we need to say to each other. I do know that now is not the time or place for a serious discussion. So let's ease into a conversation."

"Okay. Nice weather we're having..."

She laughs; good sign, "Nice weather...if you like wet clothes."

Two hours later we were still talking; her husband had died four years ago, I was divorced, talking about her job and mine, talking about the subway system, the bird she saw from her kitchen window, my dog, and her cat. We talked about ourselves. And when we realized the time, that our forgotten coffee was stone cold, we exchanged phone numbers and set a time and place to meet again. I walked her to the door. No kiss goodbye, no hug, just looking into each other's eyes and seeing them reflect warmth and an invitation to tomorrow.

For the rest of the day I could not concentrate on work, could not carry a conversation; impossible to think of anything but her. That evening I sat in the overstuffed chair in the living room and did nothing but stare at the far wall. All the time thinking about each word she had said, thinking about each movement of her eyes, her hands, the play of her hair when she would touch it. I wondered if she was doing the same thing. Of what importance was my image to her? Did she walk out of the building this afternoon and forget me, turn her attention to her day, place my memory in some dark recess of her mind? Or, did she move through the day as I, trying to make some rational sense out of this situation.

Was there even a situation? Let's face it, be honest with yourself Dave; seeing me just happened, no premeditation, no anything but 'just happened.' Obviously she cares for me. Fate, or no fate of bumping into each other, did she place any great importance on it. Or was I just trying to believe this to protect myself from harm. I turned out the light, yet stayed in the chair.

Saturday. The rain had moved off to the north, thankfully. Maybe the day would defy the weatherman and turn out sunny. I am sitting on a sofa at Page & Cup; sitting near the book store/coffee shop's large picture window. It reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons in Heidelberg. Sitting in a large leather chair by the guesthouse's window with a glass of Pfalz red wine; smooth, Portugieser grape. I would watch the tourists and students pass by, as the raindrops slid down the window.

This afternoon I was far from Heidelberg physically and figuratively. The pie on the plate before me was peach, fresh; no doubt good streusel-topped pie. Yes, I was breaking a promise not to eat to relieve stress. Besides, the slice was only about 400 plus calories. I watch my carbs; so subtracting the 3.5 grams of fiber, made the slab of heaven a mere 63 or 70 grams of carbohydrates. Ah, stress, the only thing for stress is carbs. Donna - my best friend - is drinking tea and nibbling at a gingersnap cookie. Based on serving size, I think I got the better deal; her puny cookie weighed in at a pitiful 12 carbs. We have met at her favorite place to discuss my love life and her quest for a dress that was going to render some poor guy named Fred into a dribbling idiot. Not that I know anything about women's clothes for conquest, or even serve as an objective sounding board. Donna just likes to tease me with images of what I was missing by not sweeping her off her feet and into my bedroom. Friends are like that. Every guy needs at least two friends. One fellow man who agrees totally with your irrational behavior and one understanding woman who likes to compare you to the most recent magazine article on true love.

She breaks off a piece of cookie, "So what did you say?"

"Donna, this was not supposed to happen...this was my fairytale...fairytales don't happen."

"Obviously Dave she is not a figment of your imagination. So what did you say!"

"You're right, she's real. We're going to lunch Wednesday."

"Lunch? This isn't a 'let's do lunch so one of us can air-kiss for an early goodbye if it's a going downhill from here' lunch. You haven't seen her for years!"

"That's the point, I was never supposed to see her."

"But you wanted to?"

"You don't understand. Yes, I wanted to see her, but only as a memory. You love someone so much that you long for that person; nevertheless it's the memory of the person, the visual image of who they were then, not now. And, I could never imagine a scenario that she could have lived the wonderful life I prayed for her, yet still be available to come back into mine. Part of my atonement for hurting her was to pray for her happiness. How could she be happy, yet somehow lose the man of her dreams for me? Her husband died. What do you say, 'sorry to hear he died, are you available, and by the way I'm divorced.' Donna, I felt like a real shit."

"Stop being philosophical; come down to planet earth. You still love her, right?"

"Yes; however, can you imagine how I felt when I heard her voice. I didn't want to turn to see her, Donna. I was caught between the memory of the 'her' I loved and the possibility she had changed and I would no longer find her physically attractive; no longer wanting to ride off into the sunset with her. I believed that I loved her beyond what was humanly possible for a man. Then, here I was face to face with the possibility that I had lied to myself all these years. She would never know; however the thought of my being wrong was terrifying to me. Donna, I was terrified. It was as if...if I was being reminded I could not swim while I was already in mid-air of the dive."

"Love aside, you do need better analogies. At least you didn't run. Hell Dave, she should be grateful you talked to her."

"She did the right thing shutting the door to her life in my face."

"Don't be so sure. Maybe she had other reasons. If you say that you were too dumb to know any better to support a relationship, well, what about her? True, she may have been the one who left; however that does not mean she did not have feelings for you. She may have run because she did have feelings for you, and running was her way of dealing with them."

"One night while we were 'together' together, I made a comment about something, I don't remember what it was exactly, but Breen finely opened up about her past. Breen comes from a military family, moving around a lot; that's why she was overseas when I met her. While she had the financial resources, looks, and brains to be a standout in the dating pool – I know that was chauvinistic – Breen's choices in boy-men were not very wise ones. It was obvious to me that she used boyfriends to escape her home life, and the soldiers were eager to have a pretty girlfriend."

"The night Breen opened up about herself she voiced maturity; she did not hide her responsibility for her situation; to the contrary, she placed the blame on herself. Sure the men in her life had taken advantage of her; nonetheless Breen recognized her role in the drama and she was determined to change her life around."

What I did not tell Donna, and never would, was that the young Breen I loved dealt with a complex situation at home. This was an emotional and spiritual conflict. Breen's path to today was a tightrope walk that, even then, made me admire and love her more deeply. "You have always told me that I was a good person and that has been important to me. It's just, you have to understand the bad traits you saw, but chose to work to correct, where not much different from those of others in her life. Only mine were a minor part of my make-up, not the dominant part. Nevertheless, I really think Breen had matured enough to recognize you cannot change someone if they do not want to change, and she did not want to chance it with me. My immaturity both blinded me to her plight and blinded me to the outward appearance she, and others, judged me by. It was only after she left my life did I recognize the need to change."

Donna looked at me with real friendship eyes, "And now, what now Dave, are you questioning yourself again?"

"Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Maybe my true feelings have no reason to surface. We have lunch and move on."

She smiled, "Sure, and people really can dodge raindrops if they are quick enough."

"Thanks, you are always so helpful. Here finish this. Least you can do, is keep me from gaining weight." Donna greedily grabs the pie. She had been waiting - knowing I was not going to eat it - hoping I would decide not to take it home with me. That's OK, I do the same with the family-size orders of Chinese food she selects from the menu and usually never makes it to the shrimp egg roll. That's also why I eat my egg roll first, just in case.

Forking a mouthful of my ex-pie, "has she physically changed?"

"Yes, but I'm...wait, this has to do with you doesn't it?"

"Yeah, have I changed?" "We all change, we cannot avoid changing physically."

"You're avoiding the question Dave!"

"OK, you have changed, you're older..."

"BUT not that much older, RIGHT."

"Right. Why did you ask me if you don't want to hear the answer?"

"Cause you're easy."

"Nice of you to think so highly of me. I see you all the time. You know how hard it is to measure change when you see a person all the time and the physical change is slight, non-perceptible changes, not a sudden, wham."

"You're so scientific, the hundred dollar words you use, 'wham,' Mr. Webster must be rolling over in his grave."

"Donna, why is it I like you?"

"Wham, sums it up. So have I changed?"

"Yes Donna, you have changed. Breen changed. She's no longer the 'twenty something' I remembered in my dreams. More than that, she's no longer the flawless, 'twenty something' I remembered in my dreams! That is the change, the change I dreaded. Not age lines, no...Donna, what I truly dreaded is I would see the imperfections. She would be a person with 'person's' flaws. Not the timeless 'Barbie doll' image I want to remember."

"Did you play with Barbie dolls?"

"No, be serious." Stop, think, "You're right, I almost got on a soapbox.

"More than that Dave, listen to yourself. Did you play with dolls, meaning women in general. You and I have already gone over this territory. When I met you, you treated women like they were without feelings. You ended relationships without even a goodbye; just moved on, no phone call no...no nothing, just moved on. So now suddenly Breen is a Barbie doll...better, more important than the others? Dave every woman is important, every woman is a Barbie doll. You have changed. I know you have changed. Please don't throw all of that away by doubting yourself. Love Breen because she is special to you, but treat her as you would all women! I'm done."

"You know one of these days I may have to admit in public you're right."

"Your mom pays me to bring you down to planet Earth when you launch into a diatribe."

"Does your mother know you use words you don't know the meaning of?"

"Latin _diatriba_ , Greek _diatribe_ , or the French..."

"OK, I get the point. Where did you learn to be so abusive, law school?"

"Dave we all have changed - you, me, Breen - so get over it. I could tell from the way you hesitated that you were not believing your own words. _Non sum quails eram_."

She was right; none of us are what we used to be.

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### Chapter Three

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday swept by like a thief in the night stealing precious seconds from the life I could be spending with Breen. Wednesday arrived after a sleepless night, and the hours of morning seemed to crawl past; endless ticking of the mantel clock. I took off work, knowing full well I would be useless at the office. However, Dog, the five-year old puppy that wants to play 24-hours a day on weekends, thought my being home on a weekday was detrimental to his nap time. Then at eleven I drive to meet Breen, arriving twenty minutes early.

Sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant, I stared out the passenger side window, resting my head against the back of the seat. My mind was filled with questions, trivial thoughts; will she like the shirt I was wearing, or do I order food knowing I am too nervous to eat anything. The quietness inside the car was periodically broken by other vehicles driving past. A flashy, emerald green Mustang parked next to me. The door opened and a woman stepped out. She must have been oblivious to my presence because she proceeded to adjust her clothing using the Mustang's window as a mirror. Skirt length is checked; too short. A full length skirt, one of romantic fluency would have looked better; her thighs were too thin for the rigid, shortness of the skirt she was wearing. Actually, her thinness could be to her advantage if she shopped at the right stores, rather than the local malls. Blouse checked; wrong color for hair. Hair checked; needs work. OK, I don't like to admit to Donna I know a little something about women's clothes; picked up from the Costume Design majors at college.

A moment later the car to my right was approached by a middle-aged man who stands and stares at the woman. She turns and looks at him with disdain. He looks at her with a 'what am I doing so wrong' look. "Seen enough," she coldly rebukes him. The man, like a whipped puppy retreats inside his vehicle. The woman walks to the restaurant; a gate of triumph. The man drives off.

It was time to face the reality of my dreams. The crunching of the stones under my feet, as I slowly made my way to the restaurant's door, was eerie. I thought, 'was this what it sounded like to the condemned as they were led to the guillotine?' Was I condemned; finding myself marching across the Place de la Revolution in Paris? 'Damn Dave, it's only lunch, not a real date.' Who was I kidding; this was a date, and the crunching of the stones was like a drum roll. No different from in a movie, with the rise of the orchestra in the scene where the man walks into the room to face the woman of his dreams. He can not escape his destiny because the music controls the mood. Romanticism may be glorious to the woman who receives the benefits – the flowers, the love letters, the small gifts of the heart – but to the romantic it is moments like this that overwhelm logic; overwhelm common sense.

When my hand touched the door knob, when my hand felt the coolness of the brass, when my eyes focused on the etched roses in the glass of the door, I forgot the crunching of the stones and came back to reality. True, I was nervous; nonetheless I wanted to be here. I am standing in the lobby, and to me, at least, it appears the entire staff has stopped their appointed duties and are now staring at me. Was I being a little too self-conscious? 'GET A GRIP ON IT DAVE!'

I decided to wait for Breen in the lobby, changed my mind and was seated. I had the foresight to reserve a table. For what seemed like an eternity, I passed the time alternately scanning the menu and contemplating the water glass set in front of me.

At a table in a romantic alcove there sits a couple, the woman from the parking lot and a man twice her age; she being charitable? He gets up and heads towards the restroom. She opens the top two buttons of her blouse. He returns. She reaches for her bag, having placed it on the floor next to her. He notices the cleavage and turns redder than a ripe Maryland tomato on a hot June afternoon. She smiles; good dental work. The waiter interrupts this minuet with a basket of bread. I made no pretense of not watching them; her performance, the man's performance, her surreptitiously redoing the buttons as the waiter looks down and sees her lace bra; it was rose blush; why not hot red or black; what's with a rose blush push-up bra?

What was I thinking? This was Donna's influence. Men should only know two things about bras: never compliment her bra choice and, regardless of how long you've been married, the one she is wearing unhooks differently, defiantly from any bra you have ever encountered. The waiter moves to my table and asks if I would like anything. As if having answered the question before, he gestures with his head towards the table in the alcove and tells me it's the third date the woman has brought this month, and the chef is thinking of adding Alsatian Tart to the menu.

Instinctively I look up to see Breen enter the room. I stand. No words were needed to draw her attention to me; there was always a chemical link between us. I watch her walk towards the table, silently wishing she would do something stupid to stop me from building a pedestal for her to stand on. Drop something, or let your hand smack the back of the head of some customer as you amble pass. Anything to stop me from thinking you're perfect.

"Hi." That was all we said; 'hi' to each other as we sat down. No hug, no air-kiss; I was unsure if her desire for a lack of affection was me or our being in public; I deferred to her lead. Conversation came easy and we hardly noticed the food that seemed to appear, then vanish from our plates as we talked. She had a niece who was nine and starting riding lessons, a car that needed a new tire, her trip to see a Broadway play. A hundred little pieces to her life. I listened, selflessly wanting it to be her time; somehow to make up for all those moments I never heard what she was saying to me. From her candor I could tell she felt at ease.

I tell Breen I am trying to learn Spanish, or attempting to learn what I had forgotten since high school. She asks what brought this on. "About three years ago I finally got to Puerto Rico...for work. The people were so hospitable and polite...I felt bad that I could not speak Spanish beyond ordering off the Taco Bell menu."

She laughs, "Three years of study? You should be good by now."

"Breen, you know me, I have trouble pronouncing, remembering English. Besides I only started a few months ago."

Breen starts to say something than stops, as if she may not want to know the answer to the question she was about to ask; probably because she suddenly remembered that I once commented - while we were still just acquaintances - that I had a thing for Puerto Rican women. So she does that head shake people do when they want to let you know they have decided to clear out the incubating thought and start on a new track to avoid the obvious answer. She reaches for her diet Pepsi and as she lifts it to her lips asks, "So, what brought on the sudden need to learn Spanish three years later?"

In your everyday, matter-of-fact voice, with impeccable timing, "I was waiting for a hotel elevator and the nice housekeeping lady did not know how to tell me my fly was open." Breen had just taken her sip of Pepsi and when she started to laugh she was hit with fizz nose and dribble mouth.

"You ass," a little too loud, looking somewhat embarrassed, now voice lowered, "you did that on purpose didn't you?" I tried to hide the smug smile, but not very successfully since I was silently patting myself on the back for catching Breen off guard, "Yeah. But you're so beautiful when you get fizz nose."

Well, this is the moment of truth. You may be asking does she get up and walk away, but first show her anger, disgust by pouring the remainder of her soda in my lap? I know Breen, or I hoped I did, and thankfully she reacted as I felt she would by asking me in a playfully angry voice, "Why?"

"To put some levity in this conversation; we have been too tactful with each other."

She smiles at me, "You're right." And I felt relieved. Breen had reacted to the dripping soda by putting her napkin to her face. She now looks at it and tosses it to me, "let me have yours...fizz nose?"

"And dribble mouth, you had dribble mouth."

I look for the waiter to ask for another napkin and Breen informs me that I better ask for two because, in a dry voice, "Dribble Mouth expects a fresh one." Napkin order placed, "So Dave, how far have you progressed with your Spanish?"

"Well, I bought a CD to listen to while making the weekly trips to see my mom, and I can now say ' _La ducha no fuciona_ ,' and ' _Quiero algo menos caro_ '. But, I don't think the CD has anything about zippers."

"You're probably right, I doubt if that's a common phrase."

The waiter is back at the table with the fresh napkins. As the waiter starts to turn, Breen, in her best 'sexual innuendo' voice offers, "So it would have been easier for her to lean over and zip your pants back up." The waiter gives me a knowing half-smile, as in 'do you want me to book the other table for you,' and as he walks away I get to look at Breen's Cheshire cat smile, that grows wider at my expense.

For the remainder of lunch we shared stories and no serious words strained the moment. But all moments have to come to an end. The waiter has brought the check and I had still not asked her to spend more time with me. I looked at the bill, "My mom once asked a waiter how come if the check says 'thank you for being our guests,' why do your guests have to pay?"

Her laugh is soft and she shakes her head in mock disbelief, "Do I have to pay for being your guest?"

"Since you asked, yes. You have to spend Saturday with me." I left no room for escape. Before I would have added something like 'unless you have other plans.'

"Where are we going?"

"The zoo or a baseball game. Your pick."

"What if I want the opera or a ballet...or to visit my aunt?"

"What if I say yes to visiting your aunt?" She smiles and takes out a piece of paper that had her address on it. "Thought you would want this...and knowing that you would wait until the last minute to ask me for it."

Taking the note, sensing the closeness of her hand to mine, "Nine for the zoo, one for the ball game, not sure about the opera, ballet, or your aunt's."

"You would go with me to my aunt's?"

"Yes; but how would you introduce me...aunt Myrtle I..."

"Margaret...Aunt Margaret I would like you to meet the man who wanted to take me to the zoo rather than spend time with you."

"Breen, more like...Aunt Margaret this is David, he's going to take me to a thousand places, half where I want to go, half his choice."

"I take that as an invitation to spend a lot of time together."

"You are so perceptive. Breen, I would like to...I need to...Breen, let's do a thousand things together, but let's get to know each other, not just travel side by side. I mean, give us a chance to be the person inside us. I know that sounds corny. I need to start from the beginning, difficult as that may be."

"You mean the way we should have the first time."

"Yeah, I need to show you who I am, see who you are, let us discover who we are."

"OK," her.

"OK," me.

We walk to her car, close but not touching. At the car she uses her remote to unlock the door and I step forward and open it for her. Breen turns and reaches out touching the side of my face, "I'm glad...really glad I saw you at the coffee place, had lunch with you today," hesitation, "you're right Dave, we need to go slow."

Her eyes do a quick glance at my hand holding the door, "Just wondering, do you plan to treat me like a lady forever, or just until you get your first kiss?"

"Well, seems as if it might be forever before I get that first kiss."

"Tisk, tisk...double tisk, tisk; you are so slow to catch on."

Breen is standing facing me, between the open door and the car. The pounding in my chest is in stark contrast to the slowness of my arm as I raise my hand to her face, softly touching her cheek with the back of slightly curled fingers, brushing some stray strands of hair away from her eye. I lean forward and gently kiss her lips. She takes my hand and holds it to her cheek as we kiss. How do you describe a 'bridge the waters of time kiss.' Her response was not a hesitant kiss, not a light giddy peck on the lips kiss, not a take advantage of the mood kiss, simply a wonderful kiss. The act lasted but a few seconds. Nonetheless, had this been night time she would have taken the stars out of the sky and shamed the moon.

I watch as Breen starts to back her car out of the parking space. She stops the car and lowers the driver side window, "zipa."

"Zipa?"

"Think she was probably just mesmerized by the bulge in your pants?" The smug smile again, "David, I may look like an easy target of your tactless 'got ya's' and a little rusty dealing with them, but trust me on this...you will always come out on the bottom." Then, realizing what shot through my mind, she quickly adds, "Don't even go there!" Breen blew me a kiss as she backed out of the space and drove away.

Needless to say I drove home pleased about date one. To ease the conversation I had taken a chance with the 'fizz nose.' I wanted the Breen I knew, the one who made me smile and feel alive; the one who needed me to make her smile and feel alive. Thankfully, she has made it known that she wants the same thing. But I also learned from her reaction that I had to tread lightly in the 'got ya' department; I did not want to go overboard. I guess I subconsciously chose that moment because of the subject of our conversation, language. Breen, like Donna, has a natural ability with languages; but unlike Donna - who studied language development - Breen's clear diction and fluency allows her to conduct professional simultaneous translation between English, French, and several other languages. Of course in my unprofessional, chauvinistic rating scheme it's her wonderful voice, particularly with French, that gets the high marks; turns me on big time.

That evening I went to Donna's apartment so she could feed me broiled Red Snapper, broccoli in butter sauce, baby carrots, and Italian bread. Donna likes to cook and I like to eat. Except any food that has a name that invokes memories of diseases, childhood medications, or advocates the damnation of steaks and other decent food. For example Gorgonzola cheese, scrod, and cauliflower. OK, I'm a food snob. Donna knows my culinary limitations. I am a charter member of the 'real-men-do-not-eat-quiche/Texans-do-not-even-know how-to-pronounce-the-word' club. I also believe that restaurants should lose a rating star if they have names that are off the scintillation meter or impossible to pronounce, like the Photophosphorylation Café; which translates something akin to The Flash of Brilliant Wit Diner, which would be a far better masthead if you ask me. I made that last barb just before Donna uncorked a bottle of wine and said I should either shut- up and eat, or she would most likely drink the entire bottle herself before the night was over.

In a change of pace she asks, "You look happy tonight Dave, is it Breen, seeing me, knowing I have slaved away all afternoon to prepare a feast for you, or all three?"

"All three."

We discuss my day. Breen and I at the restaurant; received good marks from Donna. The Mustang woman and man at the restaurant; I chastised Donna for undue 'womeness' fashion influence on my manly thoughts. With the promise of braised rabbit for our next dinner, I confided to Donna that rose blush would probably have been a killer in the Mark Jacob V-neck dress Donna swooned over when she led me through Bergorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue the week before Breen reappeared.

We discussed Breen's acceptance of starting fresh; however, Donna won't give odds on my being able to control my arms and lips. We discussed date options; but Donna leaves the subject half explored, because something else is on her mind, "You noticed the rose blush bra. Were you interested in the woman or the activity? No, don't answer that. I know you too well. If it was the woman you would have started the sentence with 'I just happened to be looking in her direction.' Dave, what attracts a man to a woman?"

"You serious?"

"Give me a break," a little defensive, "I'm being philosophical here. What attracted you to Breen?"

Sure you're being philosophical Donna, and the Mississippi River has just reversed flow, ease into this one Dave. "The alignment of the stars, predestination...predetermination. There is the obvious sexual attraction, the lose-my-mind when she smiles attraction; however, there is something deeper. In a field of beautiful wildflowers, why does a single flower attract a specific bee?"

"My husband told me that he was attracted to me because I was cute. For a long time I wondered if I was pretty enough for him. He never said I was pretty, only cute."

A woman hates to be called cute as a descriptive term of looks; 'you have a cute ass' is OK, but not 'you're cute.' A woman wants to be pretty; cute is for puppies, babies, and little red sports cars; but not for a woman. "Donna, people hang nonchalant definitions on pretty, cute...beautiful. Me, I jump from pretty to gorgeous, because I feel beautiful is more than looks, it's the person...a beautiful person. Unfortunately, words like pretty and beautiful are so commonly used in everyday conversations. Like the word 'want.' 'I want' is different from the 'want of love'."

"Dave what attracts your attention?"

"Loud sounds."

"Besides loud sounds Dave, what is it that turns your head when a woman walks by?"

"No one thing. Long, silky black hair; shoulder-length curly red hair; well cut, any length blond hair. Clothes; clothes that fit well and are right for the moment. A well-dressed woman in jeans to one in an evening gown. Definitely a cute ass in snug jeans. Long, tanned legs. Those are all attributes that attract, but attraction is far different from wanting to turn that first look into a conversation."

"What about breasts?"

"I like them."

Definitely aspiration, "Dave, why did you leave out breasts?"

"Because large breasts don't turn my head. Cleavage can turn my head, so add cleavage, but not Grand Canyon cleavage."

"You're telling me that Vegas has built an empire on something Dave is not attracted to?"

"I did not say I was not into breasts, I said large breasts do not turn my head. I have seen breasts in Vegas that were mesmerizing; but on my radar scope, larger is not better."

"So I should put off the boob job."

"What boob job? Oh, geeze Donna! If you're asking my opinion, that should be a nonstarter. Any more carrots?"

"You're the strangest man I have ever met."

"I'll take that as a compliment, even if you did not intend it to be."

"How can you talk about food and breasts in the same sentence? Here!"

"Are you contemplating a boob job?"

"Might be."

"This for you, or some guy's likes?"

"Me."

"What do the girls at work think about this?"

"They agree with you...so you want to join our Friday night women's group?"

"No, I'm fine being one of the men hitting on the group, thank you. But, seriously, is this an ego thing?"

"Yes, no use denying it. I just have been toying with the idea."

"Donna, keep the word toy in mind, because here's a little manly secret, men like to 'toy' with images of breasts. That's why we can't wait for the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue; skinny models with well-formed breasts."

"You have a way with words and, sometimes, you even make sense!" And Donna has always taken the scenic route to a question; which is difficult for me. My natural tendency to make off-the-cuff sarcastic comments is a dangerous habit.

What a collage of a day; Breen, Rose Blush, boob job talk, and a fine dinner. All the way back to my house I thought about attractions. Interesting she would bring up Vegas, that was an old vignette from the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. A coworker and I had stopped in for a hamburger and the waitress takes our order while bending down like she trained at the Playboy Bunny school, keeping her back straight while affording us one hell of a view of her well-formed, medium size, no doubt medically enhanced, below eye level, nice breasts, cleavage and 'this will earn me a good tip' view. Reality, I can only remember two girls that had one hundred percent natural artist vision breasts; the kind described in books; the kind Japanese anima cartoonists draw on Western women; the kind that makes me want to linger over the women in Jockey's for Her ribbed cotton knit tank for stretch, comfort and cool absorbency, magazine ads; but that's only if ads like that attracted my attention.

Both girls were very pretty. The seventeen year old was in our summer bowling league and she wore tee shirts that would snuggle around her braless perfect breasts. She would cause the place to stop moving when she got up to bowl. The other girl was nineteen and worked near where I lived. The women at the Pub on Trinity Street would send daggers from their eyes at her; envy, pure envy, and I am sure at least one of them asked a doctor to give her a set like Veronica's. Yes, they were like Archie's love dream Veronica's breast; that's why I remember her name. I wish I could convince Donna that what I desire in a woman is the woman herself, the person. The body of a woman may attract attention; but hair, breasts, shapely legs, are not what keeps my attention. It's signs of her inner beauty that really attracts me, and it's her depth of beauty that holds me. That's why smiles and expressive eyes are like neon signs to me.

When I arrived home I wrote a note for myself, "remember to avoid talk of breasts," which was the only way I would remember.

—////—

### Chapter Four

Second dates are the true test

This new journey with Breen did not start with a 'hello, remember me' card from Breen, as the last journey did; a gentle shock, a move from the non-physical to the sound of her voice on the phone, to the physical. No, this time it was instantaneous, her standing next to me. Even having spent time in the restaurant, having talked before a time and place for date number two was selected, I still felt like an out-of-work piano player gearing up for the make-it-or-break-it, last-shot-lounge gig. Dating is like that, you just don't know what request song will be thrown at you. Donna recommends a powwow, then an 'oral cram exam session' as she called it. Such a way with words; if only her mother should hear the stuff that emanates from her daughter's twisting of vocabulary. We go to Page & Cup, and while Donna leafs through a fashion magazine, I discuss the new pickup truck I want. We're sitting on a couch; it's that kind of place, fancy cups, fancy names, fancy furniture, and overpriced; then again, Donna likes the place.

With my truck talk 'neatly placed in the trash,' as Donna so nicely put it, she idly rolls the magazine in her hand and turns the conversation to my new 'adventures in romance,' another Donnaism, "Dave, you need to brush up on conversation techniques."

"Conversation techniques are my forte...ouch! What was the smack on the knee for?"

"For not listening to me; your forte is being dumb, like pickup trucks."

"I'm listening...don't you dare smack me again...be a lady, we're in public," like that would stop her.

"WELL, listen to me." I nod okay and move a few feet away from her.

"Good, now that I have your attention! Men and women are different. Don't even go there Dave, I can read your mind. Men and women are different, but that's not the problem with relational conversations. Scenario, two men attending a conference meet for the first time in the hotel bar. No they're not gay! Dave, I just spent twenty minutes of my life listening to your idea of a decent vehicle, at least give me a few minutes of your attention, regardless of how difficult that may be," smack.

"Damn it Donna, stop that!"

"Didn't think I could reach that far, did ya? Now where was I...right, two men meet for the first time, they have a nice conversation on theoretical physics and when they get up what do they do? They shake hands and say 'nice talking to you' and that's it. But if two men meet in the bar and one of them says 'did you see how far baseballman..."

"Baseballman? Don't smack."

"YES baseballman. Did you see how far baseballman walloped that one last night? And the two launch into a six hour discussion on sports, at the conclusion of which, they are now best friends. Trivial subjects are what make conversations intimate. There's a time and place for serious discussion; but for friends, AND lovers, it's being able to connect. What the serious minded label trivial, are the topics that really connect. Breen is not ready to listen to your truck concepts, nor is she ready to listen to some serious dissertation on functional romances. Get it?"

"Yep. We need to discuss sports if...don't...I'm joking (but, like Joanne once told me, there's a measure of 'I really mean it' when someone says their just joking). I believe you, strange as it may sound, I have tried to do this, if only subconsciously."

She smiles, "We both know people who never join the group for lunch, or they stand by themselves at parties. They're waiting for serious conversations; scorning the rest of us for wasting our time on talk of sports, clothes, or the movies. They just wait by themselves in some dark corner of life, waiting for those brief moments to discuss diagramming sentences or equal representation in relation to demographic distribution."

"Sooooo, I keep the conversation light, not giddy, not serious, and no trucks or NASCAR."

Kiss on cheek, "Now wasn't that easy."

Needless to say, Donna drinks her coffee strong when she's with me, and I have to guard against her long reach.

Some forty minutes later, as Donna was distracted buckling her seat belt I gave her a smack on the knee with the magazine.

Caught off guard, "I told you the woman gets to do the friendly smacking!"

"That wasn't a smack, it was love tap."

"When am I going to meet Breen, I need to talk to her."

"That's why I am keeping the two of you apart."

Donna and I are friends. When we were single, it was like brother and sister, when we were married it was like cousins; both single again, the closeness was a lifeline. Yet we are so much alike it's frightening; because she's so right about me. And I had no doubts that Breen and Donna would be friends; which was also kind of scary.

Date two. The crispness of the air, the scent of wild flowers, the aromas of cotton candy and peanuts, and sounds of laughter was heartening; we had gone to the zoo. If done right, the zoo can be just enough memories of childhood excitement to inflame adult desire. Not sure why. I mean with all the cavorting pigmy hippos, foul-smelling monkeys, and lions that sleep the day away oblivious to the children that were schlepped across the interstates to be there. Dating hint, at zoos, always use an up-wind entrance. This 'approach' is also applicable for circuses. Nevertheless, zoos, like the circus, have a magical presence that make you want to enjoy life.

I am sure it's the children. Seeing them run from exhibit to exhibit, the smiles on their faces, the glee in their eyes as they stuff candy, popcorn, hotdogs and every assortment of junk food known to man in their little mouths, chins, shirts, pants and parent's clothes. Adults become children, no matter how hard they try to resist the seals, polar bears and monkeys. Relax and be a child for a few hours, it will do you a world of good.

Date two started off far different than date one; we did not arrive in separate cars, nor did we feel like we were on ice and that measured, tactful words were necessary as we felt out the depths of each other's feelings. This time I drove to Breen's apartment and she greeted me at the door with a smile, a hug, and nice kiss hello. In all honesty, the kiss itself surprised me; while I had been thinking about a kiss, the suddenness and warmth of the kiss took me by surprise. When Breen and I released each other from the hug, she appeared confused. I asked her what was wrong and she replied, "Nothing...your reaction was what I had wanted, hoped for."

Now I was confused, "I enjoyed the kiss, more than enjoyed if there is such a word."

"I know you enjoyed it, so did I. It's...I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I was preparing for you to do or say something that would spoil the moment...I'm sorry I just said that, cause I may have just spoiled the moment." Her face showed true concern, nonetheless still radiated her happiness to see me.

I thought for a second, "Do you realize we just talked about our feelings, concerns?" Breen instantly understood and leaned back against the hallway wall.

She searches my eyes, "We never talked about how we felt, how we made each other feel, did we?"

"No, it was an edging around the table, read my mind way of dealing with – or more correctly avoidance of – feelings."

"Is that why you seemed apprehensive to tell me things and me (?), I was never comfortable telling you how I felt."

I nodded and reached out and took her hand, "Let's remember that kiss and I think we'll be okay."

The ride to the zoo was very pleasant; we were relaxed being with each other.

Breen and I sit on a bench and talk about zoos and people in general. We can do this because I have taken her, and she's taken me, to zoos in cities in at least three countries. We talk about the color of balloons. I tell her about the man who would play songs on a balloon. He sat each day in a local hamburger joint, and played songs on request; letting out the air in pitch and rhythm. I wrote a poem about him. I believe it was the poem in which my twelfth grade English teacher saw some potential and told me "if you're going to write, be serious about your writing."

We talked about the color of the short woman's hair; the fidgetiness of the tall man standing next to her; and how the children seemed to run hither and yon with no prejudice of time and physical space. We talked about all the things people talk about when they actually talk to each other. Breen asks how I came up with the creative name of Dog.

"On the way to the kennel I had thought about names, like Spot, Rover, and Chuck..."

"Chuck?"

"Not really, just threw that one in. So, I am at the kennel and the mess of puppies are running around this large outdoor area; with me standing there looking for the right one. I notice this puppy staring at a man and woman who were also looking for a dog. I swear this puppy was checking them out. Anyway, the woman suddenly gives a 'dame it!' Obviously she had stepped in something. She then looks at her shoe, then me, and says 'dog gone it...you' meaning me, 'think it's funny?' 'Oh no, but you must have meant to say 'dog did it.' Needless to say the woman huffs and puffs her guy friend out of there. Breen, the puppy I had noticed, seemed to be laughing at her. So I said 'you, Dog, stop laughing and get over here.' He trotted over and history was written."

"You're serious...you're really serious? You are." I love the way she shakes her head to dislodge the words I so carefully weave.

Donna would have been proud of me. Breen takes my arm as we walk once again from exhibit to exhibit. We started to talk about the places we had visited. But this talk was not easy and we both recognized our words were skirting the depths of the misunderstandings that permeated our travels. I thought of particular incidents; each a selfish moment on my part that turned what could have been, into an unhappy memory for Breen. But we talked, and that was, for me at least, a sign of healing.

She asks, "Why do you write free form prose? Seriously, why?"

"Random thoughts...traditional poetry is too rigid for me because I want to write like I think, like I naturally talk...random thoughts, misplaced modifiers."

"But, you never wrote a song for me, Mr. Romantic."

"Did you expect a song?"

"No, not really, just...you once told me you composed songs. Are your prose songs?"

"Sometimes. Where is this leading?"

Breen stops walking, stands facing me, and taking my hands in hers, "I would like for a man to write a love song for me. See, I have listened to love songs ever since I can remember; they are part of our world, every language that sings probably has love songs, and every written language probably speaks of love songs being composed. Civilizations all have love songs. Dave, a woman needs to be a participant, not an observer. I want to be the one who the song is written about, not the one who hears it on the radio and wonders who has inflamed the singer's heart."

I had no answer, I just thought about her words, like 'nibbling on the nail of your index finger, thinking.'

She smiles, "Smile, just a thought Dave."

I wish I could tell you I was immediately cognizant of what Breen was telling me; no, it took a while to sink in. The old me would have rushed off and penned a song. Breen was testing my hearing; her need, her want.

It's going on 4 PM and we start to wind our way back to the parking lot. Breen asks if I am going to tell my friends that we went to the zoo for a date. "Nope, I don't want any of the men in the office to know a beautiful woman is in the area."

"You pick the oddest moments to complement a woman."

"What was odd about the complement?"

"Dave, I think dating protocol rule number six prohibits the said male participant of the date from telling the said female participant of the date that she is beautiful, or any other words to that effect, while the two participants are walking past the baboon cage."

"Why?"

Indicating with a flick of her head, "Has to do with image association; it's not very romantic to look at a baboon doing something to its posterior - not sure what, and I DON'T want to find out - then turn to your date and say, to the effect 'the rear end of that monkey reminded me that you are beautiful."

"I see your point and I am relieved."

"Relieved?"

"I thought it was a rule against asking your date to check your body and hair for bugs?"

"That's rule...fourteen, only when camping in the woods, and it specifically says you should expect your date to use a very sharp tool."

"You just made that one up."

"No way, it's a rule!"

"Then why is it worded without the 'said this' and 'said that'?"

"Because I quoted the condensed version."

Even with memories dredged up, Breen and I had a great time, and when I dropped her off at her apartment we made plans for date three. If you make it through date two, you're set. Date two is the real test. Date one is quick and to the point, whereas date two is show time. Date one is feeling each other out, testing the waters. Do I act the gentleman, or defer to equality of the sexes. Dating is pathetic! Face it, arranged marriages may have a point.

So date three is scheduled and the days in-between are open to a phone call or two...but don't press your luck, call once and pray you don't say something so stupid that when you hang up, she places a hand to her forehead to check for a fever; the cause of momentary insanity having agreed to another date.

The next day I send flowers. The note with the flowers simply reads: A moment with you is pure magic, Dave. Too early for a 'love you,' nevertheless I knew she would know by the way I formed the letters when I signed my name. I called the following morning...got an 'A' for the flowers, "Had a wonderful time at the zoo..."

Later, just as I was leaving the office for the day, the phone rang. "Hi, it's me..." sensing a pause here...not a good sign, "Dave, can we put the opera on hold for a few days? I mean not this week. It was a rush thing, I doubt you would be able to get tickets. I...Dave, I need some time to think about all this. I'm sorry, really, I need some time. Please?"

The sky just opened up and the rain drops were large, heavy and coming down fast. And Donna is right you cannot dodge the raindrops no matter how hard you try. "I understand, not happy, but understand. I'm not going to pester you with phone calls. You call me when you get it figured out; just do call no matter what conclusion you reach, please?"

"I'll call, Girl Scout honor. Thanks."

There is another way of looking at this. Love, like life itself, is a series of perceptions. We approach each day as if we measure, or take measure of yesterday. Flying over Oz, Dorothy learned that Oz may not afford the same views as flying over Kansas, but the fall will still kill you.

Donna and I went to the opera. I had already bought the tickets before Breen called; nothing gained by wasting them. I drove, while Donna used the occasion to discuss my feelings. Always tactful, Donna got right to the point, "Do you still love her?"

"Nice," my normal response to Donna's interrogations. "I'm not sure we even know each other yet."

"Dave," smacking me on the head, "anyone awake in there!"

"Ouch! Thankfully I can drive while being attacked!"

"What's this 'we don't know each other' BS?"

"Ouch, will you stop that! You know I can reach across this seat and backhand you...stop smiling, you can be a handful...don't."

"Get to the point Dave!"

Holding my right hand up to block another smack, "I've never told you this, but when I decided to get divorced I felt I was living with someone who forgot I was there. Not just our lives as a couple, but our...the common denominator that brought us together. We had become separate entities. Linda left mentally long before she left physically. Donna, I'm glad we stayed friends and that you have never pried into my married life. How to explain? It has to do with how we respect ourselves and accepting our partner's self-image." I knew that Donna would listen to me, she knowing my words were now for myself; definition of 'friend.'

"The other day I had to go to corporate headquarters. I was coming out of the cholesterol snack/two-pack Tylenol in foil/newspaper shop when I noticed walking towards me someone I had worked for...gosh, nine years ago. I haven't seen Gordon, Gord, in close to four years and that time, like now, if there was recognition on his part he avoided it. Not that I would waste my time speaking to him socially. In fact, the last time I saw him was in the same hallway. I don't blame Gord for avoiding me, I contributed to his fall from grace by exposing a rigged promotion and the attempted cover-up. He's an example of the Peter Principle. He's a study of ability seconded to ambition and need of authority; power corrupting, resulting in incompetence.

"Gord fell off the ladder of success when he climbed on a rung that bested his balance because he had lost control of his surroundings. Gord always had an oddity to his gate that bespoke of a neuroses twitch. We used to joke that it was difficult to walk in a straight line when your head was constantly turned around to watch your back; back stabbers become obsessed with protecting their own backs."

"This time Gord's gate was far more pronounced, it bespoke of illness having overcome the last vestige of self-worth this fallen man had tried to cling to. Even if I had reason to talk to Linda, I would not mention seeing Gord this way, nor would I share this with anyone who knew him. Donna, whenever I would mention the problems of working for Gord, Linda would say, 'Dave, good intentions do not put money in the bank.' For me professional ethics and personal integrity are more valuable than high salaries. I lost touch with the difference between Linda's comments of passing aggravation with me and comments of truth about us. As we drifted apart, the want left and only need remained."

Donna thought, and then asked, "Do you think Breen knows who you are?"

"Not fully the 'now' me, she knew the before me...or, as I've said, at least she was smart enough to not stick around to find out."

"Why are you so hard on yourself!"

"Because I deserve to be! I know I was not a bad person, don't get me wrong. I was just a selfish person who did not see how I was treating others."

"Dave, I have seen you drunk, sober and stages in between. I have seen the selfish you, but, and I hate to admit this, it was the selfless you that attracted me and I have watched you grow, mature and become a responsible member of society."

"Thanks, please don't tell anyone this, but you make a good friend."

"And, the tender you. If I can see this, so will Breen. You just need some confidence."

"Confidence, what a difficult word to live up to."

"You'll make it, just don't destroy a table of champagne glasses to show it."

"You said it made you laugh."

"But I always knew why you did it. That's why, regardless of how I felt about that entire group you were part of at Rich and Nancy's wedding, we connected."

"How can you go from smack on the head to sweet in less than thirty seconds?"

Smack, "Ouch."

"That did not hurt, this will hurt..."

"Okay, I get the message."

As I parked the car preoccupied in thoughts of 'confidence' Donna pulls a twenty out of her bag and waves it at me. "You buying?"

"No, this is a bet ya twenty."

"A bet ya twenty?"

"Yep, I bet that you hate the opera."

"How do you know I'm going to hate the o, p, e, r, a,...d, o, n, n, a?"

"I just know." My mind wandered throughout the performance.

Later, as we left the Hall I paid Donna the twenty she had won. "Dave I knew I would win for several reasons," as she purposely tried to embarrass me by making a great show of putting the twenty in her bag.

"Real tacky Donna, the older couple over there think you're a working girl."

"Well I do go to work, dah!"

"Very funny."

"And very, twenty dollars richer thank you. Dave, it was a sucker bet, you had no chance to win. Let's face it, A, you are a man and that reduces the chance to about...five percent for an 'I like operas' answer, and B, you are so preoccupied with your love life that you've forgotten you told me about going to an opera on your infamous trip to Austria and France. I had won the moment you said yes; you, my man, do not even remember the name of the opera we...no, I just saw."

"Great, my best friend takes advantage of me."

—////—

### Chapter Five

When I arrived home I found a message on the answering machine, "Dave...cold feet...no excuse, I'm calling to say I want to see you."

It was too late to call her back on her apartment line, so I left a message on her cell phone (knowing it would be turned off), "Your call was eagerly accepted, but you're not getting off so easy next time."

This time I bought daffodils, and delivered them myself to her office; the card read: You don't have cold feet, just a brain saying it's time to assess the situation.

She calls me at the office. I got an 'A' again for the flowers. "How did you...you remembered I love daffodils."

"I told you this time I intend to listen."

"Thanks."

"Why do you keep thanking me?"

"Because I appreciate your caring, and I'm sorry I got cold feet...the opera...just being such a pain."

"Breen, you're not a pain and I know you do not have real cold feet."

"You're sure?"

"Well you never did, or went out of your way to keep that a secret from me...sorry;" that was my first reference to 'us' sex from the past, and I was sorry I had said it, but the words just kept spilling out.

"Don't be sorry, we slept together, you cannot change history."

"I'm concerned about today, tomorrow...I don't want you to think all of this has to do with sex."

I read what she said next as a sign of being unsure of me, nevertheless a good sign that our new relationship had the openness that was missing the last time, "Dave...since we met you have done nothing but please me. I mean, you have bent over backwards to please me and that's the problem. I can't get a grasp on the situation because I'm not sure if this is the real you. I like the change, but are you really you? Understand?"

"You want me to do something to anger you?"

Hesitancy, "Ummm, okay, yes, do something good angry...a small thing, don't go overboard."

I'm confused, but more importantly, we now finally admit to each other we had a problem communicating our feelings.

Her 'keeping it bottled-up inside' approach had strained our relationship. She would hold it all in until DUMP, and by that time the simple had turned into complex. If Breen and I were to have a chance, we had to be open; which meant both of us had trust each other, be receptive, to listen. A daunting task for me because I tended to stay in broadcast mode.

That evening I purchased two dozen red roses. I proceeded to ruin the flowers by cutting them off at the stem and placing the petals in a Ziploc bag. Attached to the bag is a note: 'Tonight as you lay in your bed, allow these petals to float down on your fantastic body, so that each petal softly kisses you as my lips hunger to.' I wrapped the gift in gold foil. First thing in the morning I personally delivered the package to Breen's office, asking a secretary to give it to her when she arrived."

Later, when I returned from lunch, Kris stopped me and said she had a phone message for me, her sassy blue eyes dancing at my expense, "the female caller said quote 'anger Dave, not arousal' unquote." Joanne, sitting at the next space, makes believe she is surprised at me; but that is just a cover up so her silent laughter would not take away from the moment; why should they let me off easy.

How do you explain this one? You don't, just retreat to your office and make believe it never happened.

I'm leaning back in my chair counting the ceiling tiles when Breen calls, "Are you angry?"

"Somewhat...but I'll live, maybe in shame every time I pass Kris and Joanne, but I'll live."

"See, that's good angry. You did good romance, not good angry."

"How about...Breen, what's wrong, I've used that line before and got no complaints."

"OK, that's good angry...but don't press your luck. You go to the opera?" I heard her, but my mind was still on the roses. "Dave?"

"Sorry."

"You are. By the way, what was it about the roses that would anger me?"

"I have no idea; that's what I was just thinking about. Seemed like a good plan last night."

"Good, cause I thought I had missed something. So, did you go?"

"With my friend Donna."

"You tell Donna why I begged off?"

"I told her you were being smart and needed time to assess our relationship."

"What did Donna say?"

"She said I should do whatever it takes to win you over."

"She mean that?"

"What are you asking?"

"Does Donna like you...more than a friend?"

"No, we're friends. She's my alter ego."

"Everyone needs an alter ego."

"That's part of what I want between us Breen. I want us to be so comfortable with each other that we will never be afraid to speak openly, to share our innermost thoughts..."

She cut me off, "not now, I know what you're asking for and I am not sure I can be what you need."

"Need and want are different, but I don't want to scare you away, so let's table this discussion for the proper time and place, if you'll give me the chance. Breen, take the chance to travel to that place with me."

"Alright, but we need think time. I'll be out of town until Monday evening around nine. Call me, or I'll call you; but not before nine. OK? And in the mean time we can think about our relationship."

"Okay," but not happy with the request.

The moon, large and bright, hung in the just-before-morning sky; that time moments before the awakening sun begins its slow march above the horizon. Sitting on the cool rock, knees hugged, I watched Breen make her way down to the water's edge. My every thought walked with her, torn between maintaining my idyllic watch and breaking the magic of the moment by calling her name. I had become restless and only a few minutes before left the warmth of our bed to seek the solitude of the beach, the soft roll of the tide, and the birth of a new day. I thought I would return before she awoke and noticed my absence. I just wanted some time to think, to sort out my thoughts, to...

The shrill of the alarm clock cut through my dream, breaking the spell. Startled I sat up, looking around the room. The dream had been so real...only a dream. 'Please don't let this be a premonition' I repeated over and over as I made my way to the bathroom. 'Mirror, mirror...what say ye, what was I doing at a beach without Breen; why would I ever want to leave her side, to ever wake up without her there next to me. Tell me.' Then, mirrors only speak in Snow White; in real life they just reflect back our morning faces in overly bright bathroom lights, distorted reflections. Hands resting on the edge of the sink, leaning forward, looking into the mirror, suddenly remembering the feel of Breen's skin; the way her body molded to my own when it was not a dream.

Sometime between brushing my teeth and combing my hair I finally comprehended today was day five. Telephone Day. Nine o'clock Tonight Day.

Two days, three days, four...each day brought its own reflections; facing each day had become harder.

By day three I had lost interest in food, eating merely to sustain life, no enjoyment. TV and newspapers had bitten the dust by day two. So I spent my time in purgatory, when not at work, tossing a ball for Dog to fetch, walking Dog, talking to Dog, becoming angry with Dog, and drinking far too much coffee. Donna had called only once, day three, and quickly decided to leave well enough alone. You would think that years of separation would have conditioned me, given me the stamina, strength, fortitude to be cut off from Breen for five lousy days. But no.

At 9:01 PM I dialed her number, busy. I tried again, busy. At 9:05 my phone rings and Breen jumps right in, "Your line was busy."

"So was yours."

We talked for several hours and I am not completely sure what about. This was not an incident of not hearing what she said; just being lost in her voice.

She asks if I remember the public gardens near her house.

"The one by the college?"

"That's it." A pause, slight change in her voice, as if she was telling me a secret, "One day, not long after you visited me that last time, I was walking my Mom's dog and there was this little boy who was giving his mom a difficult time. The boy was running this way and that; a real bundle of energy. Well the boy runs full tilt into this large bush, and you know the gardener would have had a heart attack if he had been there. No real damage to the bush or the boy, but I know the mother was embarrassed. The boy dropped the tennis ball he was carrying and Mom's dog on seeing the ball started to bark at the boy, to play. But the woman gives me this indignant glare and proceeds to tell her son that he was acting like 'the woman's poorly trained dog.' The boy yells at the dog 'nasty dog!' I responded, 'Oh, she's trained, watch,' and I let the mutt pick up the boy's ball and we walked off with it. I knew that was a rotten thing to do, but I did it." Pause. "You know what was worse than being angry with myself for doing it? As I walked off I thought 'I hope Dave doesn't find out I did this.' And then, like I had just run into that bush full tilt, I remembered you would never know."

She asked me again about my writing, "Am I good inspiration?"

"You have always been good inspiration."

"But am I...I was a distraction from good inspiration, wasn't I. You wrote for me. You were the only one who ever wrote for me."

"You touched me in more ways than I can describe on paper."

She paused, then, "I know I don't have the right to ask this, and I will understand if you say no...would you read something you wrote about me after I left."

"You're asking a lot...I don't want to drag up old memories. Some got pretty dark after you left."

"But you're going to one day anyway, I know you at least that well, so why not now. Dave, I need something from the past, not something from today. I don't want you to bring up old pain, however let's get the pain out of the way. Tell me about it so I can never be accused of not touching it with you. You choose, you be the judge, I know you will hide the strongest words, then again, I also know you need to tell me. Don't you see we need to open up to each other, you said that first."

"Hold on," and I reached for my book of thoughts, prose transcribed from the scraps of paper they were written on at moments of inspiration, desperation, contemplation. I chose quickly, hopefully wisely, desperately. "Thirteen March,

Close your eyes and trust me

let my hands guide you through

our love

Please, ask of me

I shall provide

Lay your head upon my chest

sleep

sleep with soft gentle dreams

And when you awake,

kiss me

kiss not just my lips

but your lips as well

Two years too late, five years too early.

So much change,

or is it too little difference?

But it's over.

Goodbye

A soft, "thank you...you mad at me?"

"No, we need to be honest with each other. Please don't ask me to look back again for the sake of dragging up memories."

"Do you want to know about me, my past both before we met and after?"

"Yes, but like my travels in life, let's tell our stories as good reading, not darts on a heart."

"Darts on a heart?" her spirits lifted, "Did you just make that up?"

"No, some people try so hard for a triple twenty they don't see an easier combination. Love is like that, some people try so hard for perfect love they miss it."

"Don't you want perfect love?"

"Yes, but I want us to work our relationship out as a team, not as two separate people with blinders on."

When I hung up the phone I found myself unconsciously leafing through the book. So many pages of so many thoughts; some good, some bad, and somewhere in between. Then I saw what I knew I was looking for.

I remember yesterdays

just like they were tomorrow

I recall everything

the love, the pain, the sorrow

I recall the words she said

the way she used to hold me

but most of all

I recall

the lies that she told me.

I tore out the page and threw it away; no hesitation.

We met the next night at Friendly's; ice cream is the best medicine. Thankfully it was one of the few times they were not crowded and we sat in the back, away from the other patrons.

"Why did you move on from the friends you introduced me to?"

"I had an acquaintance at the Pub, a woman about your age. I was attracted to her. Jackie was different from the rest of the cast of characters. Well everyone was different in their own way...but Jackie was more mature, she was seeking a career in public relations, not simply an existence. She had an intelligent approach as to how she viewed the Pub. I really don't remember why we finally went out; don't even know where we went. She agreed to go with me."

I paused, thought, "I'm not even sure if it was a real date, but it was important at the time. Jackie had been hired for a job that would put her firmly on the road to adultness; career, responsibility, meaningfulness. Me, I did not have the self-confidence, the belief in myself that I was mature enough for a woman like Jackie, more importantly a woman like you." Breen listened quietly. "At some point earlier to our date Jackie had given me some sound advice; she said that Trinity Street was not me. I had to put the place behind me and move on. She knew about you, knew I was searching to be the man I wanted to be for you; Jackie saw something in me that said I was different from the rest of Trinity Street...I...I would never fit in. When we arrived back at the parking lot at her apartment complex we did the 'Thank you for going with me, I had a good time' routine. Then Jackie leans over...here comes the perfunctory kiss on the cheek lean over...no, it was a real kiss, a long kiss...and when she moved away she asked 'was the kiss worth the wait?' I told her it was definitely worth the wait."

"However I knew it was not a 'first kiss,' but the only kiss. Then she said goodbye. As the door to the car closed I told myself that Jackie had just told me that her boat was sailing into the sunset and I better wise up and recognize I had changed as a person if I wanted to sail with mine. The next day, while on my way to work, I decided to take her advice. That evening was my last on Trinity Street, and soon I moved away from the neighborhood, and even away from the people you had met."

"Have you ever seen Jackie again?" the question was for my feelings, not to test my devotion.

"No, from time to time I would check articles to see if her name was mentioned, but, no. Maybe she married and uses her husband's name."

"Do you think she...do you think she remembers you."

I was not sure if that was a question, even a rhetorical one; Breen phrased it in such a way I had to give pause, but making sure I kept eye contact to reassure her I was not avoiding the answer. "No, I doubt she remembers me. Oh, if we were to bump into each other there's a possibility she would look at my face and try to picture where she knew me from, why I looked somewhat familiar."

"But she obviously cared for you, or why would she...Dave, I'm not trying to put you on the spot here, just trying to understand something...you remember her, obviously vivid memories, granted to some point, about when and how she had an effect on your life. But what about Jackie, was it a momentary passing of goodness? I'm not trying to sound stupid...just, I don't know."

"Breen, my philosophy is that we all affect the lives of others. Some people have professions or interests that by nature are influential; a teacher, a priest. Then, for the average person like me, and the zillion others out there, we never realize how we have touched the lives of others that we meet in passing. Sure she may remember me; however it was a fleeting moment in her life. And if by some chance we would meet and I told her what I just told you, she would scratch her head and wonder how in the world...I mean, she would think how impossible the event was in the context as I just related it to you."

"To Jackie I was just someone she knew, someone who she talked to at the Pub and went out with that one time and, as I said, she probably did not even consider it a date. And there was nothing special about the date, just an 'I feel sorry for you kiss,' probably a long forgotten kiss."

"Do you think we forget kisses?" almost an accusation against all men, but by the tone of her voice I knew she was referring to the guy she was with when we first met, the shit who stole her youth by promising the stars, and when she committed her life to him, he only gave her rain.

When Breen had sought me out that first time, for whatever reason, our relationship ended with her feeling used once again. I've had a lot of years to 'study' our relationship. No matter how bad I felt about my selfish actions, there was the undeniable fact that Breen willingly participated. Maybe I had not given her enough negative credit. Breen is intelligent and, even then, she was successful in business. She was the one who had experienced marriage, while I was still exploring commitment. In hindsight I realized the blame was not all mine. The misunderstandings were not all mine. If she had really cared for me, as in 'I want to make a commitment,' she should have used her experiences to try harder; not just to judge me for the moment. "No, I think the giver and the receiver can have vividly different memories of the same kiss."

She paused, then, "Do you remember kissing me?"

"Yes...but we never lip-locked. We shared kisses. Breen, this is part of what I hated myself for...I remember intimate details of the first time I touched you...but we never really ever kissed. It took a long time for me to realize that you and I viewed our time together so differently. The time we spent together held far more relationship importance for me; my quest for your love was not a discussion point in that relationship. I asked you to marry me out of love, even if that love was only mine."

"Dave, we never lip-locked for an extended period, not even for a short period. But we did have a relationship, regardless of how it seemed at the time, or how it played out." Breen lowered her voice, leaned forward and warmly said, "When two people sleep together it's a relationship; at least it's considered a relationship in the three or four countries where we progressed beyond mere kissing."

We left it at that for the moment, Breen patted my hand and said the conversation was too much for Friendly's; we ate our ice cream, stealing glances and passing smiles.

She played with her straw, "When I was a very young girl we went to Nice. It was the first vacation I really remember. I was standing on the beach deciding if I wanted to go in the water. I wanted to, but nonetheless, I just stood there. My father asked me what the problem was. I wanted to go in the water, but I did not want to get wet!"

The exchange was telling. This was why I believed all of this was a fairytale that was not supposed to happen. For years I had told myself the whole relationship thing was a one sided memory because Breen had not cared for me the same way I did for her. The passion in my heart was not there in hers, so why would I ever think I would be seated across from her, discussing lip-lock kisses. What did I expect to build on if there was no foundation? That was a perplexing question. I could not forget the past, nor could Breen, but could we leave it alone so we could objectively discuss the future. Damn, how confusing love is!!

I ask, "The roses, did you...?"

"Yes."

Back to ice cream.

She looks up at me, "Lip-lock...such a 60's verb, Dave."

Leaving Friendly's we walked through the shopping center, window shopping. "Dave, I remember everyone I have ever gone out with."

"I can picture almost every girl I dated; let's face it there weren't that many. Not names, but faces. One day Billy - the one good friend from the old neighborhood I still occasionally see - and I were discussing old times. Well, just before you sent me that 'hi remember me' card I had stopped seeing this girl my friend referred to by the descriptive nickname, 'the virgin;' and yes, was still one when we parted ways."

"Billy, or the girl?"

"Funny. As I was saying, everyone in the group I spent the most time with eventually met and knew her nickname. So here we were sitting in a small sandwich shop talking about the old neighborhood, when I mentioned the girl by the nickname, which he had bestowed on her, and he did not remember her. Even after I described her, he did not remember her. This took me by surprise since Billy seems to remember everything. The point is, what we consider as major memories in our own lives are trivial events in passing in the lives of others."

"Would he remember me?"

"Yes, but he felt you were too pretty, too smart for me...out of my league. You'll like his wife."

Later, as I replayed in my mind the hour or so we spent window shopping, the reality seemed so...I don't know, enchanted. That's it, enchantment. She had reached out and taken my hand, an unconscious, possessive move in reaction to the Victoria's Secret window display. It was not the first time she had held my hand, but this was the first 'he is mine' time since we discovered each other anew. She was the one who had the courage to say good-by, to cast me off, to seek a new life for herself. For her, it was to forget the past, look to the future. For me, I never stopped loving her. We had now met anew, we talked, and we started seeing each other again as friends first. It was my desire "to become comfortable with each other first." So we found ourselves that evening having ice cream, discussing lip-locking, and window-shopping. Just being who we were as individuals, being who we were as companions.

When she took my hand and pulled it to her hip I immediately knew something had quickly changed between us. I had wanted to reach out for her hand this way my entire life - not just today, or last week - not just the moment she spoke to me in the building's coffee shop. She had held my hand against her body for what seemed an eternity before realizing what she was doing. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, trying to gage my thoughts; me hoping she would not suddenly release her hold on my heart. In a quiet voice I asked her "do you know the difference between need and want?" A slight movement of her head, no words, just listening eyes that asked me to tell her what was on my mind. "Need is when you reach out in the middle of the night to touch the woman laying next to you; the need to reassure yourself she is still there. Want...it's desperately wanting to be there next to her, to be the only man she reaches out for."

The increased pressure on my hand confirmed we were traveling from need to want.

—////—

### Chapter Six

Back at work on Monday I felt as if the weekend, no, the past week, was a blur of thoughts and feelings and I was still sorting those feelings out when the phone rang; it was Fred; Donna's boyfriend. "What's up?"

"Nothing really, I'm going to be in your neighborhood this morning looking at some property the company is thinking about leasing. You want to meet for lunch, about twelve?"

"Sounds good, you know my building?"

"Donna told me how to get there. I'll be all the way across the street, but she's not sure if I can walk from one building to the other without getting lost."

"Don't take it personal, Donna has little faith in the brain power of men."

"I asked her how she thought I got this old without her assistance and her response was wit sharp enough to cut steel. Not sure if it was meant to be that way."

I could tell he was perplexed at Donna's reaction and, even if it was not posed as one, he was asking a question. Yet I did not want to interfere in their relationship, so I had to measure my response, "You pushed a button with the word 'old'." Okay, so I was not very tactful; I was blunt and blunt seemed appropriate.

Walking through the indoor shopping complex Fred was impressed, "I never knew there was so much in this place. Damn, we have one lousy little deli and a 'connivance' store that carries just about everything an elephant or a complete moron needs to be 'convenient' happy."

I laughed, "We have everything you need for a great day in this subterranean Kasbah. I'll have to show you the dollar store that sells nothing much more than paper plates, plastic cups, and six-year-old paperback books. Which, by the way, look as if they spent most of their previous lives in restrooms."

"The books or paper plates?"

"Good. You're going to need that attitude with Donna. Just don't expect to win much at playing the points game; cause she is, at a minimum, state championship-level competition."

We were sitting in the food court, having bought lunch at one of the takeaways. I was purposely being open about their relationship. I liked Fred and I felt he was good for Donna. We had met only two times; once when I bumped into them at the grocery store, and when then the three of us had met at the Page & Cup for coffee. Fred was truly friendly each time, yet I could not help but sense his questioning of the relationship between Donna and myself. He was much better at keeping such things to himself than I was. Changing the direction of the conversation, I asked, "So, y'all taking the space?"

"Yes." Referring to my 'y'all,' "South?"

"Sometimes the South slips in. Have to do a y'all every now and then so people don't mistake a cold for a New Jersey or New York regionalism."

Fred stabbed the last of his french-fries, "I'm from San Jose and came East after I got out of the Air Force; been here ever since. What did Donna say about you, or I should say one of the many things she has said about you, 'But always south of the Mason-Dixon Line.'" Fred had opened the door and I was not surprised by his next comment, "Can I be...Dave, look you don't have to answer this, but, you and Donna?"

Even though I was not surprised, I was not prepared to answer that question so quick in the conversation. The fact he asked was important, because he cared about what was developing between them. "We are like sister and brother, best friends with years of sharing each other's ups and downs. But Donna is her own woman and we live separate lives; besides...Fred, Donna is a wonderful woman, a beautiful woman that I care about like a sister. But, she is her own woman; strong willed, determined, and sometimes her thought power is down-right scary. I appreciate you asking that." I did appreciate him being so forthright, and I sensed he asked because he wanted Donna more than anything. Had I sensed anything else, I would have been in a quandary. Big brother talk is one thing, but interfering in Donna's love life was a wholly different matter.

Nevertheless, the entire lunch thing went well and I never let Fred know that I would not have been surprised if Donna was the one who suggested lunch. 'Surprise' was a word that seemed to be at the core of Donna's personality. I have always felt that Donna needed someone who could bring a measure of conservatism to her life. A man who would be able to take her his arms and say enough is enough; not with words per say, but with tenderness. I needed the same from a woman. Breen brought that measure of conservatism to the table, a trait that made Breen different from Donna. But this trait unfortunately, to some extent for my friends made Breen appear wrong for me. Take Kris for instance. She would just love for me to announce I was an item with Donna, "The two of you are so compatible, friends destined to be lovers." But that's because Kris has never seen me mad at Donna; has never seen me throw my hands in the air and scream 'I give up!' Has never seen the way Donna can slam a door on me when she can not make me admit she is right. I knew our friends would think the same about Fred and Donna. I could not fault them, because I knew Donna better than they would ever know her. And, of course she is a mirror of my own hopes and dreams.

The conversation with Fred started the old brain to travel down memory lane. How long ago did I make that first trip to New York to see Donna? It now seems a thousand years ago when the Saturday morning newspaper had slammed against my porch like a six pack slamming into the sidewalk having just fallen from a third floor balcony party; not the same sound, but the same effect: 'oh, shit.' To some people I knew when I first met Donna, losing the contents of a six pack was akin to breaking a mirror. You hear the impact and instantly feel it at the same time. Yes, glass and a slab of newsprint do not make the same sound to your ears, but it was none the less a harbinger of 'life interruption.' I felt the impact as the paper thudded to a stop. Impact was waiting on page D1, second column, half way down the page.

"Hello?"

"Donna, it's Dave."

"Dave! What do I owe this honor to? You win the lottery and calling to rescue me from adulthood...from having to toil away, day after day, some nights, some weekends, even a holiday or two, not that I am complaining, mind you."

"Hi Donna, it's POOR Dave, not your dad. Remember when you asked why I never take you out to dinner? Well I have decided you've waited long enough. How about this Friday night?"

"You're coming to New York! Great and I know just the place you're taking me! What time?"

I mocked tears, "I knew you would be elated, but I thought it would be my presence alone that would cause the dance of joy, the excitement, the...actually I thought dinner would be secondary and only used it as an opener."

"Don't get all weepy on me. Of course I'm excited you're FINALLY coming to New York...I'm elated, excited...that better?"

"That's much better."

"So when will you pick me up for dinner?"

"So much for 'Dave, Dave, Dave when are you going to stop writing and get your ass up to the Big Apple?' Where are we going to eat?"

"It'll be a surprise; just bring a non-maxed out credit card and a suit."

"This isn't a deli, I assume."

"That's a ROGER, 10-4 good buddy. You're going to enjoy the experience. Besides, I'm worth it!"

"Don't you want to know why I am coming to your neck of the woods?"

"Sure, all joking aside, I really am excited to have you up here. Why the trip and how long you staying?" "Randy gets sentenced on Friday afternoon."

"Serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

"Damn. When you find out?"

"Yesterday's paper. Carla called before I got a chance to see the article. But, something just felt wrong when I heard the paper hit the porch; you know me and my premonitions."

"How's Carla taking the news?"

"This is like the anticlimax to a three year-long Ionesco play. She wants me to be there for her and of course I will. She waits forever for the hammer to drop, and when it finally does, it's still a shock moment."

"Look, let's do this right. Call me when you get in. Let's not plan anything big for Friday night...you will be here for Saturday, right?"

"You have me all day and all night if you want me."

"Ummm, does your mom know about us...no, don't answer or I will feel obligated to call her and say how sorry I am having corrupted little Davie. Where you staying so I know where to send you back in a cab should you get drunk and really think you're spending the night with me?"

"In mid-town, I'll let you know as soon as I make reservations. I plan to drive back Sunday afternoon."

"How much time do you think Randy will get?"

"Not enough, the article said minimum of twenty, but possibly longer based on the sentencing phase testimony."

"Please don't applaud when the sentence is read. I hate that."

"Why not, lawyers need emotional support like everyone else."

Randy was a liar, a cheat at cards, a cheat at marriage, stupid as a bowl of corn flakes, and the type of guy who would drink from your beer when your back was turned and proposition your wife when you went to the restroom. Carla, my late aunt's only child is sweet and, at least in love, dumber. She fell for Randy, married him, moved to New York State with him, and spent the next two years earning the family paycheck, while Randy spent his free time at the horse track and chatting up the ladies. Six days before their second anniversary Randy takes off "looking for a job" in West Virginia, not alone, but with a girl he met the night before.

When Randy returns, "too cold in that place, snow, ice...like it was in the mountains," he is flush with cash and holds a session for his friends at a bar. Prior to his trip, Randy bought a gun from someone, I suspected Gaven; a big frame SW .357 Magnum. As tragic stories go, Randy is at this bar showing off the gun and asks his girlfriend to show the boys how the big frame looks in her small hands. Unfortunately Randy "forgot to tell her the gun was loaded" and his new flame found out in front of six witnesses when she grabbed the gun by its barrel and yanked it out of Randy's hand. Randy also forgot to tell her his finger was in the trigger. With no close family, Carla turns to me for support; and I spent several weeks going back and forth to New York to be with her at the trial.

If you're wondering why he gets thirty years from the judge, realize Randy is not bright; he had used the gun in a string of robberies in West Virginia. "You mean the State cops talk to each other?" Oh, his girlfriend was identified as the lookout waiting in the car. The icing on the cake was when several witnesses of the shooting testified that Randy had told them earlier that day that he was becoming worried about her because she was scared they would get caught, and had commented, "why not just pop her and find a new bitch." The defense tried to get the jury to believe Randy was talking about his married life and 'pop' was a euphemism for 'smack' as in 'I should give her a smack on the rear end and send her packing.'

The trial itself was not very long, but Carla seemed to age a year for each week. The whole deal had taken twenty-eight months to play out from arrest to sentencing. Aside from looking older, Carla took this last court appearance in stride; she had divorced him, paid off a good chunk of her debt because Randy wasn't spending the money, and was very thankful Randy had a Public Defender. When the judge read the sentence I did not clap, but I did walk up and personally thank Randy's Public Defender.

Donna asked a concerned, "How'd it go?"

"Short answer, thirty years, possible parole in never, and West Virginia is looking at him for multiple armed robberies. And Carla, she's doing fine. Something in her eyes tells me there is a new man in her life."

It's Friday evening and we are in a café somewhere south of Houston Street. It's kind of a screwy place, unless of course if you like plastic forks. Café Farina, I kid you not. What an original name! Why not Café Oat Bran? I kept quiet about the name, but no way was I going to pass up on the plastic orange chairs, silver seat cushions, and a waiter who failed Hair Combing 101. The food was served on metal trays and plates that must have come from an Army surplus store. Café Farina should have been closed by the SoHo neighborhood association long before it opened.

Donna tosses the wrapper from her straw at me, "So what do you think of this place?"

"So, this place uh?"

"Yes, this place!"

"Not bad...could use some...you know...some...Donna, I know this is my first time in the City with you, but this place is serving Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. Really, these are Mrs. Paul's, and their not even the crunchy ones."

"This is my favorite place Dave," sad eyes and all, "I thought you would like it!"

"Are you putting me on? You don't like this place...do you? I'm really sorry, I'll stop criticizing."

"Good!" laughing, "Cause this place is to haute cuisine, what finger painting monkeys are to art."

Okay the jokes on me and Donna has taught me what this friendship was going to be like. "Had you going there, didn't I, Davie?"

"Yes, Donna. You need to play to a tougher audience. Remind me to take you to a Waffle House at two-thirty in the morning."

"Been there."

"On prom night?"

"After a wedding in my bridesmaids dress. You?"

"After a formal at a small women's college. While drunk?"

"No, I was only seventeen, but does serious face smushing to the point of falling off the stools count for extra points?"

"You weren't drunk?"

"We were drunk on love! You?"

"Did not keep count."

"Drunk or smushed faces?"

"You don't admit it, I don't admit it!"

"Hiding something Dave?"

"Smushed passed face once in the parking lot."

"No points, has to be inside."

"We got caught in the head lights of a friend's car."

"OK, but only this time because I have more points for falling off the stool."

"How soon did you get up off the floor?"

"When the manager started yelling at us to break contact."

"Okay, you win."

"You give up too easily."

"No, I just don't like your poker face, and the only time you ever fell off a bar stool was probably when you were four, eating breakfast at home!"

"My sister pushed me, and I was five, or six. Want to play poker for money?"

"Not with you."

"We did fall on the floor...I made up the part about being yelled at. I embarrassed my friends."

"So what? I'm sure your friends have embarrassed you. It's all in the process of growing up. The point is we finally recognized that we embarrassed ourselves."

"You're so damn odd. You know that? This morning you...forget it."

The conversation that night did not get any more sophisticated.

Over the course of our friendship I had learned a lot about Donna. She was born in Lansing, Michigan; then, when she was five, her dad got transferred back to Bridgeport, Connecticut, near the rest of the clan. Like me, Donna had been sneaking off to New York City to party since age sixteen. She talked about how she also missed the old places, parties that filled entire hotel floors, her first Rangers game, Central Park, art galleries, and more settled things like her university life and first job. Our lives had more in common than we wanted to admit. Where we differed was my camping, caving, and affinity for pickup trucks. She drew the line at trucks. Maybe she would descend into the earth just to see how dirty and wet she could get, or spend a cold night in a sleeping bag (I told her she could share mine for warmth, "in your dreams"), even go on long hikes with me; but she would not give up a leather-seated sedan for even a leather-seated pick-up.

"You bring a good credit card?"

"Yes, am I really going to need it?"

"Yes. Did you bring a suit?"

"Yes mom."

"Don't get cute with me. I did not sell my soul for these two tickets to the hottest show on Broadway for you to get cute with me. I treat tonight, you PAY tomorrow."

We went to the theater and had a late dinner, real food, at an Irish place just off Broadway, and talked some more. When the night was saying adieu, Donna went back to the hotel with me; as planned, she got the bed and I got the floor. That was the deal and I am grateful we kept it.

Saturday morning started with a good greasy breakfast at Grand Central, back to Donna's so she could change and then show me around her neighborhood. We changed clothes for the evening, and at seven we were in a cab going to a restaurant on the West Side near the Park. From the outside the place was not pretentious, almost nondescript; but inside it was plush, description complete. The food and service, even the mints at the entrance, were astronomically good. A small combo played in the background and they seemed to weave their soft melodies into the mood like a box kite riding air currents. Donna relished the meal, the attention the waiters gave to us, and most of all she enjoyed sharing the experience with me.

We talked serious conversation; not heavy serious, but proper moment serious. Donna wanted to know about my writing, my thoughts on avant-garde theater, my job, my life as an individual away from the "dumb shits" I was with when we met. We talked about our love life and housing options. Donna told me about why she liked history; where she planned to go for her vacation; and about her sister, who lived in California.

The dinner was an easy, slow affair; we were not hurried by the establishment, the mood, or our own expectations. And when the time came to leave, we stood close to each other while the doorman hailed us a cab. I put my arm around Donna's waist and gave her a friendly squeeze. She laughed and gave me a bump on the hips, took my hand in hers and pulled my hug a little tighter and informs me that, "now you've got me as a friend forever, you know that don't you?"

I squeeze, "Apparently, but do you know what you're getting into?"

"I knew the moment we met at Nancy's wedding. I just wish we could have lived in the same neighborhood while growing up."

"Would not have worked, aside from the fact the six years difference in our ages would have landed me in jail when I turned eighteen. You were on good behavior tonight, no sixteen letter words, no contradicting me...'Dave you're wrong'...you're quite the lady tonight, but neighborhood buddies? Naaa, we would have been arch rivals, like Cat Woman is to Batman." Donna laughed, "One day you're going to look back on this night and thank your lucky stars!" Of course Donna was right. To this day I remember being with Donna on that trip as if it were just hours ago.

Our next stop was a jazz club that had the best Scotch and great music. Donna likes jazz and of all the stories I have shared with her of my chaotic life she is jealous of only one experience. It was early evening, a mild summer evening, and I was walking near Times Square when I heard through an open door someone playing trumpet like it was the voice of heaven; standing outside, I got to listen to Dizzy Gillespie for two sets.

When we left the club around 3:00 AM, I told Donna that she really knew how to plan an evening. It was a cab ride to Donna's, then one to my hotel. We said our goodbyes over the phone late that morning before I drove home and sought out a bank loan to pay the tab.

Thankfully, Donna had walked into my life and stayed. We matured as grownups together, giving each other encouragement and support. Donna could open the door to my inner thoughts and turn on the light to my brain. She made me look at myself like a stranger sees me, to see who I was, and she stood by me when my confidence was shaken. I have tried to do the same for her.

I think it was the first time we went camping, soon after the trip to New York City that finally set our relationship.

When we pulled into the parking area she looked around and asked where the inn was. "This is a campground, a state park, no indoor facilities."

"Wait...what do you mean no indoor facilities?" a tone of panic creeping into her voice, "You mean no restaurant, but indoor plumbing, right?"

"If you want indoor plumbing you'll have to find a cave."

"You...you...you..."

"I got the 'you' part," not going to let her off that easy.

"DAVE, WHAT THE HELL KIND OF PLACE IS THIS!"

"A campground; tents, sleeping bags, campfires, roasting marshmallows, and you and me bonding."

"Bonding my ass! When you said camping I thought summer camp camping, with buildings and such."

"Have I ever let you down?"

"Yes!"

"Let me rephrase that, have I ever treated you badly?"

"YES!"

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes," the shock broken, "You have to remember I'm from Connecticut. The closest I have ever come to sleeping in the woods was at a girl's summer camp; we had log cabin bunkhouses and real beds."

"Are you worried about something, something other than using the great outdoors to go potty; cause I know you have before, you told me about soccer practices."

"I...I don't like snakes, alright," soft, but trusting to tell me.

"No jokes. I'll respect that. I want you to enjoy camping. Okay?"

"Alright, I'm sorry about being so melodramatic."

Regardless of what she said, as I unpacked the truck, and Donna saw the camping gear for the first time, she did not exactly smile, "Sleeping bags?"

"Yes, and there are two of them. What are you looking for?"

"Cots."

"Sorry, we get to sleep on mother earth."

We set up the tent and gathered wood for a fire. Then we took a short hike through the forest. The path was wide enough for three, but Donna was so close to me a truck could have driven past without her feeling the breeze. When we reached the place I wanted her to see, the place where the path rounds a bend, breaks through the trees and opens on to a hilltop that looks out over the valley below, Donna said, "Beautiful, absolutely beautiful!" It was a breathtaking view; I knew it would be.

Later, sitting by the fire watching our barbeque chicken breasts slowly cook, Donna asked if we were going to sing camp songs. "Depends on how far away the next campsite is. Don't want to scare them away by my singing."

"Dave, the words you uttered when the tent fell down was enough to scare them away."

"Sorry about that."

"You should be!"

That night Donna and I tried to keep the conversation upbeat and non-serious. However around ten, the wine bottle was half empty. We discussed relationships. I remember telling her that relationships had to be built on trust. I talked about being able to rely on the person next to you; in the Army, descending on a rope in a cave, or walking into a strange bar in backwoods wherever. Years later when my marriage was faltering she would remind me of that conversation. "Dave, remember when you told me about why you stopped spelunking? You said that one member of the group could not maintain focus on the belaying line; you needed to have confidence in the person doing his job. Marriage is a partnership that requires the same kind of trust."

We spent Friday and Saturday nights in the woods. We hiked Saturday, stopping at a waterfall, getting soaked in a water fight. Throughout the weekend we told each other stories about our lives. Donna informed me that a week after she learned to drive she wrecked the car by sideswiping a wall. I told about one day in Diver Ed I pulled up to an intersection to make a right turn and because of a hedge and a parked truck I was not able to see the traffic coming from the left, so I gunned it. My Driver Ed teacher tried to wedge his 5'-6", 230+ pound body under the dashboard. At the after prom party she lost her shoes. At least she remembered her date's name.

Like on my first visit to New York City to see her, I know we laughed at these stories because we were able to laugh at ourselves for the stupid things in our past. Our story swapping was not for pride, it was confessional. When I met my future wife, Donna cautioned me to keep my stupidest stories to myself. Sometimes I wondered if keeping these 'words' to my personality bottled up kept her from fully knowing who I was. I would hint now and then. But we began moving within a conservative world and my youthful exploits (regardless of how old I was before I left 'youth') were too far a field for most of the people I met.

Even Donna would only accept so much. She may have drank too much as a teenager, and smushed faces at a Waffle House, but she never went to the extreme like me. Regardless of how Donna felt about my youth and early adulthood, she recognized that I might laugh on the outside at my antics, but I deeply regretted them.

One day I finally recognized that Breen knew me while I was still immersed in that life. She may not have known about the worst of my hidden past, but she felt the 'roughness' in the hands that held her. I only wished that she had read the lifelines, because I was different from the other men in her life. Just lacking the maturity to live the way I knew I was capable of.

As I was putting the last piece of camping gear into the truck, "I trusted you to look out for me on this camping trip, you did, thanks Dave. BUT, next time we go to a place that has showers, indoor plumbing, at least cots, a snack bar with fresh coffee..."

—////—

### Chapter Seven

The plan for the day was to meet Breen after work for a quick meal at a local cafe, then take her to the car dealership to get her car; which she was dropping off in the morning. It's an hour after lunch – Mexican – and I am in the seventh floor boardroom of a prospective subcontractor to listen to their very tedious concept presentation.

Looking out the window I see two men on bikes weaving their way through traffic. The traffic is heavy; an understatement. Between runners that cross major intersections with total disregard for the cars, trucks, and pedestrians, and the bicyclists that fly through red lights, it's a zoo during this time of day. I should be paying attention to the meeting. Could blame it on a heavy lunch leading to 'after lunch brain wave deprivation', but it's of course thoughts of Breen that are pulling my mind away from the large flat panel screen upon which theatrical PowerPoint graphics - replete with animated polar bears and sound effects that are supposed to enhance a meaningless presentation – are being successful in having a mind-numbing effect on the audience. The first couple of charts were somewhat amusing; if not very professional. However by chart fifteen the tide had turned against the presentation team.

Being amused for the afternoon is not the point of this exercise, I am supposed to be swayed to agree with their program and recommend that dollars be thrown at it. So I'm looking out the window thinking about Breen and trying to avoid a likely death by PowerPoint. That is until the resounding thud, a whole bunch of very loud OH SHIT!s, accompanied by the immediate sound of chairs scraping their way back from the table.

My mind snaps back to reality and I am looking at Dr. Philip Blazissisky lying slack against the boardroom table, his face obviously had made the thud sound, and from the look of his askew, smashed glasses Dr. B had not planned to fall asleep. The men who had been sitting on either side of Dr. B were now standing against the wall and, like the others in the room, with skin tones of chalk. Except for Trudy who, as I start to climb over the table to a sleeping (?) Dr. B, calmly gets up from her seat two spaces down and goes to him. She checks for a pulse and announces to the room, "The presentation is over;" then points to one of the comatose men, "Call 911 and tell them not to rush, unless one of you feels faint." Some premonition there Dave!

With the rest of the attendees now sitting in the lobby – staring through the open door - it's just Trudy and yours truly holding fort with the now former Dr. B. I would have left but she blocked the door, "No Dave, you get to stay with me."

"Why me?"

"Because you owe me."

"Trudy I owe you lunch, not staying in a room with a dead person."

At least I won on leaving the door open. Trudy is 28, bright, has good common sense, and doesn't take shit off of anyone. She has little patience with smart mouthed people; except me, because she thinks I'm funny for 'an old guy.' I think she's a 'wise ass youngster.' We get along great. Others, they respect her business abilities and professionalism; but at least one ogling male has been swiftly told to back off.

Looking at the open boardroom door Trudy very politely asks for my suit coat."

"My coat?"

"Yes Dave, your coat."

"What for, it's not like he needs to be treated for shock."

"Just give me your coat. It would be nice to cover him so the gaggle of geese out there will stop staring. Besides, I think it's the least you can do considering you invited him."

"Why don't you use your coat?"

"Dave, look!" And she opens her jacket to reveal a very classy, sheer blouse.

"Where you going after work?"

"Dinner with my husband. Now give me your coat."

"You never wore clothes like that in college."

"I did not have the money to buy nice clothes in college. Wait, how do you know what I wore in college?"

"I saw the video of you at a MTV Summer Break event."

"I should say something unprofessional, but I'll let your comment pass. DAVE, just give me your coat!"

I comply, but obviously not happy about it. Taking my coat, she covers up Dr. B then asks, "What is your problem?"

"I don't like to pal around with dead people."

"Neither do I Dave."

Two hours later the paramedics, firemen, building security, department heads, and the police let us leave. Trudy is holding my coat and extends her arm for me to take it. I don't want to touch the thing. "Will you take the coat, or do you want me to tell the world how Dave is afraid to sit next to a dead person?"

"Trudy I doubt anyone will side with you." I reach out and take hold of the coat by thumb and forefinger.

We head for the elevator, me still holding the coat by thumb and forefinger at an arm's length away from my body. Trudy smiles at me, "I'd laugh at you, but the group in there would think I was being irreverent of Dr. B."

"I'm meeting my..."

"Your what?"

Trudy's ears perked.

"My girlfriend," there I said it, "for dinner, but seeing Dr. B like that has put a downer on things."

"Thanks for staying with me."

"You're welcome, sorry about the remarks."

"You would have stayed even if I hadn't blocked the door...or at least stepped back in once you saw I was staying. What an afternoon. Dr. B has a sense of humor," she realizes what tense she just used, "...had...No...has; because I'm sure he's in heaven and was laughing at us arguing over the coat." The elevator arrives and we ride it to the first floor in silence.

When I meet Breen in front of the café, the first thing she asks is, 'Where's your suit coat?"

I try to hide the mood I am in, but I come off sounding distant, "Had to drop it off at the cleaners near the office."

In a very mommy voice, "Did little Davie spill something on it?"

A little too edgy, "No, Trudy got kuddies on it!"

Breen looks at me as if she was beginning to regret asking about the coat, but recognizes my comment was not directed at her. Concerned, "Is this something I should hear about before, or after dinner?" I explain the afternoon as we wait for our food.

Story and food finished, Breen says she can understand my mood and tells me to cheer up, "I'm sure the cleaners can get the kuddies out."

"Why me?"

"These life episodes from the book of strange events, are they something I will have to become accustomed to hearing about, or do you expect me to participate?"

"My life is quite normal, thank you."

She's holding my hand, "Dave, I don't spend my afternoons sitting with dead people, while chatting about clothes."

"We were not chatting about clothes...I just wanted to know why Trudy felt I had to be the one to...forget it."

"Okay," 'but you need to as well'. She was right.

When we get to car dealership Breen tells me three times that I do not have to wait because she is sure the car is ready. I wait anyway and was rewarded by Breen – hat in hand – saying a wrong part arrived and the right one would not be in until morning. She asks if I want to go someplace. "Not tonight, I don't think I will be great company."

At her apartment complex Been tells me that she does not expect me to wine and dine her every minute of the day and "two people have to feel comfortable around each other even when one has a bad day." I look into those emerald green eyes and place my hand on her cheek, slid my hand under her hair, then kiss her. She asks, "You feeling better?"

I nod, "outstanding medicine there lady."

As she is closing the door to the apartment I call after her, "That kiss of yours proved my life is not 'episodes from the book of strange events'."

That night Breen's concern about my life's routine predictably filled my head with thoughts about how Breen's presence in my life will change my life. Those thoughts were still there the following evening as we stood in line at the movies. Take for example Sundays. Along with maturity came my Sunday morning routine. Sunday mornings are my idyllic mornings. I wake up on 'workday' time regardless of the day of the week, thanks to years of practice getting out of bed before the sun, so I can join the millipede of cars making the long commute. So, on Sundays I put the early rising to good use. This is the day I can leisurely read the Sunday paper in the quiet morning solitude, nestled in the overstuffed chair by the window. I actually started the practice years ago at my first apartment, sitting by the window with fresh croissants, coffee, the paper, and the birds of spring singing their songs outside. OK, there were no song birds. My apartment was on the twelfth floor; maybe a pigeon or two on the ledge pecking at the window for handouts.

Now on Sundays I have several hours before I dress for church, signaling the start of the outside day. I should note that Saturday mornings are quite different; Saturday mornings are get up, take the dog out, eat, and take a nap, then starts the day of shopping and the errands of home ownership. My view of Sunday mornings is the epitome of the idyllic life. Even on the road I try to reserve Sunday mornings for quality time with my inner self, or as one friend puts it, 'inner self' is such a mature way to say 'lazy self'. So how Breen would fit into this routine was on my mind as we walked through the doors of the movies.

I am thinking to myself in 'the perfect picture, pun intended' slight chuckle, "Oh, nothing Breen, just thought of the last movie he was in;" good cover-up. 'The perfect picture would be a soft kiss on her cheek, ummm, which cheek?' another chuckle

"Dave if it's that amusing why not tell the people you keep bumping into."

"Sorry."

'A kiss to remind her I wanted her to be there next to me, then having made sure the covers were snug around her luscious body,' "Oops, sorry," as I bump into yet another person.

"Are you sure you're not daydreaming?"

"No, when do I ever daydream." Where was I, right, 'kiss, snug the covers.' So simple a wish.

But as I settled into my seat I could not help but wonder if that dream about leaving her side to seek solitude in the roll of the tide against the beach was important. Maybe the tide, ever present, persistent movement against the sands, was like time eating away at what years remained for us to share. This is why I hate movie dates; too much time to daydream; specially after having sat next to a dead man, a reminder that age has a way of catching up.

Seated, with the lights lowering and the commercial blaring (why so loud all the time), I almost slip-up by putting my arm across her shoulders; that's a no-no. At least I remember some of the things Breen did not like. But she does place her hand over mine and gives it a little squeeze. We watched the movie, or at least I pretended I was paying attention, because I was thinking about how to approach the subject of formalizing our relationship; not engagement or 'move in with me,' but let's stop pretending you and I are not an 'item.' Neither Breen nor I had broached the subject of 'is there someone else in your life I am competing against.' The five days for instance, why?

"Dave the movie is over," oops, thankfully a not too disappointed nudge from Breen, "enjoy your...well if was not a daydream, since 'I don't daydream,' I guess it was rapt attention to the movie...but, then I'm not going to press my luck asking if you enjoyed the movie, am I?"

"I watched the movie, you can quiz me. Take for instance the scene where the guy in the suit..."

"Give me a break, at least say something like, I was dreaming of you."

"I was."

"Tisk, tisk, you're a fool Dave, but a nice one."

As we walked to the car Breen held my hand; the thin veneer of caution was broken through that night at the mall. Ours arms had a slight swing to them as we walked; not as pronounced as the two high schoolers in front of us, but a happy swing none the less. Once in the car, I leaned over and ran my hand across her cheek, then I kissed her. As I started to move away Breen used her hand to stop me, it was resting on the back of my neck. She played with my hair and studied my face, "Why are you scared to kiss me?"

"I'm still not sure if you want me to. Is that a dumb thing to say?"

"It's my fault. Before, it seemed as if all you ever wanted to do was kiss me, and I felt that sex was the whole relationship. Guess you've became gun shy?"

"Breen, do you know I love saying your name?" She starts to say something, then just smiles at me and nods yes. I take my time, keep check on my voice so Breen can take in each word, "I love to say your name, even in my dreams, because it is the total you, all that I love about you. I will never lie to you about the sexual desire. I'm sorry if I was not able to express how I felt, feel about you, the total you; the Breen that makes me happy to be alive."

"We have a lot of getting used to, don't we?"

"Yep. Work with me, OK?"

In an up-beat mood, "To a point, if I let you feel comfortable kissing me any time you feel like it, I'll lose bargaining chips!"

Later, while stopped at a red light, Breen used the visor mirror and light to make a grand show of checking for lipstick smears. "You're not wearing lipstick."

"Just checking to see if you were, and left some on me when we kissed."

"Cute."

"I know I am. Pull over."

I did, into the parking lot of a dance studio. Breen looked at the studio's sign, "did you ever learn to dance?"

"No."

"Would you learn for me? Learn so you can waltz me off my feet?"

"I'll try."

"Good answer; that was a test. I did not want a 'yes' because maybe you do have some predisposition towards two left feet. I don't want you to appease me or humor me, just be honest with me. OK?"

"I want the same, OK?"

I saw her hand go towards the seatbelt release, but it did not register fast enough, "Well I think we made it through the OKs, now it's lip-lock time!" She moved fast, I was caught off balance, but survived. When she let me up for air, "not bad Dave, with practice you could be pretty good at lip-locking." This is that moment you tilt your head down, scrounge you lips to the side and concentrate on what just took place and what you're supposed to say in response to a barb coming after a good lip-lock on your part considering she caught you by surprise.

Breen kind of saves me, "Don't say anything, just drive. Hate for you to spoil the moment with an analogy; probably on guppies or African kisser fish."

"African kisser fish?"

"Just made that up."

"Thanks."

"For explaining the African kisser fish?"

"No, for being here with me."

"This is why you need to take dance lessons, it takes two to tango." She laughed at her joke, and I laughed at how wonderfully absurd this night was becoming.

A few minutes later Breen points to a diner, "Let's stop, I need some ice cream to keep my lips cool in case I want to kiss you again."

As we walk to our seats, "I'll get another chance?"

"I said in case 'I' want to kiss you again."

"Breen, this is supposed to be a two-way relationship, remember."

"Of course, but I am not going to make it easy for you," as she poked me in the side and slid into the booth.

"Glad you like ice cream, I cannot imagine what these midnight forays would be like if you were into pork rinds."

While love has its serious side, there should always be room for a scoop of mint chocolate chip.

We arrived back at her apartment late, with not much time for more than walking her to the door, an enjoyable hug, kiss, and 'sweet dreams' goodnight. And, as I sat in the car, not yet turning the key, my mind started to think again. 'Again' was not what I expected; I remembered the five days and 'again' was a nagging feeling that Breen was not telling me something. Strange, how the best of times can lead to your worst thoughts. My worst thought was the unknown, and the more I thought about the unknown the more tonight's events became a 'why for.'

My thoughts should not have been warranted; nevertheless, they had everything to do with Breen's flight of passion in the car, her desire to dance with me, her very happiness being with me. It was something I felt in her kiss good night. Something was not right and Breen was trying to work it out. We had – or at least I believed we had – crossed over the bridge of 'holding back' our feelings. So why was Breen being evasive? I started the engine, and glad that you could not see or hear the car from Breen's apartment; at least she did not see me hesitate leaving the parking lot. An uneasiness followed me all the way back to my place, and it hung around for the remainder of the night.

I wrote some prose before finally falling asleep. The words were about winter and the changes the fall brings as winter takes hold of the land. Serious words. I had not penned such lines for ages. Metaphors of life, of love, of my feelings. In the morning I saw the day would be a bright one, the sun had jumped into the sky and left nothing of the night lingering around. The paper I had written on was still on the bed, slightly rumpled from being rolled on. The rumpledness seemed to add character to the words, like age lines on the wood of the bar and tables at a bar in Heidelberg. Boy, minds can take dramatic leaps in time and place.

What had I accomplished all these years? Who was I really; just as Breen asked that night she wanted me to do something 'good angry.' Was there someone in her life? Maybe what was nagging me had been there all along, just I was so wrapped up in needing her I was desensitized. It was the kiss good night. Her lip quivered and it was not my imagination. You work so hard to feel the other person, to open your every nerve ending to feel her vibrations, only to overload your brain with data. Damn, why do I need to answer, to even ask such questions? Why can't I leave well enough alone and enjoy the ride into the sunset? Because I was already into the sunset; I had already been there, done that and rode off without her beside me.

A fairytale...all this is but a fairytale and fairytale is the only metaphor that fits; knowing full well that fairytales are not real. I made a decision, not a snap decision, but one that had been lingering around in the back of my head ever since she agreed to see me again: I would ask her any question I wanted an answer to, regardless of how dangerous asking might be to keeping her in my life this second time. Later in the day I called Breen and suggested we spend Saturday at the park.

However, before I could meet Breen at the park I had to make a quick trip to New York City for an early morning meeting. I went up the afternoon before by train. Taking the train is a great experience, and far more relaxing than flying. The view from the train is an optical exercise in extremes; countryside foliage and harsh urbane blight. The tracks once laid in vibrant manufacturing areas and behind working class neighborhoods, now reside in wastelands of rusted metal and aged bricks. But the view from the train's window affords a truthful look; the naked truth of what our city fathers hide from investors, from the tourist magazines, and from themselves.

I spent the late afternoon and evening walking the streets of mid-town. The sights and sounds of the City are so dramatically different from the areas I work and live in. Thus, for me New York has a refreshingly unique personality. It's as if each of the defined sections, such as the Village or China Town, is but a tablecloth upon which a magnificent dinner is placed. It is as if each area accepts everything that is placed within; not stripping away the identity of these individual entities, but weaving them into the tapestry spread out before you.

All is odd in New York, thus no one entity stands out for very long. The rounding of a corner can bring to light a micro dot of total misplacement, a relic of the past wedged between ultra-modern shops and restaurants of 'progress.' Or it can raise the curtain on a montage of human existence: two Orthodox Jews – with their large black brimmed hats and black coats in contrast to the noonday heat - walking past the tourist bedecked steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral turn their heads to look at two blond haired Scandinavian girls - dressed as rodents for an advertising promotion - yelling at a Pakistani taxi driver who, claiming to not understand their version of English, is explaining \- high pitched, at a feverish pace - to a policeman why he ran over their Mouse Cart, while four Chinese tourists - wearing I love New York t-shirts and carrying bags from an East European deli - are taking pictures of the hundreds of Wisconsin cheese pamphlets now littering the sidewalk. Nothing is odd when everything is unique; this is New York City.

In the morning I am late leaving the hotel. No worry because I had stayed at a hotel at 52nd Street and Third Avenue and I only needed to walk to 49th and Park; two streets down and two over. It's raining the misty kind of rain that makes umbrellas useless because it swirls around you, slipping inside your clothes and disposition. Knowing where I am going I just walk amongst the crowd on the sidewalk, thinking about some of the stores I had visited the previous day. My mind drifts back to the time I came to the City for Donna's graduation from law school. I had arrived two days early so I could do some shopping and buy the graduation gift she was to pick out. That was the deal, Donna picked out a gift – within reason – so I would not do the "typical man stupid thing of buying something dumb;" so much for her trust in men. When I reached my hotel there was a note from Donna, I was to go to 653 Fifth Avenue and see a specific salesman.

I should have remembered that Donna's definition of 'within reason' was not the same as mine. The next morning I discover 653 Fifth Avenue is Cartier. The gentleman I was directed to meet was very pleasant and smiling (read 'warning sign' Dave). "The young lady has exquisite taste," danger, danger, danger! With that he proceeds to take a velvet box out of a drawer behind the display case, and I was almost blinded when he opened the box to light. Yes, Donna has exquisite taste, and thankfully the sight of a pair of $14,000 diamond earrings rendered me speechless.

"Something wrong sir?"

Yep, Donna has exquisite taste, "No, I was just wondering if more than one Donna could have stopped in. But why ask, because I am sure she is somewhere nearby."

He smiles and says, "not sure, but she said you would have the most amusing wordless stare."

"Thanks, she got me par Donna," as I signaled with my hand - hidden from view by my body – for him not to pay attention, in a louder voice, "well thank you, but I think I'll pass on the gift."

I turn to fake leaving and Donna does the 100 meter dash from her hiding spot behind some other shoppers in Olympic record time; blocking my exit, and pointing to different velvet box the salesman now has in his hand. The nice salesman opens the second box to display gold and emerald earrings that were $12,950 more 'reasonable.' "I'll wear them as soon as the gentleman pays you. Is that OK Dave?" in the sweetest voice she has ever used around me.

Donna is Cartier, she is Fifth Avenue, and she looked great in the earrings at graduation. Abrupt end to daydreaming because I looked up and I was at 56th and First; obviously I was going to be late for my meeting. Nevertheless, I had a nice trip, even if it was too short.

It's Saturday morning and Breen and I are sitting on a bench feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons. I ask her if she would like to do something different the next weekend, "I know, let's visit your aunt Margaret."

Hesitation, "Na, you would not enjoy going there."

"Sure I would. Sounds like a great idea. When's the last time you visited your aunt; I'm sure she would be happy to see you. Look, we intended to spend next weekend doing nothing so important that it would be terrible if we changed plans. AND, I am not asking you to SPEND a weekend with me. Where do you stay when you visit?"

"At my aunt's house, Dave..."

Not giving her a chance to protest, "Good. You stay there and I will get a room in the area. If for some reason you can't stay at your aunt's, I'll get you a room at a different motel. I'll be your chauffeur, friend, nothing more. I'll pay for the gas, the motel rooms..."

She cut me off, "Let's walk;" a statement of need. As we rose from the bench, Breen laced her left arm around my right arm and took hold of the arm with her right hand. We walked along the path towards the play area, Breen lost in thought and I giving her room to think. Just as we reached the swings, a small rabbit appeared at the wood line, stopped at our sight, nose twitching, big brown eyes watching us. "He's with me," and to emphasize this Breen kissed my cheek. She laughed as the rabbit gave a shrug and bounded off back into the woods. "Going to my aunt's is not a good idea; at least not right now."

Breen moves us to the merry-go-round, and we sit; she still holds my arm and rests her head on my shoulder. "Dave...when I closed the book on our relationship, on my past mistakes, it was my aunt who I turned to. She was the one person I could lay out my heart to; you were the subject. No, don't jump to any conclusions; I did not have the same loving feelings for you that you had for me. I did care for you. Otherwise I would not have spent three years of my life sharing time with you. But, oh gee...OK, after I said good riddance to you, that's what it was, no use hiding the fact, I had a few boyfriends. Then I met Ken on a visit to my aunt's. He was the son of her friend from church. Ken was the perfect husband; all the things you read about in _Cosmo_ or _Elle_ , all the things you wish for on a shooting star. When Ken died it was not a sudden event, we knew it was inevitable, we spent our time together joyfully and meaningfully." I sensed the tears, the pain, anguish, longing, she tried to hide from me. But silently I prayed that this had not happened, silently praying that I could hear with my heart.

"About two years ago I started dating Dave again; an old neighbor of my aunt's. He's a great guy, thinks the world of me, anything for me, no questions asked." I sensed a shift in tone, "We had good times together, but not the kind of relationship he wants. I have never given him reason to think it was a possibility, not even a real kiss. Ken...and you, in different ways gave me 'counsel,' but Dave and I just have fun together."

In a serious, but more relaxed tenor, "Dave, you this time, Dave, the other one, is past tense. Boy, this could get confusing. When I moved here he waited patiently for each visit to my aunt's. That's when I realized the absurdity of continuing our relationship. I wanted permanency as he did, but not with him. Am I sounding cold?"

"No."

She had drawn her legs up and was now hugging them, still with her arm looped through mine. I used my feet to slowly move the merry-go-round. "I don't want to sound cold or ungrateful. Dave is too nice, too trying to please. Guess that's why I asked you to do something 'good angry'."

In a more serious tone, "I did not just happen to bump into you." She looks for reaction in my face. I want to say 'dah,' but thankfully keep my mouth shut. "Hummm, guess you are not surprised after all. Sooooo," in a rush of words, "I Googled your name found your work info, read your bio, no mention of a wife, and plotted to run into you." Pause, then jokingly, "Actually you should be grateful I did not do this years ago, because I may have actually run into you." She had apparently gotten past the 'how is he going to take this' and was now setting me up for the punch line. "Dave is still back at the ranch. He does not know you by name, just there's a 'you'." Hard period, sentence ended, facts dispensed, now the wait for my reaction.

"What about your aunt?"

"Why did you bring her up in the first place?"

"You answer first."

"She does not know. But I am sure woman's intuition and my mood change has given her reason to suspect someone other than Dave is in my life; if she has not already been cried to by Dave. Now your turn!"

"OK, this whole...whatever it was seemed like a fairytale and fairy tales are not real. I believe that God answers our prayers, but I was not ready to simply, blindly accept you back in my life because of some coincidence."

"Nice to know you wanted me there," she moves and is now sitting halfway on my lap, arms around my waist, head resting on my shoulder. Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

"Sure, and your change of position isn't meant to sway my opinion...it's working."

"I know," kiss on the lips.

"Anyway! It was the five days. At first I thought it was someone in the area. No, you said you were going somewhere. Your aunt's was a lucky guess. I just happened to bring it up because you did, and I figured you may have kind of Freudian slipped when you did."

"So you ambushed me...I deserved it"

"Yep, like you ambushed me that day at the coffee shop. Breen, I had already realized neither of us had brought up the subject of someone else. For me there's no one special."

"Would you have volunteered the info?"

"Not right away; but yes, once you and I became more than just two old friends. What now?"

"I've told Dave that I had met someone, a friend from the past, and we were an 'item'"

"In those words?"

"Noooo. I was very nice. But nice does not ease a broken heart...nor does nasty, does it."

"So we're an 'item'?"

"I want us to be if you do. I would have liked to tell Dave, the other one...guess it was obvious who I was referring to, uh...I would have liked to have quoted him a line from a Patty Loveless song. He wants 'the girl next door'. What you were 'looking for is the one the middle'. I have always known that. I am...no, I want to be for you the perfectness you need in your life. I knew that the moment I saw you at the coffee shop. All the questions I had, the doubts seemed to melt away. I did get cold feet Dave, I needed to get away and think...that was not a fib. I just did not tell you I was going to my aunt's house...guess I forgot about the other Dave, too."

"You're right. Nevertheless, I pronounce us officially an 'item.' And if you squeeze me any harder you'll crack a rib."

She holds on to me and I know this is the real Breen holding on. The tests, the forcing me to take action and work for our relationship, were all defensive measures. I was not sure how far 'item' implied the relationship would go. But, I was sure about Breen needing to feel secure in the knowledge that I was safe ground upon which to build a relationship. I also knew that I had to have answers to many of the same questions about her. Regardless of how my heart cried out, I was not going to be blinded by love.

Once I had thought I could never live without her. Then I learned I could. Now? To maintain objectivity I had to fight pure desire. Even if Breen's actions were not meant to be seducing in the entrapment sense of the word, her very presence was seducing. Years ago when we had first met she was a desire I could not touch. Then she became the euphoria of my life. I tasted her presence like an addict. Followed by the withdrawal pains of separation. Later when love turned against me, as I questioned my divorce, her memory was the drug to whether the bad times. But what of today? I did not want to be the love sick fool, nor did I want to lose this second chance I was being offered.

"Dave...referring to you from now on, unless I have to mention the other Dave, will you tell me about all of the women you have known?"

"Probably not, but maybe one or two just to keep you honest. Ouch, my ribs!"

—////—

### Chapter Eight

So Breen asks if there was someone special in my life; a woman I was seeing on a regular basis, or something more serious than that. I needed to give some thought to my answer. I could tell her the short answer was no. Alright, I guess I should tell her the long answer, which also equals no, but provides the details I am sure Breen would find some humor in. The day following our coming to terms with 'item' in the park, I became preoccupied thinking about how I would eventually tell Breen the pertinent facts, meaning the tale less the more explicit activity, while glossing over the inactivity.

After I got divorced I had decided to skip dating and go right to relationships; which seemed at the time to be a good plan. I reckoned that I was too old to 'date' and too young to worry about needing to rush into a long-term commitment. Also, I was too broke to afford to do much of anything, and dating is expensive. My goal was to enjoy life and hopefully find a woman that enjoyed the same things I enjoyed, and we would enjoy these activities together, thus enjoying being with each other.

Notice I used 'enjoy' more than once; enjoy was the operative word. Nevertheless, for some reason my coworkers and friends were so intent on ensuring my love life was on a steady course, they overlooked the word enjoy. Dating is not bliss enjoyment; it's looking, testing, impressing, and re-looking. Not that you cannot have fun on a date, it's just that dates are intended to be predictable events that normally fit a routine acceptable by both parties.

Donna summed it up, "You're scared to go out with a woman for the first time!" Maybe that was the problem. Never was good at dating before, why would I be any better now? The prospect of dating again was scary.

Thankfully, there was a Donna in my life who took pity on me and sort of ran interference as my coworkers and friends tried to introduce me to their female friends, family members, and even complete strangers who they met in their van pools and even on public transportation. I think the most interesting was the policewoman who, while writing a speeding ticket for a coworker, commented that her ex-husband drove the same type of car, just as fast. "Call her Dave, I'm sure this is her work number," pointing to the number printed on the ticket, "she's a doll, a real doll." "Thanks, but I'll pass."

Donna and I discussed dating over coffee and cheesecake one afternoon. We, or more correctly, Donna worked out the ground rules, "No blind dates; period. No dates with sisters."

"Do you mean Nuns? I didn't think they can date."

"Dave, this is why I ruled out sisters. I would not want you dating my sister."

"She available?"

"NO. Okay, back to the rules. No dates with any women who like NASCAR."

"Uh? Why is it you constantly find fault with my liking NASCAR; it's an American recreation!"

"I'm only looking out for your own good. You're prone to elope with the first woman who likes NASCAR...if you can find one."

"A lot of women like NASCAR!"

"Trust me on this one, if she likes NASCAR, Chevy Silverados, or eating mint chocolate chip ice cream straight out of a half-gallon container it's a nonstarter. And by the way, watching cars drive around in circles is not recreation. Maybe it is for the driver, but not you. The only physical exercise involved is lifting the TV remote and possibly carrying a beer into the den; unless you go to a race, and I went, remember. Recreation, using the term very loosely, was limited to jumping up every other lap to see who ran into whom."

By the time Donna had written down all the rules, I was not sure if any woman would be going out with me. "Oh, one last thing for the list, I get to pre-rate the prospects."

"Why, so you can date her first?"

"Don't be a dumb-ass this is for your own good."

"Obviously no woman is going to be good enough to make the cut."

Seriously, I did not want to become another 'eligible' divorcee. I had visions of just being who I was and everything would work itself out. Which meant maneuvering within a 'couples' world as a single person, and not feeling self-conscious being a 'party of one.' For the most part it worked because I had spent a good deal of time on the road, so 'party of one' was old hat. I started enjoying hobbies again and travel, and before I knew it I was meeting people who had the same interests; and people translated into women with the same interests.

Donna kept me focused on 'enjoyment.' Her words of wisdom came back to haunt her when she found herself available in the dating pool, and in no hurry to launch another commitment. Both of us learned there is apparently a lot of pressure on your friends when you are divorced. They have a guilt ridden psyche, "you're not getting any younger," "good soul mates are hard to find," "the competition is not in your favor," etc., etc., etc. Well-meaning comments from well-meaning friends. I, and now Donna, were out to prove them wrong.

This was not an instant success story. No, 'Party of one' was more often than not. The complete date list was a short one and that was fine with me. When someone at work would ask about my love life I would say, "I am in the fun stage of life right now and I'll let you know if I fall in love." For some, if you're not 'in love' you're not being successful at dating. I was rewarded for my ideals and steadfastness by meeting Karen.

I met Karen by chance. Donna said it was sheer luck to find a woman attracted to me and who had the courage to admit it in public without being bribed by a free dinner. It's 8:30 PM on a Friday and I am shopping for a gift that I need for the next afternoon. The shopping center keeps shrinking in size as the minutes left in the shopping day speed past. You are forcing yourself to pick out something because you NEED a gift. The closer the clock is to the magic closing time, the fewer the choices.

"Damn, blue or green?"

"Green," I look up and this woman is standing on the other side of the display watching me and apparently within ear shot of my talking to myself, "I'm not quite sure what shade 'damn blue' is," she laughs, "sorry."

"No, I should be the one who's sorry for the inappropriate comment."

"I still like the green one," she shakes her head yes for emphasis.

I am holding a vase; not one I really like, but a nice one, "it's not for me."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Easy guess. You have zipped through the department like it closes in a few minutes."

"Well it closes in a half hour, right?"

"No, the store closes at ten," she's amused.

"Guess I can slow down. You like the green one?"

"It's OK for Holly, but I would like the blue one," she really caught me off guard knowing who I was buying it for. "Of course I'm not partial to damn blue, maybe darn blue." If she had not started laughing I would have felt really stupid.

"How...the gift part I can see, but not the who?"

"I noticed you talking to Holly and saw the 'oh' on your face when you remembered her birthday party is tomorrow. Holly and I work together. Look, I'm Karen."

"Dave. You should know she would like the green, so I'll take your advice."

"Dave, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Not sure...we just met and I will probably answer it truthfully, and then probably regret it in the morning," I'm smiling.

"I have a feeling you and I were supposed to meet tomorrow afternoon at Holly's. Are you single by any chance?" reading my reaction, "Uppps, let me rephrase that. Although I'm not sure how to rephrase that...OK, I'm single and Holly has been after me to meet you. That thought did not occur to me until you told me your name. This is why I'm asking, to be blunt, are you Holly and Steve's neighbor?"

"Yes, it's me, single Dave," shaking my head in mock shame.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Since you answered mine I guess I'll let you."

"This vase idea does not pass your gift test, does it?"

"Not a very personal question, but, no."

"Any suggestions?"

"The wrought iron plant stool over there, she would love it."

"Thanks. Can I ask you another question?"

"Wait, one personal question per night. OK, since the first one was really shopping assistance, ask."

"Buying the gift is the only thing I need to do at this store, do you have time to stop for coffee next door before you go home?"

"Oh, a real personal question, which deserves a personal answer. Yes."

Karen is an industrial safety expert, works for the Federal Government, and has an office across the city from mine. She had been divorced for two years and had a daughter in college. If you are wondering why I have not provided a physical description of Karen, it's because she intrigued me beyond mere physical attraction. The fact she had beautiful, soft, straight, cinnamon brown, shoulder length hair that slid sensually through her fingers, a wonderful, radiant smile, bright eyes that rendered you helpless, and she knew how to dress her slender body in perfect style, not extravagance, made Karen a woman who was not easily overlooked. To say she intrigued me, was to say I was overwhelmed.

We sat at a corner table and never stopped to worry about the impromptu nature of our enjoying coffee together. Note I said enjoy. Karen, short for Katrina Elizabeth, never ceased to amaze me. She had style, and yet was so relaxed. The best way to describe her was the softness of an endlessly fresh watercolor, the paper still wet and vibrant with the brightness of freshly applied paint. "The reason I chose safety engineering was for self-preservation. I grew up with four brothers and spent too many years in school with boys like them, all dangerous when handling anything other than soft rounded objects that were too heavy to throw or carry up heights so as to drop them from."

"So...you're saying being a safety engineer is your gift to humanity?"

"You said that, not me."

Changing the subject in mid-stream, "Can I call you Katrina?"

She considers this and I was not sure if she was serious or gauging my reason, "Why?"

"It's a beautiful name and I like the sound when I say it."

"Interesting, you didn't reply to my question with a question as to why I wanted to know your motivation. I like that."

Silence...I wait a moment, then realizing she is waiting for me to reply to her comment, "I'll call you Katrina in private, Karen in public."

"You're taking a big leap of faith that I'll talk to you again...but, since you seem harmless..."

"You're the safety engineer."

"I deal with physical things Dave...why are you smiling...workplace physical...darn you have a way about you that makes me careful of what I am saying!"

"Good or bad?"

"Flirting, that's it, you flirt with your words and if it were not for your eyes you would get away with it!"

"I also smile, that counts too."

"It counts for a lot. I would not be sitting here with you if it weren't for your smile."

"So, was my leap of faith a safe one, pun intended?"

She makes believe that her coffee cup deserves more attention than I do as she asks, "Was that the real reason you want to call me Katrina, or was it a pick-up ice breaker?"

"You don't let just anyone call you Katrina, do you?"

"No."

"Then I withdraw my decision and defer to the lady seated across from me."

"Are you always this polite?"

"No, I falter like everyone else. And you?"

"I'm...why are you laughing?"

"Because you were probably going to tell me that you're perfect and I would have to point out that you just dropped a piece of cake on your lap." She looks at her lap, picks up the piece of cake, pops it in her mouth, and tries to gently brush away the remaining crumbs. Looking at me looking at her, "did you want that piece of cake?"

"I thought about it, but you munched it down too quickly."

"You need to be quick when you come from a large family."

"I'll keep that in mind Karen if I ever drop money. Well...taking another leap of faith..." she slides her chair back enough so she could comfortably cross her legs, nice legs, and with folded her arms across her chest and head slightly bent to one side, she gave me an 'OK, I waiting' look..."the average guy would think you're now contemplating running out the door, I don't. I have a lot of faith to support this leap. Will you show up at Holly's with me, as a date? And if you're thinking why, two reasons. One, this will let Holly off the hook of trying to find a way to allow us to be alone so I can ask you out."

"You mean the always awkward minute of 'let the two of them talk while we ease drop in the other room and congratulate ourselves for being successful matchmakers' minute. What's number two?" letting me know her defensive posture in the chair was not serious.

"I don't want to take the chance someone else will catch your attention at Holly's. Who knows how many eligible men she has invited."

"What if she has invited a zillion eligible women...stop smiling...for you!"

"That would be their problem. I will buy Holly a box of outstanding chocolate truffles for introducing you to me."

"You're implying, in so many words, that you want to monopolize my time tomorrow and send a signal to these other eligible men that I'm with you?"

"Yes. I'm asking you to go with me, even though you would still be going if I had not met you tonight, and, I hope, you would still go if you say no, jump up and leave this fine establishment before you get more cake on your dress."

"You are very sure of yourself, aren't you."

"No, quite the opposite, but..."

Cutting me off, "Okay, but on one condition."

"What?"

"You pick me up at eleven because I promised Holly I would be there early to help set up. Yes, I know you live across the street. I figure you'll have to be on your best behavior knowing you have to take me home, to my house, and the other women won't have a chance!"

Two things I knew right away that night: I liked Karen and like could easily turn into seriousness. Had I met Karen soon after becoming single again I doubt if I would have had the strength to resist desire. Karen did not want a relationship. She wanted to be desired as a woman, not the target of a suitor. I always enjoyed her company, so it was not just her looks that captivated me. That was the problem. Simply put, Karen was as if I wrote the role of leading lady for her; but for some reason I did not feel 'love.' Like I said, had I met Karen earlier she would have seen 'suitor' in my eyes and walked away without a second glance. I never brought the subject up, but she learned of its presence and so did I

We went through an accordion dating relationship; we saw each other frequently, then less frequently, then frequently again. On our second date Karen took me to an art gallery. It was an opening of a show, and they were having a reception for the artists. When we walked in everyone knew her and I quickly realized she was one of the artists whose work was being displayed. We were early and Karen took me over to the wall that her work was displayed on. She worked in acrylic on wood, and the layer of color was so thin it seemed to be more a photograph than a painting. From the front it appeared that the depth of the painting was by shading; even the crevasses seemed to be composed of contrasting light and dark colors and not the true etched valleys they were. You had to look from a right angle to see the texture of wood and paint.

We stood facing the wall, Karen soundlessly allowing me time to see the breadth of her work. When I had viewed the six pieces, "you seem to veer towards contrasts of blues, blacks, and silvers."

"This time. Other times I get lost in fall colors...amber, oranges, burnt orange if you remember your crayon colors. Why are you so quiet?"

"I was thinking about color association, your eyes...they're steel gray."

"And?"

"And these works reflect them. On the surface the works are non-threatening, but I know better. They reflect the mood you were in when you painted them. The same mood change when I asked if I could call you Katrina. Your eyes flashed with such intensity they left no room for negotiation."

She turned towards me "Do you still want to call me Katrina?"

Facing her, "Yes."

"Good, just don't make my eyes, what did you say, flash with intensity."

"I'll do my best, but I'm only human."

"That's why I'll let you call me Katrina."

"Why didn't you tell me about the art, the show?"

"To see your honest reaction."

"Kar...Katrina, you don't trust men do you?"

"No."

One day, even with the ground rules known, it had become too difficult for me not to think about her as a wife and it was those recurring thoughts, silent, but obviously apparent, that finally came between us. We stopped seeing each other on as friendly of terms as the day we met; that was two months before Breen became part of my life again.

Then there was Mandy. What can I say about Mandy? Wasn't there a song about Mandy? Well, this Mandy was everything I was not looking for; the perfect opposites attract scenario. Mandy was a completely different story from Karin, best described as a slide back down the dating curve. I wish I could blame the situation on someone, but I should have listened to Donna and let her screen my prospects. I was teaching an introduction to photography course at the local community center and Mandy was one of my students. She was too young for me, too material, and too expensive; _muy caro_! Billy said I should have met Mandy before I got divorced, or soon afterwards, so I would have at least acted like a normal divorced man is supposed to act. Billy described Mandy as the sports car of mid-life crises. Donna just rolled her eyes and asked me, "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!" I started dating Mandy during one of those valleys in my relationship with Karen. Thankfully, Karen and I resumed a closer relationship and I was able to refocus my life.

I have no idea why we went out that first time. Maybe I was sub-consciously compensating for not being with Karen, or maybe the 'scared single male syndrome' reared its ugly head. What I do know is that one day I just realized I was dating Mandy.

Donna cornered me one afternoon at the grocery store, "You have gone out with her now, for what, almost nightly three weeks! What the hell is wrong with you?" as she felt my head for a fever. "I think you told once me to slap you if you ever lost you mind, so be grateful we are in a public place!"

"I do have fun with her."

"Dave, fun is relevant. Spending money disproportionately to any return on equity is not fun."

"Do you have to put it in such dehumanizing terms?"

"You...or is it she being dehumanized here?"

Donna was right. What happened was very simply Mandy taking charge of the situation and I was going along for the ride. She relentlessly set the time, place and 'what for' of our dates. I'm not complaining about being with Mandy, it was just a situation that got out of control. Every time I approached the subject of ending the relationship, Mandy already had plans for another excursion through Dave's wallet. I was at a loss. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Mandy's feelings, but she was not receptive to a 'no' from me. But 'no' was what I needed to tell her.

So five weeks into this relationship we are having dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, and Mandy tells me the waitress keeps looking at me. "Which one?"

"Our waitress Dave. What are you blind?"

"No, just wanted to make sure," and I purposely said it in a way to leave doubt as to what I meant; not 'shoving it in your face,' but 'read between the lines.' Mandy looks at me to read my face and I just continue to eat as if the comment was just a comment; but she knows it was not just a comment.

"Are you interested in the waitress?"

Very polite, nice, "If I was I would keep it to myself. As long as I am with you, you have my full attention."

Again she reads between the lines and I could tell she was weighing 'as long as I am with you.' "Dave, are you saying that you would consider going out with her?" Definitely a 'with her' comment that bespoke of 'are you really comparing me to her.'

"Consider...I have to say no. However, I would consider going out with any women that I was attracted to."

"Are you seeing someone beside me?" a not so subtle accusation.

"Mandy, I never said you were the only woman I was dating."

The chill began to rapidly frost the air, the room became too small for her, and her eyes flashed goodbye. Mandy saved me from facing the hard task of being up front and saying 'stop, it's over.' The next day she called and said that she forgot about whatever and, well our shopping trip to a small community of antique dealers was a no go. And so was our relationship.

If I learned anything from the Mandy Affair, as Donna and Billy called it, I recognized both the vulnerability of single people, and that I had changed. The old me would have just walked away and never given Mandy a second thought. Even though I was lost for a way to end the relationship, I was not going to run away from it. I also recognized the final conversation between Mandy and me was not a very brave, up-front one on my part.

I also learned people can try to hide their true personalities, but the oddest things give them away. So it was with the Oreo Cookie Pretentiousness Test. I had once made a comment to Donna concerning the pretentiousness of Mandy; one of many such comments. Anyway, one day while Mandy and I were on our way to eat lunch at a trendy café she liked in the older section of the city, Mandy raved about the desserts the place offered. I asked if they had cheesecake, and Mandy replied "Cheesecake has become so...so passé Dave, no one who is anyone orders cheesecake." She might as well tell me the moon is no longer in the sky just for lovers.

"Mandy, how do you eat an Oreo cookie?"

"An Oreo cookie? You mean the ones with the white stuff?"

"That's the ones, how do you eat them? Do you pull the two sides apart and eat the cream filling first. Or do you just bite into the cookie. Or maybe pop the entire cookie in your mouth all at once?"

"That's sick!"

"What's sick?"

"Stuffing the whole cookie in your mouth."

"OK, so what technique do you use?"

"I don't eat Oreo cookies."

"Why not?"

"They're...so...so childish. Adults do not eat them."

"So you're telling me you never sit on your sofa in front of the TV and eat Oreo cookies?"

"No."

"Would you even consider sitting at your breakfast nook table with me and dunking a few Oreos in milk?"

"Dave, this conversation is pointless. I stopped eating those things when I was a kid and even then, I would never dunk a cookie in milk!"

This is the basis for the Oreo Cookie Pretentiousness Test. If he, or she, thinks dunking Oreo cookies is childish, or does not have the desire to twist the two sides apart and saver the cream filling like it was gold, be forewarned! As for Mandy, I understood her problem, dunking cookies might endanger her jewelry, and definitely her nails.

To set your mind at ease, Mandy started seeing a recently divorced doctor who needed an expensive woman to be seen with in his new Z4 BMW.

In answer to Breen's question about telling her about the women in my life, I doubt I would mention Mandy in more than a passing comment, 'embarrassment.' Karen was a different situation, I had been dangerously attracted to her. And even if she did not admit it, she was strongly attracted to me. Otherwise she would not have voluntarily reestablished closeness in the relationship, or even the relationship itself. No, I would tell Breen about Karen, but I would not purposely introduce them to each other should we all happen to meet somewhere. Donna asked if this was because I doubted the strength of my relationship with Breen and I said no, it was too early, I did not want to give Breen the impression I was comparing them or trying to add a little jealousy to our relationship. "Dave, you analyze things way too much."

Now I was seeing Breen and we were an 'item.' She was monopolizing my time because I wanted it that way; it was a consensual monopoly. As an 'item' I now felt comfortable buying her gifts just to buy them for her. I had no problem letting Breen plan a day, nor did she have a problem with me doing the same. We had still not joined each other's respective circle of friends, but this did not bother us because we had a lot of history to overcome as we first rejoined each other's lives. Of course we each spoke about the other to our friends; yet we both knew talking about someone is not the same as seeing them, and not seeing them can lead to questions in our friend's minds as to the strength of the relationship. The fact we maintained contact with our friends was good. The last thing we wanted to do was get so wrapped up in being with each other that we would forget the other people in our lives.

Donna thankfully was getting wrapped up in Fred and, unthankfully, with problems associated with a case against a local land developer; which was also attracting a lot of newspaper and TV interest. So the effect of our not seeing each other as often as we did before Breen appeared was not as pronounced. Nevertheless, Donna and I would still hold telephone and bookstore/coffee shop self-analysis therapy sessions.

—////—

### Chapter Nine

With my weekends becoming occupied by my new status of item I decided to take Wednesday off to visit my mom. I drove the 115 miles to my Mom's, deep in thought. Lots of thoughts, as thoughts go. Thoughts seemed to be the one commodity I was currently abundant in. Good thoughts, questionable thoughts, mildly pessimistic thoughts, and checking the age lines in the rearview mirror thoughts. Yes, unlike Donna, I knew I was getting older. But, men relate to age differently than women. Age is relevant; old is ten years older than your present age. When I was fourteen I spent a few days in the hospital; two days in love with an 'older' woman. Years later I realized the woman was a twenty-two year old, fresh out of nursing school youngster. But to a fourteen year old she was a woman of infinite worldliness and 'adulthood.'

At twenty-six I was 'accosted' by a forty-six year old woman, whose dog ate my shoe because I closed the bedroom door on the mutt. The fact the dog ate my shoe is not important. Nor is the tidbit that on that particular day the mutt scared the 'you know what' out of me by pressing its cold nose against the bottom of my foot which was hanging off the bed.

Ann thought the 'nose jolt' was funny and could not understand why I was upset with her Barf; the dog's name. "At least Barf didn't smooch your ass, Dave!"

"At least Barf did not lose its nose...Ann!"

So with door closed, Barf ate my shoe.

What does this have to do with the age is relevant law? From the male perspective, the fact Ann was twenty years older than I was did not raise an eyebrow. None of the guys at the Pub seemed to care if I was 'too young' for her. But heaven forbid if a forty-six year old man would hit on a twenty-six year old female; for the twenty year difference would cause the place to describe the female as a 'girl.' The other side of the age law is simply put, at fifty a man would think twice about a woman ten years, let alone twenty years, older than he.

Why was I remembering all this? Because there was a part of me that wanted to tell Breen things of my past, things that I never told my ex-wife. Not necessarily the Barfing Story, as Donna refers to it, but the parts of my personality that I only hinted at by keeping stories to myself.

My Mom lives in an assisted living facility and has memory loss. Donna lovingly says my checkered past is the cause. Today's situation is plastic plants. I buy my Mom fresh cut flowers as often as I can, and I tend to them when I visit; cut the stems and re-water. To the detriment of the plants my Mom, like her neighbors, keeps the room thermostat set at scalding. The plants have to fight to maintain moisture. Also, my Mom says she waters the plants, but I can not seem to find the thimble she uses to do this. So, wanting to keep some color in the room I had a choice, either use a bucket for a vase, or buy fake, realistic looking plants (supplemented by fresh flowers). Fake won.

I walk into Mom's room and immediately notice water on the carpet. My first reaction was Mom had been running the air conditioner and the water was from condensation. That thought lasted a millisecond because the room was at least 134 degrees (and the residents always have a sweater or jacket handy in case the temp suddenly droops below sun surface temperature). Mom tells me in a proud voice, "I have not forgotten to water the plants. I did what you said and used the glass. Don't they look great?"

"Outstanding Mom, glad you remembered."

"Dave, something is leaking by the window, because there seems to be water on the carpet every afternoon."

"You know Mom, I think these flowers have been trimmed enough and they will probably be trash can material by tomorrow. So let me get rid of them now and I'll get new ones when I come back."

"But they don't look dead?"

"That's because you did a good job watering them. But it's the stems that are no longer good, even though the petals look fine."

On my way out of the building, one of the staff congratulates me on the fake flower idea; obviously Nancy had not seen the fountain on Mom's windowsill.

As I make the long drive home the words 'Nancy' and 'fountain' trigger more thoughts relating to the Pub.

Years ago, many years ago, I had said that if I ever got married I would have a bluegrass band and a tequila sunrise fountain for the guests to fill their cups from. My eventual wedding was nothing like that, church and a small reception; tequila sun-risers had become passé anyway.

For my friend Riche's Nancy it was money, lots of money. Her dad's money, her granddad's money, and no doubt more money via a collection plate passed amongst the uncles that worked at the family business. Lavish, yes. And even though he had to wait four and a half years, Gaven had no complaints about the food, the bar, nor the tacky gifts that Nancy picked out for the ushers. Well at least the gifts were not as tacky as the bridesmaids' dresses. Who thinks up that puffy shoulders stuff of lavender, pink, and off the chart yellows women pick out for their so-called friends?

Pleasantly, senses-dulled by alcohol, we ushers had gathered by the open bar congratulating ourselves that we had made it to the wedding after one hell of a bachelor party. I had kept my promise with Nancy, on penalty of death mind you, by bringing Rich to the church on time and in one piece. No one said that Rich would arrive sober. The ceremony was beautiful. Rich kissed Nancy and all seemed at peace. However, the reception would be strange.

It started with the toast by Nancy's brother who was pissed that he was not invited to the party, "May Nancy find joy and Rich find happiness in their marriage and may the other women weep of their children's loss."

"What the hell kind of toast was that?" says Daddy.

Nancy's bridesmaids found it amusing, but not Daddy by the look on his face as he stood up.

In situations such as this silence is not the answer, so I did the best thing I could do on short notice, I tipped over a small table on which was a large stack of champagne glasses. The resounding crash distracted the guests and rewarded me with my new best friend, Donna, Nancy's third or fourth cousin from New York; who was at the affair simply because their uncle was too old to drive.

Laughter filled the hall, the music flowed again, the food and drinks became like rain to thirsting flowers, and Donna gave me her phone number. Nancy and Rich danced their first dance. Daddy danced with his princess. While Gaven grabbed mom, literally, and received a resounding slap across the face.

That said, the best part of the evening was being with Donna. She had a way of taking the opposite view no matter what I said and yet still made me want to talk to her. Donna never visited the Pub on Trinity Street, never spent any time with Rich and Nancy, Gaven, the others, and we did not talk about this part of my history until much later.

After years of having experienced weddings from both sides of the aisle, and even from the front, I am still amazed at the process of weddings. Donna and I both had weddings that were low-key affairs. Oddly, in respect to our closeness, we really did not get to know the others eventual spouse prior to getting married. To this day I feel bad that I missed the boat on her husband Cal. However, if Donna's wedding was sedate, the separation moment from Cal was _primera clase_.

It was a windswept, damp March afternoon. Mere moments after a large tandem semi had started to pull out - and with just enough of the damp, fogged diner window clear enough for Cal to see into the world outside - Donna's blue BMW did a sharp right from the highway into the parking lot. She braked hard to avoid the semi, the tires squealed like a siren, grabbing the attention of everyone in the diner, too include Cal's girlfriend. Outside, Donna had gunned the BMW, wheels spun for grip, then come to sudden rest in a parking slot. Cal's girlfriend had looked up at the sound of the hard breaking, saw a new BMW and started to frame 'that's what I want Cal' in her mind. But Cal's reaction exiled her dream from the realm of possibilities. Cal was in shock, his mouth working the words that silently shattered the moment as his girlfriend read Cal's lips reflected in the diner's window, his lips saying "my wife!" And, they both instantly knew there was no place in the world to hide.

Cal never regained his composure, only slack jaw dismay as he watched Donna get out of her car and head towards his. Cal watched as Donna removed a fob from her coat pocket, watched the lights of his car signal the doors were being unlocked, watched as Donna took a large plastic bag, open it and dump the contents on his front seat, passenger seat, and on the floor; and then watched as she flicked the empty bag into the car as if the cream leather seated, bright yellow Porsche was nothing more than just another garbage receptacle. No one needed to tell Cal what was in the bag. Donna had forewarned him, "you shit on me Cal and I find out, you'll be swimming in shit!"

"Cal honey, call the police..."

"SHUT UP!"

"Good idea." Cal turned to look behind him; I was standing there with a cell phone in one hand and folded papers in the other. "But you should be more respectful to the lady."

"Cal..."

"Not NOW," looking at me and trying to gage what to do.

"If you're wondering Cal...We called her," holding the cell phone slightly higher, "she was waiting about a half mile up the road...and if you're wondering Cal, you're served," tossing folded papers on the table.

Cal said nothing, just stared at the papers.

"Cal, what's that?"

"Geeze, will you shut the F'up!"

"Cute Cal, you have such a way with words. Oh, and don't bother going back for your clothes and nick-knacks...the items have already been moved to Jill here's apartment. Anyway you get the picture."

Cal's girlfriend was scared and Cal, he was dumbfounded, mad, and still looking at the papers, not me. "Jill, I know we have never been properly introduced, but I want you to know your apartment door was relocked so no one will steal Cal's CD collection."

Jill was now petrified.

I smiled and turned back to Cal, "If you're thinking of going back to make sure the guys did not forgot anything, here," tossing another folded paper on the table, "it says something about not being within five hundred feet of Donna, her residence, her office, and, between the lines, her life!"

"Cal, call the police!"

"Will you for the last time, shut up! Those two standing at the counter, are the police!"

Donna divorced Cal and moved on with her life. I, sarcastically, told her the dog poop routine was real classy, but the cool as ice determination she exhibited as she trashed Cal's car was really primo. The local police loved the squealing tires, even if she almost hit the semi.

As for Donna, she knew the stunt was immature, but she felt good. "You owe me one Dave for cleaning-up Dog's yard work." Dog and his neighborhood buddies received special boxes of treats from Donna.

Cal? He moved to Ohio to sell insurance to farmers, and Donna did not have to be reminded of her mistake by seeing him around town.

Jill? She recovered, installed a deadbolt; but we're not sure about her motivation in life. Jill dated a doctor who eventually dropped her when she was named in the papers his wife filed. After his divorce, the doctor moved on to Mandy, who thankfully liked his new Z4 BMW better than the possibility of sharing me with a waitress. 'Small world, in slumberville,' as Donna so eloquently likes to refer to the stories that germinate in our bedroom community.

I never liked Cal enough to become friends with him; I tolerated Donna's husband is the best way sum up our mutual dealings. Cal was just not the type of guy I could be friends with. I remember two occasions that best described the view I had of Cal. One day Cal and I were shopping, and Cal wanted to look at watches. The jewelry store we stopped in had a nice selection of reconditioned high-end watches and the salesman offered to show the watches to Cal. Now Cal acts offended and berates the salesman for thinking that he, Cal, was too poor to buy a new watch. I am talking 'loud, obnoxious, embarrassing rude.' I walked out and waited for him out of sight of the people in the store. A few minutes later Cal comes out and tells me that the salesman had some nerve to suggest that a second-hand watch was a good buy, "No way, why should I buy someone else's bad f'ing luck."

"Cal, I believe that phrase deals with used cars, not reconditioned watches."

"I'm not talking about the shit thing running; I mean luck, as in good and bad f''ing luck!"

Cal was hot, and when Cal was hot, the "F'en" word flew; my mind is doing calculations of how many times will Cal creatively use the word before we get back in the car and out of public earshot. He tells me – placing a form of the word in front of every other word – about a man where he works who went to a jeweler and the salesman talked him into buying a used watch. The previous customer's wife had returned the watch – minus a small fee \- to the jeweler because the husband had died the first day he wore it. Cal felt an educated man like his co-worker would be able to read the tea leaves. But no, Cal says the fool buys the watch and wears it to work two days later. "The asshole shows off the shit watch and, you know f'er-ing what?"

"He died?"

"Damn f-it-to-ya right. He dropped dead on the way home; two f-it-to-ya days after he started wearing it."

"Cal, I wonder if the next owner died in three days; the jeweler is on to something."

Cal did not laugh, the man was serious; he was serious about the story.

Using the F word so readily in public was Cal's way of being macho. At least Cal knew to keep the language un-peppered when he was around Linda; because Linda complained enough about me using the word to express exasperation with lost items and to denote situations that were steps above 'ooops' and 'oh shit.'

When you think about it, Cal did not like me either. It was shortly after Cal married Donna that he asked me to do him a favor and I refused. Well, I more than refused. Cal wanted to join the Wednesday night poker game; a really low stakes neighborhood get-together and the guys are always receptive of new players.

The first night Cal losses about $20 and he asks me not to tell Donna; like I am going to keep tabs on him. At the next game Cal loses about $30, and again asks me not to tell Donna. Week three it's $40 and the same don't tell Donna request; but this time he also wants to barrow some money so Donna won't know he's broke.

"At this rate Cal you should be down $1,350 by summer recess."

Cal was not pleased, "Just don't tell Donna, right? You going to lend me some money so she doesn't know I lost my shirt?"

"No, but I have an old shirt in the trunk of the car you can have."

Cal does not like me.

While I knew Cal was a jerk, I had missed reading Cal the cheat; not sure why. A psychologist friend said a 'Cal' is hard to spot by acquaintances. It is only over time his true colors manifest themselves, and by the time an acquaintance reads them, it's too late. Donna at least had the courage to seek professional help in dealing with their marriage problems and seek legal recourse the moment Cal crossed over the line. Thankfully Cal was not physically abusive; but nevertheless egotistical, unloving, and, eventually, cheating mental abusive.

—////—

### Chapter Ten

Like most mornings on the way to the office I stopped at one of the coffee shops in the building complex. I am balancing one-handed the large take-out coffee cup on the narrow ledge in front of the glass food case with the container of Half & Half as I pour the creamer. This is not a good idea; as I demonstrated to the other patrons when I proceeded to liberally soak my right trouser leg, shoe and floor with coffee. At least I caught the coffee cup before it hit the floor. 'SAVE THE CUP!' my brain screamed as the contents streamed out; like keeping the cup from hitting the floor was important. OK, now I am standing there, three people staring at the mess, but I have the cup; the cup did not hit the floor.

I pour another cup of coffee, pay, apologize for the puddle of brown - that now has taken on the size and shape of Lake Michigan - and head for the office. The elevator arrives - mindlessly I get on – only to descend to the parking garage. Then, with the elevator making its ascent, I forget to press my floor and miss it; I have to go up twelve extra floors before I can descend again. In the men's room I use paper towels to clean my shoe; the trouser leg has already absorbed the coffee. To add insult to injury, when I push down on the soap dispenser to wash my hands, I forget it 'spurts erratic' and my tie takes the hit. Yes, the day was off to an entertaining start; just who was being entertained.

I call Billy to say 'long time no hear and guess what I have been doing;' but Billy is not in. So I leave a voice mail, "you missed the news, 'Miss Wonderful' is back in my life and yes, Breen is still disgusted with my choice of friends from the old days...but out of compassion for me she says hello."

Breen actually liked Billy and my close friends, who did not number anyone from the Pub. Of course she had no idea that Billy refereed to her as Miss Wonderful.

I call Donna. "Dave, so magnificent to hear your voice, you elope yet?"

"No, but some woman called and asked if I would vouch for your integrity; seems her little boy has gone gaga over some woman who claims to be a State's Attorney."

"Like I would tell Fredrick's mom about you...there may still be an outstanding warrant with your name on it. What's up?"

"I just had one of those mornings I want to share with someone and everyone around here is morninged out, and since I do not want to scare Breen away by exposing my sarcastic side..."

"You mean the pointless stories and odd ideas?"

"Yeah, Regular Show cartoons, dissertations on sarcasm being lost on adults, and all the other things you possibly like about me."

"Glad you said possibly and, as much as I like you Dave, I pity this woman who knows not what she is getting into."

"Nice. I did call you for something, but now I am not sure if I want to tell you." Knowing that would get to her.

"Dave, from the sound of your voice I sense something has happened for the better, tell me!"

And I tell her about being an 'item.'

The following Saturday started out as what was now an average 'item-day.' Breen and I had no special plans, just breakfast at the International House of Pancakes; strawberry pancakes.

"Tell me about Donna."

"I thought we did that?"

"No, you said she was a friend, your alter ego, but how did you meet her?"

"At a wedding after which we...went our separate ways. Donna was an out-of-town, distant cousin of the bride, Nancy, who married Rich."

"Did I meet them?"

"No. Rich lived in an apartment near me, but they moved into a house after they got engaged. And remember you were only in town for a few days."

"You didn't want to tell me about them, did you?"

"No. Anyway, I met Donna at the wedding. She was there only because one of Nancy's older uncles from New York could not drive. She and Nancy really did not know each other; you know, visits to family when little kids, but no contact after a while. Something about Donna clicked. We knew we would be friends, nothing more. Not much to the story, we had intermittent letter and phone contact, 'how are you doing,' 'how's the weather in New York.' But, about a year or so later I had to go to New York. I called her and we had dinner, went to a show. She was so different to be around. She disagreed with everything I said, and I her; but we liked it. It was after she graduated from law school and she took a job down here, and we have been good friends ever since."

"When will I meet her?"

"I guess we have been moving so fast I just haven't done it; she's been asking the same question for weeks."

"Let's see her today, call her."

"BRE-EN it's seven-thirty in the morning."

"Why are you hesitating, DA-VIID?"

So I take out the cell phone and call Donna, "Guess who, no not him, in your dreams, I'm at I-HOP...yes strawberry pancakes, Donna, will you let me finish..."

"Give me the phone, men. Hi Donna this is Breen, would you like some company? Sure and he'll bring you some chocolate chip pancakes. Hold on a sec. How long will it take to get there?"

"About fifteen minutes, but the pancakes could take twenty."

"No problem, say 45 minutes. See ya," handing me the phone, "so how hard was that. Finish your breakfast Romeo; she said she'll have the coffee ready when we arrive."

When I finished my pancakes, and doubting Breen would let me have any of hers, "So what do you want to do while we wait for the takeout?"

"I'm finishing my pancakes, Mr. Stuff Mouth."

"You eat like a woman, I eat like a man."

"You eat like there is a fire and you are afraid the food will burn up!"

"And you..."

"What, can't think fast this early in the morning?"

"I was being nice asking what you would like to do while we waited."

"Ok, draw a picture for me while I eat."

"You want me to ask the waitress for one of their kid packs of crayons and pictures?"

"Dave, be creative, use the left over whipped cream on your plate," and giving me that sly grin of hers, "better then licking the plate clean in public."

I use the whipped cream to draw a happy face, "there!"

"What is it?"

"Are you being funny? It's a happy face. And a damn good one if you ask me."

"Dave I asked you, because I had no idea what it was. No, wait...it looks more like a pre-Columbian sex god."

"I suppose you can do better?"

"Here," adding more whipped cream to my plate, "I'll show you."

I start to put the fork down, but Breen takes my hand and guides it, first to flatten the whipped cream, then guides the fork in my hand to form an object on the plate.

Now it was my turn to ask, "what is that?"

"It's a dog!"

"It's a blob, and I saw the movie; that's the Blob!" in mock terror.

"Dave," leaning over and lightly caressing my neck with her right hand, she whispers in my ear, "Picasso honey, this is a blob." Breen uses her left hand to scoop up two fingers full of whipped cream from her plate and smears the glob on the back of my right hand that was still holding the fork.

She kisses my cheek and sits back in her chair - quickly cleans her fingers off with her lips – and while looking at me with her sassy grin, she waits for me to say something. It's too late to volunteer to lick the whipped cream from her fingers, so I start to offer her my hand, but unfortunately the waitress materializes, "(If you two are finished playing with your food,) your take out."

As we walk to the car Breen informs me that she gets the point for creativity in the category of whipped cream drawing. I suggested we practice later that night. To which Breen responds, "You tried the Ready Whip routine Dave, remember. As I recall, you shot yourself in the foot, literally." Breen makes a second imaginary chalk mark as she gets into the car.

Donna and Breen hit it off right away. As soon as a cup of coffee and the newspaper were placed in my hands, I was banished to the living room while the two females held court in the kitchen. It was not the moments of hushed silence, but the bouts of loud laughter that were scary.

I tried not to listen, but eventually I heard Donna say, "There are some things I don't have the foggiest idea about. Even with our closeness, we have our private lives. It's not as if we keep secrets from each other, it's...like just after his divorce was final he disappeared for a week. I still have no idea where he went. Just knew he needed to be alone, to clear his head," playfully, "if Dave could ever clear the junk from his head."

Breen laughed, "He does have a lot of excess ideas roaming around in there."

"I knew he had been thinking about going on a cruise to escape everyone for a few days, and he also had said something about going to Switzerland to do something with black swans."

"Swans?"

"Yeah, swans."

Donna had replied in an amused voice that Breen instantly picked up on, "I hope it wasn't for sex!"

This time the laughter emanating from the kitchen was really loud.

Their chatter continued and I had just about fallen asleep when I heard my name being called. Did you ever have to sit outside the principal's office while the old geezer explained to your parents why you should be in military school and not in a public educational facility; then you're summoned into the office. The office of Breen, "Dave, how come you never mentioned the uncle who never made it back from the bachelor party and sixty-five dollars' worth of champagne glasses that bit the dust?"

"Great Donna, leave anything out...don't answer."

"Look Dave, it's your own fault," Donna looking so coy.

All I could say was, "Well apparently the two of you have something in common, sarcasm at my expense."

They high-fived.

Then Breen announced that she and Donna were going shopping and I had the day to myself until four, when I was to meet them for dinner and, of course, pay the check. The only thing I could do was accept the change of plans with my best impersonation of a sad hound dog, then once out of their line of sight I almost high-five myself, because I had secretly wanted to go new truck shopping.

We met at Hagger's, a Chinese place. I had asked the manager why the name and he told me it was the name of the former restaurant and the owner thought why change the name since everyone referrers to the place as Hagger's. Made sense at the time.

Over dinner Breen and Donna continued their discussion of my past and my 'personality quirk' as Donna likes to refer to my failure to see the humor in her witticisms at my expense. Donna told Breen about the time I did this, and the time I did that; Donna was full of 'Dave times.' Breen had her own stories of Dave. But I really cannot complain, they acted like old friends and from the 'oh my gosh' 'no way' looks I would get from time to time, I'd say I was a lucky guy.

My luck seemed to be holding as I drove Breen back to her apartment, she spoke of Donna as a good thing for me, and I sensed that Breen would never feel threatened by Donna's presence. That's important in a relationship; you have to feel comfortable and non-threatened around your partner's friends. As I pulled into the parking lot my last thought suddenly jumped out and grabbed my attention, 'partner.' I had used the term partner, as in couple, which is way past 'item'. At least I had not said it out loud.

"It's early, you want to come up and watch TV for a while?" The invitation was simply that and left no room for reading between the lines.

So we settled in on the couch; me at one end and Breen at the other. Absurd yes, prudent yes, I thought so. The thought of 'partner' was still fresh in my mind, and so were more descriptive things that go along with partner...frustration. Breen's closeness, the kisses, the hugs, the wonderful feel of her hair against my cheek, the softness of her voice, a thousand little things that draws a man to a woman, both the mental and physical, the seen and the felt, what makes you hunger to kiss the nape of her neck, to trace your fingers across the soft skin of her stomach, all these thoughts were wrapped up in a single word, partner.

Breen looks over at me, "Any reason you are sitting almost in the other room?"

"No."

"Get your bod over here Dave, or do something nonchalant like slapping your hand on the cushion next to you and say 'yo, Breen, like ya wanna scoot over a little!'"

"Excuse me?"

"You're not going to be excused, either you want me next to you or you don't. I'll let you know if you're pressing you're luck."

"Why is it you can smile and melt my brain cells?"

"Practice in front of a mirror. I practice every morning and maybe once or twice a week at night."

"Yo, Breen...forget it, Breen slide your cute little ass over here!"

"I said don't press your luck; but do you think my rear looks good in these jeans?"

"This is going to be trying isn't it?"

Sliding over, so she's now practically on my lap, "Yep."

Trying was an understatement. My goal of our becoming best friends first, then best lovers was trying. How much longer could her presence be kept at bay?

We watched TV and made small talk. Breen seemed content to lean against me, my arm around her shoulders, OK in this situation, and her right hand was at the ready should I try to get frisky, the term she used to warn me off as if reading my mind.

She snuggled for a while then, softly, "Donna told me about Mandy...and...sex...Dave, did you miss me...do you remember...that way?" Which was probably the most personal about herself question Breen had asked me since we had reunited.

"Yes, I missed you that way. Regardless of what we think about the whole story of Dave and Breen, I missed you. I still miss you. I cannot forget you and don't ever want to."

"I know; I just needed to ask. I'm sorry that I'm not ready for that."

"Please don't be sorry."

"Dave, you...just hold me."

We watched TV. Me holding her and she fell asleep in my arms. I hated to wake her when it was time to head home.

Nothing physical took place between us. I am not complaining, because a lot transpired mentally. This was not a case of overcoming frustration from abstinence, or trying to win an award for self-control. Her tenderness got to me. I guess the years of desire had, surprisingly, given me the ability to hear with my heart after all. The bottom line is I had the opportunity to destroy everything good that had transpired between us since we had met in one moment of 'dream come true.' Had Breen not opened her heart to me, the night would have no doubt ended far differently. So, it's morning and I am looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I like what I see; I felt the mirror may finally be talking to me, and it was telling me I had done the right thing.

When I arrived home from church I found a voice mail message left by Breen an hour before, knowing I would not be there to answer her call, "I liked sleeping in your arms...I felt safe." The mirror does talk after all. Later we spoke on the phone, but the subject of sleeping in my arms was not voluntarily raised by Breen, and I left it at that. Breen wanted us to visit one of her friends after work the next day, so plans were made.

When I picked Breen up she was in a great mood. Still dressed from work, her choice of clothes spoke of Chanel. Breen is Chanel, timeless, quiet elegance. I saw Chanel in Breen the very first moment. When Donna met Breen she remarked, "Breen wears style with subtleness; she brings softness, class." Donna also has class, but as she describes it, "I wear style classy." Bull, Donna could wear a hospital gown and make it look stylish. As for me, Breen had looked at my life - t-shirts and jeans, fad shirts and fad pants – and could not understand the contradiction: he appreciates Chanel and dresses like a slob. It now seems funny, as I was wearing a well cut suit when I picked her up. But it was not the business suit that she commented on the day we met in the coffee shop where I work; of course the suit was soaked from having just experienced a storm first hand. No, it was my watch. When we had finally realized how long we had sat at the table talking, I looked at my watch, and Breen noticed I was wearing a Tiffany Mark mechanical; yellow gold, brown leather band. She smiled. I asked her if she liked it. "Yes it speaks a thousand words quietly." Just like Breen.

Answering my question about who her friend was, "She is an accountant and works on the same floor. I've known her since I moved here and we have gotten along great. Dave, I don't have many close friends. To be honest, I envy you and Donna. I...I don't know why I have always found it hard to...it's not that. Sorry, I babbled didn't I?"

I smiled and shook my head from side to side, "It's nice to have you 'babble.' You're happy to introduce me to Ve aren't you?"

"Yeah. You'll like her. We belong to a small circle of girlfriends and it's nice.

So I get to meet Ve. She turns out to be a few years younger than Breen, very attractive. I did not want to admit it, but I got the impression that maybe Breen had something in mind picking Ve as the first friend she planned to introduce me to. Years of practice being skeptical. Ve was pleasant, nice, and seemed glad to meet me; but there was still a slight air of protectionist when she took stock of me.

"Breen said that you have traveled a lot."

"Europe mostly, thanks to work, military. You travel much?"

"Went to Mexico once, if that counts. Foreign travel that is. I've spent a good deal of time seeing the sights in the U.S."

"Nothing wrong with that."

Small talk. Elicitation talk. Size him up talk. She told me a wonderful story of how she, Breen, and their friend Kate had gone to Annapolis, Maryland and got lost looking for the Rams Head Tavern. Breen jumped in, "Well, no one said that Main Street becomes West Street, Ve!"

"She was driving us around for twenty minutes looking for West Street."

"Did she ever find the Rams Head?"

"Thankfully in time for the show."

Breen responded, "Okay, how about I tell Dave about you almost missing the boat in Mexico."

Breen, Ve, and two other women took a cruse to Mexico, and after a day's shopping they dragged themselves back to the boat and collapsed on the beds. But Ve decided to go back to a shop a few blocks from the boat, got so distracted that she forgot what time it was. If it were not for the boat whistle, she would have missed the sailing. "We probably would not have missed her because she spent most of her time at the buffets."

"Breen, I'm not the one who ate nothing but desserts for six days!"

"They were good, really good!"

Ah, spoken like a true woman of my dreams.

By ten my capacity for small talk had run its course. All in all I felt I had done great...I had met Ve, I was personable, likable, well mannered, I did not drop or spill anything, and I even refrained from telling them the story of the two Mexican prostitutes who would not leave me and a buddy alone. We say goodnight, and Breen takes my arm and gives me a couple of little bumps with her hip to let me know she was pleased with the evening.

"Do you think Ve approved of me?"

"Yes. She was skeptical at first when I told her about you. But you did alright tonight and she likes you."

"How much? She is a nice looking woman."

"Don't press your luck!"

At least we have a motto for our relationship. With that, Breen takes a CD out of her bag and pops it in the changer. It's Diana Krall and I could not help but look over at Breen, "A little romantic for being alone, late at night in a car with me?"

"Oh contraire, I thought you needed something classier than Country for the ride back, and I meant it to be romantic." She grins that sassy grin that she would never do in front of others.

At her apartment I park the car and walk her to the door. Expecting nothing more than a kiss good night in the doorway of her apartment, I was surprised when Breen placed herself between me and the door and pushed the door closed with her foot. "Can you stay a few minutes?"

Looking at the closed door, "Guess escape is not an option?"

She laughed and pushed me towards the sofa, "Sit!"

Making as if I was looking for someone else, and taping my finger against my chest for emphasis, "Me?"

"That's right, you, sit on the couch."

Okay, where is this leading to? I am now seated on the 'couch' and Breen has gone into the kitchen. "Close your eyes!"

"I'm not sure it's safe to close my eyes in a strange apartment."

"Don't be an idiot Dave, real scary is, and I know from experience, seeing you naked with the lights on."

"Oh." So I close my eyes and wait.

I hear Breen come back in and she tells me to open my eyes. Breen is holding a birthday cake with one lit candle. "Happy birthday!"

"It's not my birthday?"

"I know. This is for a bet we made a long time ago."

Suddenly the whole thing came clear in my mind. We had a bet and if she lost she would bake me a cake for my birthday. But that was before...Breen cuts off the thought. She places the cake on the end table and sits down next to me.

Breen reaches out for my hand, "Dave, I know this may seem silly, but it's important to me to do this for you."

"I love the cake, the idea, and you."

"Oooops I forgot to bring a knife, forks and plates. No problem." Breen lifts the cake and uses her fingers to scoop out a piece, which she offers to my lips. I let her feed it to me and she let me lick the icing off her fingers. Breen put her arms around my neck and kissed me; a long, sweet kiss. She hesitated ending the kiss, "Will you hold me a while?"

And we sat there, Breen nestled in my arms, like the last time.

Also like last time, I had to break the spell, "Time to go," and it was hard to believe we had sat there for so long.

The next day Breen called about eleven, asking about my lunch plans, "Don't have any, you buying?"

"Okay, but on one condition, you have to go wherever I want."

"No problem as long as I can be back in an hour."

"Deal."

"Were we going?"

"Meet me at the Starbucks at 11:30."

"Breen, there's a Starbucks on just about every corner and one in almost every large store."

"Right, the one on Seventh, next to the State Credit Union; eleven thirty, so get moving!"

Thankfully I can get away quickly today. Two emails later I am heading out the door for the short walk to Seventh and Lake Avenue.

She is standing by the Starbucks window and looking so damn nice. "Hey you," she greets me, arms around my waist, quick kiss hello, "hungry?"

"I could survive on your kisses alone."

"Interesting thought, but not very nourishing. We're going across the street," gesturing with her head and letting go of my waist, "hope you like quiche."

"Quiche?"

"Yep; Donna told me about your food prejudices."

"Is this a test?"

"That's right, but don't worry we're going to have a neutral quiche, nothing exotic."

"You'll have to order because I have a problem pronouncing the word."

"You're so cute," reaching up and grabbing my cheek for a twist.

We ate quiche; OK the quiche was not bad, but I would never let Breen know, nor Donna; cannot afford to lose the image.

This is how the week went. She would call during the day, or me her; the same each night. We would meet for lunch and by Friday it was obvious our lunches would now be together unless a hurricane, tornado, earthquake, or work kept us apart. No complaints. Nights were spent together going to different places; shopping, the coffee bar at the bookstore near Breen's, bowling, the movies.

Thursday night bowling was interesting because it was league night (when isn't it) and we were squeezed in-between teams of men bowlers. One of the men could not take his eyes off of Breen. I think he was drooling so hard that his little orange bowling towel was soaked from wiping his face. 'Eat your heart out, bucko.' Breen was self-conscious about his stares and asked if I had any suggestions, "besides throwing a ball at him."

"I think peer pressure is the answer."

"Go on Dave, but whose peer pressure are we talking about?"

"His, Breen. Here's what I suggest. You get up and make sure he's watching, just stand there adjusting your feet, adjusting your body, adjusting your hair, you know lots of body language. Then, when his tongue is hanging out, you decide to change balls, walking slowly over to the ball rack, slowly bend over, taking your time with the selection from the lower rack, a little movement, a sway this way, a sway that way, and if he hasn't dropped his ball on his foot by this time, I'm sure he has bitten his tongue. Which will render him useless for the rest of the night. His team will be mad at him for weeks."

"You are not serious. Dave if I did that I would render you useless for the rest of the week. This body movement thing has nothing to do with the jerk, does it Dave...jerk. But since we need to take care of the situation..."

Breen stands up and goes to the lane, changes her mind and walks back to where I am sitting, she looks at the guy, leans over, drops her ball with a resounding thud on the seat next to me, proceeds to gives me a kiss that left no room for interpretation, picks up her ball, and continues to bowl as if the guy did not exist. Breen gets a strike...she is elated, she's euphoric, she is on top of the world...Breen runs back, she has already thrown her arms around my neck before I have completely risen...as I spin her around she kisses me, "kissing you is good luck!"

Breen is proud of the strike, proud of handling the jerk, "you did great on both counts, lady!"

Unfortunately, I wish I could say there were only mountain highs and no valley lows. While shopping for a birthday gift for Breen's niece, Breen asked my opinion of a blouse. I said I did not like the color; nor the color of the next one; nor the next. I realized too late it was more than what I had said, it was the way I had said it. Breen picked up a fourth blouse, "Don't say anything...obviously you won't like the color!" I knew immediately that not only was she mad at me, but I was lost as to what to do. Silence ensued as Breen paid for the blouse. As we started to walk away from the Teen Department I felt the silence begin to chill the air. It was not the blouse comments that angered her, but rather my attitude. I had slipped back into being deaf to Breen's words. I slipped, fell, and could not figure how to regain my balance.

We were almost outside the store when I asked, "Please Breen, hold up a moment." I asked a salesperson for a piece of paper and a pen, while Breen looked at me with obvious mixed emotions.

"What are you doing," the tone bespoke of impatience, not a real question.

"I just wrote on this paper that I was an ass and you have a right to be angry with me." As I put the paper in my mouth, "I'm sending the note to my brain, so my deaf brain will hear your feelings;" and I started to chew on it.

Breen looked at me with that 'he's a nut look,' but when I swallowed the paper she gave me a mock sneer, then a smile, "you're a fruitcake, do you know that?"

"All I know, is I never want us to become silent. I don't want us to allow anything to grow into silence. I'm sorry I acted the way I did tonight. Forgive me?"

"I'll think about it...you may have to develop an appetite for paper."

Thankfully the rest of the evening was more pleasant, but Breen still retained a slight coolness about her.

The next day at lunch Breen presented me with a red chocolate rose, "This is tastier than paper."

"Thank you; I will display this in a prominent place to remind me that you have feelings!"

"No, you'll share it with me during lunch, because we both have feelings. Besides, that's too good a chocolate rose to waste by just looking at it."

Her habit of jumping to conclusions was trying, but eventually she recognized this. We had been walking along a bike path, not saying much, just walking and enjoying the day. Another couple passed in the opposite direction. The woman was wearing a blouse that was too tight and too open. I almost said something sarcastic like 'she should close the blinds before she gets a hell of a sun burn,' But Breen caught my eyes following the woman and preempted me, "Dave if you want to see the Grand Canyon, take a tour."

"I'm not interested in women who have to display the wears."

"Sure Dave and I guess your eyes just forgot?"

"Breen what if I was looking at her, and I was not looking at her the way you just implied, but what if I had looked that way. Am I supposed to stop noticing women dressed to be noticed?"

Breen was about to say something, then looked at the back of couple as they walked down the path. She looked at me and asked, "Have I been possessive since we started seeing each other? Not, wanting to be in control, that I know I have been. Possessive, as in 'I own you.' Not jokingly, but for real?"

"No."

The difference was my willingness to overlook her faults, to push ahead regardless. I feared losing her again. I was totally, overwhelmingly in love with her and I recognized, regardless of what I said to the contrary, I tended to lose all objectivity when Breen smiled at me. "I'm sorry for accusing you of looking at her. I mean, I am sorry for jumping on you like that."

I extended my arms to her, offering my hands. And when she took them in her own, I said, "You have a jealous side don't you?"

"Yes."

"Me too."

We hugged and I was going to break away without kissing her; just, for some reason I did not think it was appropriate. But as soon as I let go of her she grabbed me again and kissed me, "That's for being here with me."

We had a good lunch and a good night at the movies. Our relationship was growing stronger and deeper. The trust that was forming peaked the night at the bowling alley. After Breen had regained her composure, having made the strike and dealt with the ogling man, she thanked me for letting her take care of the problem and not acting like a jealous fool, "Kissing you is not just good luck, it's what I want to do and not with anyone else."

—////—

### Chapter Eleven

There are pages of your life that are best left turned to the left, face down, recalled simply as pleasant memories. My friend Billy once said some things should never be revisited because everything has changed and you will lose the fond memories. I agree. Then why was I driving a hundred some miles to Rememberland? I could blame it all on Breen, it was her idea; but ideas like this one, took two for fruition.

She had said "I want us to touch our pasts...take me to someplace where you took an unfortunate young girl who momentarily lost her sanity and went out with you."

"Since you put it in such complimentary words Breen...you know I did have some good times, not all of my dating experiences were disasters!"

"I wasn't referring to you Dave...the poor unfortunate women," smug smile, laughing eyes.

We drove one sunny morning, drove back in time, not to times I still knew, but to places I had not seen in years. She wanted to see the street I was born on, the street I spent my pre-teen years on, the street I took her to so long ago, the apartment buildings of my life she knew nothing of, the colleges, the bars, the park I would walk in on Sunday afternoons, the main drag in the neighborhood where Breen had met my friends, the Dunkin Doughnuts, the restaurants, the places where I used to shop; a lifetime full of places all seen in one day. We left at six in the morning and arrived back after eleven that night. In between we became entwined in each other's lives; promises to do the same for hers; promises to never let each other drift apart again.

But all this was touching the city, not the people, not the flesh and blood, not the voices, we only glanced; "this was different;" "This has changed;" "I think it was like this." But it was important to Breen, far more than to me, because I had lived it, tasted the waters, drank the wine, walked the windswept streets in winter, and sat at an outdoor café in the spring. It was important to Breen because this was a part of me that she had shut out of her life. She simply wanted to get a sense of feel as to who I was.

As we were getting into the car for the trip, Breen had informed me that I was to hold her hand. We were doing this together, no jokes, no misunderstandings of why we're making this trip, no misunderstanding of how we would introduce ourselves should we have to, "Mr. Item;" but more importantly, she wanted to feel my reactions, not simply observe. "You know holding hands leads to other public displays of affection...like putting my arm around your waist while standing in a line, like..."

"Dave, I want you to hold my hand, but...just don't press your luck, OK," laugh, taking my hands in hers, "I'm trusting you with my emotions, not just today but for a long time to come, and this is the last serious conversation we will have today."

So I read between the lines, and she reads the lines reflected in my eyes, "lighten up and enjoy the drive."

We drove down a street I had never driven on before, my family moved soon after I was born. We drove past the elementary school "where I stole my first kiss on a bet."

"She still hate you?"

"No idea, but I had a crush on her for three years."

"She still hates you!"

"Thanks."

"I have a feeling you are going to say that a lot today."

The street I lived on as a child; sled rides down the steepness, the bike rides throughout the neighborhood, the back ally where the older boys once cornered me and I became a crab apple target. The street of my teen years. My junior high, the place my high school once stood, replaced by a building that just did not evoke solidarity with the past, the community college, the two universities, we caught the third on the way back; I spent a few years in school. The place where I entered the Army, places I worked, where I frequented, and where I spent nights alone amid crowds of people because my heart was broken over Breen.

We drove past apartments I had lived in. As we neared the first one Breen asks, "Any interesting stories you want to share? No? Come on Dave, you're squirming around like the car seat is burning your rear end!"

"I am not squirming; well kind of, I gave myself a wedgie."

"You can keep that to yourself...I'll close my eyes and count to ten so you can adjust your clothes."

"You're so polite, just don't count fast."

"Be real, I am not going to close my eyes. If you want to pull your...," she is looking at me like something just occurred to her.

"Your what?"

"Underwear, Dave!"

"So why did you stop in mid-sentence?"

She's blushing.

"Breen, I am surprised at you. Where you going to say something else?"

"I was going to say underwear...it's just...OK, I tried to picture you in your underwear. Happy now."

"Just don't try to borrow any."

We passed a place that once held a book store and coffee house. Sensing a change in my mood, "You're quiet."

"Do you know how many of the people I knew during those years are now dead."

"Dead?"

"Mortality slaps you in the face. My closest teen years, young adult friend, my...she died from a heart attack. Women aren't supposed to die young from heart attacks, not my friend anyway. That sounded bad, didn't it?"

"I met her remember. Your mom thought of her as a daughter, and she was like a sister to you. You introduced me to her for approval didn't you?"

"Yes, and sorry about the serious conversation. I kind of slipped into it."

Breen leaned over and kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand.

Forcing myself back to happier thoughts, "See that building over there? It was once a firehouse; from the 1920's, hook and ladder, that's why it's long and narrow. I had visions of turning it into a restaurant...La Firehouse."

"What kind of food, French?"

"No idea, just wanted to make it into a restaurant and La Firehouse sounded good."

Breen laughed and shook her head.

"You seem to shake your head a lot when I tell you things."

"Definitely things; most definitely things," as she shook her head again.

Lunch that day was at the Market downtown. Dinner was candle lit, even though Breen first complained that we were not dressed properly for the occasion; a candle lit dinner is romance, proper dressing is dating.

The restaurant had a violinist who asked if I had a request. "Yes, play a waltz," and I took Breen's hands in mine and reaffirmed that I would try to learn how to dance for her. I told her she made my heart dance. I did not apologize for turning the evening serious, nor did she complain.

The waltz plays for us, only us, because all others in the restaurant have faded into the shadows.

"Dance for me, or dance with me?" with a sly smile and soft voice, "I hope it's with me, because I can't picture you in a tutu doing Swan Lake in my living room."

"With you...how am I supposed to put you in a romantic mood if you don't take me seriously?"

She slowly removes her hands out from under mine; not rushing, but slowly, allowing her fingers to brush, linger across my hands. She then slowly stands; eyes fixed on mine, holding me. Breen moves to my side of the table and is now standing next to me, "Come here," beckoning me to stand next to her. I stand, her eyes pulling me toward her as if they had magnetism. And when I was standing in front of her, Breen places her arms around my neck; my arms are now around her waist; we are looking into each other's eyes, just inches apart. Gently, romantically, "Don't move or sway, just look at me. Dave I want you to try to learn to dance with me. I need you to dance with me. I don't want you to use the closeness of dancing as a means to an end...no, not a means to an end...but a beginning."

As if knowing my intentions she places a finger on my lips, "Let's not seal this pact with a kiss...kisses come later tonight...seal this pact with words, do you really want to try?"

"Yes, I want to learn only because of you. You're my inspiration, my desire. Without you...my arms would feel betrayed should I learn to dance for anyone else."

Breen forgot herself and kissed me and when our lips parted she realized what she had done. I took the initiative to break our physical contact and, as I allowed my arms to slowly retreat from her, "I want to learn to Tango, to express my feelings for you and feast on your sensuality." Breen did not stop looking pleased for the rest of the evening.

On the drive back Breen told me about her life after I last saw her. She did not delve deep into it, just deep enough to let me know she wanted to share it with me, but not so deep the mood of the evening would change.

We arrived at her apartment complex about twelve, said good night for at least a half hour, I did not want to leave her; she was right about the day's events, the trip had brought us closer together. We sat in the car holding hands like kids coming home from a date. We watched the stars in the sky. "Look, a shooting star; Dave make a wish!" I did and without even asking, she knew what I had wished for. That was her cue to really say good night and, with one last kiss, we walked to her door.

The next day I took out an old photo album and idly leafed through the pages. When I got to those of Breen I hesitated on the thought of taking one out to place it somewhere in the house. I decided against it, and moved on. I was glad I had saved them; the few Breen had got trashed. I called Donna and we talked about Donna's home town, her memories. I called Billy, told him I had taken a drive down memory lane, but I would never be ready to move back. Then I started to clean the house because I intended to ask Breen to dinner; actually, Breen, Ve, Donna, Fred, Billy, his wife, and another friend of Breen's.

I informed Breen and Donna over coffee at Donna's. Breen asks why. In a half joke, "It's a chance for our immediate circle of friends to see us holding hands...you know..."

"Are we supposed to...you know...kiss in front of everyone, you know."

"'You know' is an acceptable expression, you know, it's..."

Donna cuts in, "Platitude, I believe the word you're looking for is platitudinarian. Breen, I forgot to warn you that Dave has a tendency to be dull."

"Breen I forgot to warn you that platypus over there likes to impress me with her command of a very abrasive English language."

"Do you two ever come to blows?"

"Well, he is fun to smack with a rolled up magazine now and then; aren't you Dave?"

"Don't give Breen any ideas. If your mother only knew how you treated the most wonderful man in your life."

"If, her mother you know only, you know," chimes in Breen and they laugh so hard coffee is spilt.

As we are driving back to Breen's apartment, Breen delves into my relationship with Donna, "Donna likes to needle you about language, why?"

"It's her way of reminding me I have a prejudice against lawyers; not her, lawyers as a profession in general."

"Why?"

"Lawyers or Donna's needling?"

"Needling" "I was the one that indirectly convinced her to make the switch to law and when she informed me of her decision I said something like damn, another lawyer."

"Nice and blunt. I can see why Donna has license to jab you with large needles."

"Obviously I will get no sympathy from this corner."

"Take up knitting."

"Thanks for the suggestion. Donna has a PhD in anthropology and minors in...no, a Bachelors in Romantic Languages and a Masters in some history period. So, one day we are talking on the phone and she tells me that she just does not have a feeling for the profession she had chosen. I tell her it's because she is too alive to fall into the history trap. History should be alive, not the study of, the remembrance of death. We should study history to understand the who, what, and why of people's thoughts, actions, and how they see today, so we can understand where we are going tomorrow. Hopefully to make the changes that will improve tomorrow. She agreed. Her professors were, for the most part, lost in yesterdays, reading history like a dead language. They teach dates, not how the currents of life have woven human existence into the fabric of today's society. A week later she calls and tells me that she has applied to law school."

"She also uses the barbs to remind me that she can do the Sunday New York Times crossword in less time than I can read the first clue."

"You want to know a secret?"

"Sure."

"She told me that the barbs are to let you know that she wishes she had your ability to paint with words."

"Umm...did she say anything about the pickup truck barbs?"

"She did not have to tell me, I have the same opinion...you enjoy your trucks, just don't expect me to give up my luxury sedans!"

"NASCAR?"

"Dave, I'll go...but...we will cross that bridge when we get to it," kiss to temper the pain.

Changing the subject, she asks, "Do you want me to come over early to help you get ready for the dinner?"

"I would like that. Hummmm, how early?"

"Not that early! You can show me around the house...BUT...I expect only a tour. Don't even think about, daydream about a rest stop in the bedroom, understand!"

"Yes Breen... _fortes fortuna juvat_."

"Fortune favors the brave? There is nothing brave about a dinner party."

"I was not referring to the party."

"I am well aware of that. Unlike your favorite saying, sarcasm is not lost on this adult! Donna also told me that you feign linguistic ignorance."

Donna called that night, she decided to decline bringing Fred; which seemed odd, as this would be a perfect time to introduce him to our friends. I did not press the issue.

Tuesday night while I was shopping for the dinner party my cell phone rang. It was Donna. "Don't count your chickens before they hatch, or, in this case, Swedish meatballs."

"Donna, good evening, and I am not serving Swedish meatballs, thank you."

"Why the store out of frozen meatballs? Thought you were shopping when no one picked up the phone."

Something in the tone of her voice. "What's up?"

"Oh nothing, just thought I would call to see if you needed me to do anything."

"Just be there for me," silence, "you still on the line," thinking maybe the silence was a lost connection.

"Oh nothing, I'm here, just my mind working overtime."

"Want me to stop by on my way home?"

"No...yes, would you?"

"Sure, but I'll need to use your fridge so the Swedish meatballs don't defrost."

When I arrived at Donna's I got the impression that, although Donna was dressed for the gym, she was not interested in going. Her face bespoke something serious, even if she tried to hide it behind a smile. We went to the kitchen and Donna made tea; good, no frills black English grade tea, cream and sugar. "What's up?"

"I don't know. Supposed to meet Freddy at the gym, but I called and took a rain check. Things are moving pretty fast between Breen and you, aren't they?"

"Yes, maybe too fast. What do you think?"

"Ummm, watch your heart Bro."

"Bro? That's a new one...Sis, but much nicer than a Donna smack on the head."

"Do you think love is like a virus...like, you falling in love again, is it catchy?"

"Depends," this was serious, "you feel like you're catching love?"

"Don't know...that's the problem, I get these strange feelings about Fred."

Normally I would come back with a one-liner, but not this time, "Are you worried that these feelings are related to me and Breen?"

"Don't know. Dave I have used the term 'don't know' more times this past week than in my entire life. Am I really in love with Fred, or is it because I think I am losing you as a friend?"

"No way, we've been through marriages before, remember?"

"But it was different then. This is different with Breen. She's too much like me! I don't want to lose you...OH NO, don't think I am talking anything more than friendship! Oh shit, Dave, we are like sister and brother." Donna pauses, reaches out and covers my hand with hers, "I've been thinking a lot about this, about the bond that's between us. It's more than friendship. It's not sexual, but love just the same. Am I making sense?"

"Perfect sense. There has always been an underlining sexual attraction between us, don't want to sound clinical...guess we both recognized from the very start that any physical relationship would not last more than a few minutes. It's our love for each other, good word you used, that our love for each other is far more important. Friendships like ours are rare."

I could almost literally see the thought process at work and thankfully I sensed her mood improving.

"Am I being foolish, worried about nothing?"

"Maybe the worry is good; it speaks of how important our concern for each other's welfare really is."

"Well, and notice I am not under the influence when I say this, I do want you to be happy, but I am jealous of Breen, so that's the truth and I am sticking to it."

"I have been jealous of every man you have known."

"Good!"

"Good?"

"Let's keep it that way Dave. Let's keep the jealousy, our friendship, our acceptance of the other's love life," definitely more upbeat.

"Donna you never cease to amaze me. You can be so damn desirable one minute, my sister the next, my nemesis the next, and all in the span of," looking at my watch, "one minute."

She notices that she is still holding my other hand, grins "Longest we ever held hands."

"We did have a twenty minute kiss once."

"Dave it was less than five, we were both way under the influence, dateless on New Year's Eve, and I used a full bottle of mouth wash the next morning! But we did, didn't we? Can I trust you alone in the world?"

"Alone in the world?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes, alone in the world, cause you're on your own reading your heart about Breen; just armed with my blessing, and please don't get second thoughts about me when I kiss you at your wedding."

"Do I say thanks? I'm not sure what is more improbable at this point in my life, a wedding or you looking forward to kissing me."

"Sisters kiss brothers at their wedding."

"Sis, anytime you need a hug or a long kiss, just ask, that's what big brothers are for."

"Dave, big brothers hug, just hug, what you have in mind is socially unacceptable in our society."

"OK, so I'll kiss you like a friend."

She laughed, and we left all thoughts of losing our friendship melt away, just like the ice cream I had unintentionally left in the car.

"You really use mouth wash?"

"No, but I did enjoy the kiss that one time Dave, trust me, that one and only time, don't even think about trying it again, cause you will get smacked on the head, hard."

"So what about Fred? Seems you have left him at the gym to work out his frustrations."

"I think I'm in love with him. Not out of whatever because of you and Breen, but really, I do love him. I just don't want to force the relationship because of some sub-conscious need to formalize the relationship quickly, a need to compensate for you not being around as often. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it makes sense. Just, I'm wondering who needed this conversation more, you or me."

She walked me to the door, we hugged, and she kissed me on the lips, "last time, from now on, its cheeks only."

On the day of the dinner party Breen arrived in time for breakfast, for which, over her objections, I went all out; eggs, an omelet with green pepper, tomato, onion and mushrooms; toast; bacon; juice; coffee; and conversation. I knew I could become used to her being here every morning and I sensed from her smile that she could become used to being pampered, but only to a point. As I poured her a second cup of coffee I asked her to, "Talk to me in French,"

We had moved into the living room, "I want no other woman to speak to me in French but you."

"Let's hold off on the French this morning, you and Gomez Adams. Don't get serious on me Dave...I mean, conversations today. You're already serious about me, so there's no use warning you off, is there?"

"No. I completely disregarded the warning sign, dangerous curves ahead."

"And watch you metaphors, similes... _cadit quaestio_! No question, no debate, no argument."

"Now I have two of them in my life."

In plain words, but in a non-threatening tenor, "Poor Dave, get used to it. Just remember that possession is...in this case, one hundred percent of the law."

My reply was a smile and slight right, left movement of the head and a silent laugh conformation that I accepted the commitment our 'item' relationship required.

Breen crossed her legs and stretched her arms above her head. I watched the crimson colored material of her blouse pull tight across her breasts; my eyes betrayed my thoughts. She instantly dropped her arms and gave me a look of 'nice move, Romeo.' Then she started to laugh, "Sorry, I did not mean to..." searching for a word.

"Tease?" Breen nodded.

We toured the house. Not to see the walls, the floors, the steps, for they do not make a home; we toured so Breen could see who I was behind the facade to the outside world. She picked up a Blenko glass pitcher, "I like the deepness of the red;" a die-cast race car, "Kellogg's, I read somewhere that NASCAR fans are the most brand loyal of sports fans;" a Rosenthal china dog; she smiled and shook her head in disgust at the two liter bottle of Diet Pepsi I was drinking from. She rummaged through the can goods, "nice collection of vegetables, but where's the zucchini" ("no way!"), and asked about the late-nineteenth century etchings. She felt the fabric of the sheets and commented on the lack of 'manly' brown and the warmth of neutral, yet inviting colors in the bedroom. She looked into the closets and leafed through my suits and shirts, she checked out the shampoo I used, and checked out the CDs I had bought, and in the process of the morning's flow, she had run her fingers over the beating heart that accompanied her on the tour.

For lunch we went to a fast food Chinese place nearby and nibbled at steamed chicken and vegetables. "I noticed a lack of alcohol."

"Some wine, mostly gifts; some Scotch, mostly un-drunk; and beer makes me gain weight. I drink occasionally, if that's what you're asking. I can remember the last time I had more than two drinks, it was the first Tuesday in October 2001."

"Good memory."

"I met Patty Loveless that night, a meet-n'-greet after a concert in San Antonio."

"You didn't tell me that, Dave. What is she like in person?"

"Considering it was after eleven at night, she was very pleasant, tired, and sincere. She had to be tired, but took time with each of us that were allowed back stage. Signed a picture, but you'll have to give me a kiss to see it!"

"Dave, sweetie, snuggles, lovey-dovey, cuddles, dip-shit. I don't sell kisses, I don't buy them, give them away, nor do I forget them, but for you, I'll let you kiss me if you show me the picture. It's the least I can do."

"You're so sweet. Do you want your egg roll?"

"Yes! That's another thing Donna warned me about!"

Our guests started to arrive about four. Breen played at hostess, while I finished in the kitchen. We had a good time, well at least most of us. Seems Billy lost his first plate of food to Dog; I had warned everyone not to turn their backs on Dog!

Donna stayed after the goodbyes to help clean up and, as I cleaned up alone, she and Breen sat on the sofa and discussed my furnishings. Thankfully Donna had never actually seen my bedroom, but she did pick out the sheets while shopping with me one cold winter day. With the house in some semblance of order, which meant nothing within paw reach that was edible, I joined them.

Breen closed the now near empty bag of Route 11 potato chips she had been rummaging through, picking out only those chips that met her satisfaction. On seeing my displeasure of her gluttony she looks sheepishly at me and yawns.

"Breen at least try to make an excuse."

"You eat your mint chocolate chip ice cream out of the carton and I'll pig out on Route 11's. Besides, SOMEONE combined the different flavors into one bag and I was only in the mood for the pickle flavored ones."

Donna was amused, "The alternative Dave is to drive her to Mount Jackson, Virginia and buy some more pickle flavored ones."

Before I could respond, Breen jumped in, "You can go on-line and they list places all over the country that carry Route 11's. We could do overnight FedEx!"

I wanted to throw my hands up in defeat, but that would be ceding to both of them, "There's no alternative involved in this...discussion. She just plowed through the bag as if there was no tomorrow. The world will most likely not come to an end before you get another bag!"

Breen contemplates the bag and taps the Route 11 logo, "But what if the world came to an end...let's say next Saturday at 11:599 PM. Okay, it's now the first second of Sunday morning," smiling at Donna, "and you, Donna and I are now standing in front of the Heaven information booth, and what do you think St. Peter says? He says 'sorry today's Sunday and all the convenience stores in Heaven are closed on Sundays!"

"Yeah," pipes in Donna, "all the stores are closed in Heaven on Sunday!"

I respond, "I am sure the stores will reopen on Monday."

Breen looks at Donna – the 'play along' look as if they had really planned this conversation, which they did not, but wanted me to believe they had, so both would get points – then says, "You missed the philosophical question David."

"What's philosophical about the stores being closed?"

Smug smile, "Simply, Heaven is an eternity and your realization of this eternity starts the second you are conscious that you are in Heaven. Thus we enter an eternity of Sundays." Breen tosses me the bag of potato chips, "Eat up my love, I hate to hear you wine about the eternity of Heaven when the last NASCAR race you watch was a Saturday night race!" They high-five.

We wound up talking until eleven. When Donna excused herself to use the facilities before heading home, Breen walked over to the chair I was sitting in, "Don't get up," she leaned down, took my hands in hers and kissed me. "I'm also going home. I got to know you today far more than I expected and I liked what I saw, I really did, but I'm not ready to stay the night." I understood, but I know I did not hide my disappointment very well.

Donna walked back into the living room, "I decided the two of you deserve each other."

My response was, "Oh?"

"The discourse on convenience stores in an eternal heaven would have swayed me without even considering the time and that we're not drunk. I think you get the idea."

They left together, the two women in my life; so different, but so much alike and each important in her own right.

The room was dark when I opened my eyes; the clock on the table next to the bed read 3:24 AM. I looked up at the ceiling and could just make out the blades of the fan slowly turning. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see the blades more clearly. Motion; like my life, constant motion. This was stupid Dave; it's almost 3:30 and you're supposed to be asleep. Not philosophizing about fan blades. But, this is who I am; I can not change the brain cells that crave to make logic out of the illogical desire to philosophize when I should be sleeping. My mind could not leave fear alone. I once read _Il silenzio di un bacio pui di mille parole_. I was scared that I would not hear the thousand words spoken by the silence of a kiss. Regardless of what I said in public, I had self-doubt.

I had no reason to feel this way. After Breen had driven off, I had walked through the house, stopping and remembering the looks, words, and expressed feelings each time Breen had paused on the tour. Donna was right about Breen seeing me as who I was; not by my words, but that which was in my life and that which I no longer sought in my life.

You have to take the good and the bad if you want to see yourself through a stranger's eyes.

—////—

### Chapter Twelve

One of the more interesting, intriguing aspects of office social protocol is the farewell lunch. This mandatory social interaction affords time for disparate workers to break bread, to say farewell to a departing comrade, and more importantly give stick figure supervisors a chance to say a few words that express complete ignorance about the human being that's being feted. Today's guest of honor is Toby, a guy who spent few minutes actually talking to his fellow workmates. In fact, the only time Toby took the time to converse was last week.

Toby stood sternly in the middle of the office break room and voiced a short worded sentence to each person who entered, "Someone took my tomato!" Yes, Toby's tomato had disappeared from the frig, and Toby was distraught. Poor Toby would soon learn the tomato of his dreams was tossed in the trash because it had reached the end of its usefulness. Mr. Tomato had taken on the appearance of the plague and the bittersweet aroma of, well a cross between...you get the idea. So, you ask, how did Mr. Tomato get to this sorry state of affairs. Like many food items brought to work, the tomato was placed in the frig with good intentions, but was swiftly blocked from view by an assortment of bottles and lunch bags. Toby forgot about the tomato until six days past post-mortem when, as he was heading to the food court, he realized he had a tomato in the frig.

Now Toby stood there accusing each of us of 'killing' his tomato. Little did Toby know of the ins and outs of 'office fun;' nor how the participants of the office pool tried to keep his tomato on life support until some lucky person correctly guessed the day the tomato would be missed by Toby. But as I said, Toby noticed the absence of his vegetable days after Mr. Tomato had bit the dust. Doug was declared the winner and savored the fresh coffee paid for by the winner's purse, all of $3.00.

Well, Mr. Tomato was last week, and although Toby was still bemoaning his loss as we piled into a local restaurant, we needed to put our differences aside and assemble one and all to say goodbye to Toby. But, as we are only human, the group showed Toby the same office social indifference displayed at all functions; few stopped their aside conversations to talk to Toby.

Just as Toby's immediate supervisor was standing up to say something appropriate for the occasion, my cell phone vibrated. I was polite enough to go outside to answer the call. Heading out the door I overheard Kris telling someone "Dave's pocket pal just woke him up with a cheap thrill."

The call was from Breen's cell phone, "How's the party?"

"We were having a very lively academic discussion on the pros and cons of surreptitiously watering a refrigerated tomato to influence color change and decomposition."

"Nice lunchtime discussion, no wonder you fit in. I called to see if you can leave early today?"

"Why?"

"You should never answer a woman who wants you to leave work early with a 'why'. Or do you need a better reason than to see me?"

"Sorry...wait a sec," Toby's boss was coming through the door. She looks at me and lamely says "paged." "Me too," holding the phone away from my ear. "I'm back. A quick explanation was in order as to why I left the festivities."

"Okay, but answer my question like you mean it."

"What time?"

"You learn fast. Three, I'll meet you in the lobby of your building."

Within seconds of my reentering the restaurant my cell phone buzzes again and as I head for the door someone asks if I paid a friend to call me. This time it's Donna's office number. Back outside, "Ok, how did you know to call me on my cell phone?"

"No hello, just an interrogation?"

"I'm a skeptic and don't believe in coincidences. What can I do for lovely Donna?"

"So sweet. Breen said you were at an office function."

"She there?" I could hear Breen in the background saying, "Great, guess he'll ask next what she doing there."

"What she doing there?"

"What big ears you have grandpa. Just a girl thing visit."

Do I ask the obvious, nope; the obvious is Breen and Donna cooking up something. "Dave can I borrow Dog for the evening?"

I was definitely not expecting that question, "Borrow Dog?"

"Yeah, just for the evening. I'll bring him home about eleven."

So, Donna wants to 'borrow' Dog and Breen wants me to leave work early. Donna reads the pause in the conversation, "Breen he thinks Dog and you are connected."

"Well tell him to...no wait, let me tell him." She takes the phone, "Don't get your hopes up, Donna's need to borrow Dog is a coincidence; and besides Dog's a gentleman and would keep his eyes closed, which is more than we could say about you."

"Tell Donna okay, but she better not bring Dog back drunk or try to get him laid."

"Dave!"

"You think I'm joking, that woman is a bad influence on Dog."

"Here, he said not to get Dog drunk or laid. How do you put up with his sick sense of humor?"

I hear Donna laughing as she retakes the phone, "it's your problem now Breen. I'll swing by and pick up Dog about four."

"Donna, just remember to walk him before you put him in your car. I'd feed him at your place when you get there and take him out about nine...or just before you leave to bring him back."

"No problem, I still have the sixteen hundred page instruction manual you gave me when I watched him the last time. You don't seem interested in why I need to borrow Dog?"

It all suddenly clicked, "Your sis is coming over for dinner and brother-in-law does not like dogs, ergo abbreviated stay at Donna's place."

"You speculating?"

"No, Emily told me about sis coming for a visit and you were thinking of a way to keep the stop at your place short."

"You just put that together. So how come you had trouble knowing when a woman wants you to join her on the hotel terrace?"

"Beautiful as she was, I thought she was too young."

"Good answer!"

Breen wanted to take advantage of a great sale on a TV, and wanted me to be there to carry it. And Donna, she liked her sister, but her brother-in-law liked to talk politics, religion, and the glorious attributes of high fiber diets. All subjects that were, at the moment, too much for Donna to take. Donna was concerned about problems at work and a shortened visit would preclude the chance of her sister discovering Donna's concerns.

And my concern for Donna's wellbeing was too important to overlook, even if I did spend almost every moment thinking about Breen. And thinking was, what thinking is, thoughts about the question: just who was Breen? I had now spent enough time with her to draw some conclusions. She was not a Barbie doll. She was not the young woman I had known so many years ago, both by age and what had transpired in her life since we last met. She was the same person, but so different; all of the physical, mental, and emotional experiences she had encountered had added to and taken away from the Breen I had been dreaming of. As for myself, I appeared to her just as affected by this passing of time metamorphosis.

So who was Breen? I felt the same desire, the same love, and the same unyielding ache in my heart, my soul, for her. It was just I now looked at her with more clarity. When we had first met years ago I conveniently overlooked her faults because I was blinded by love, as well as sexual desire. When we parted company my mind was suddenly opened to receive negative thoughts, and I saw faults. But as I realized what I had lost, and I use the term 'lost' prefaced with the terms 'maybe' and 'what if,' the years of memories eventually turned Breen once again into a perfect human being, the perfect woman, and the perfect lover.

Now I needed to assess my feelings because I wanted to want her, not just need her. Karen would have been need, and I knew I liked Karen far too much to use her like that, assuming she would have allowed us to become an 'item.' But Breen wanted to deepen the relationship; to push the envelope. When she sat on my lap while on the merry-go-round, again in her apartment, whenever she kissed me, and with her happiness that we were an 'item' my heart was lifted above the heavens; my world felt so complete.

Age brings with it both wisdom and reality. Regardless of some of the things I may do and say, I am wiser. Most people cannot escape becoming wiser. I once said 'everyone' and was swiftly corrected by Kris, Joanne and my friend Doug. So let's stick with most, because I have to agree. Look, the success of the telemarketing industry proves their point. For the rest of us, we may not exhibit world-class wisdom at work or when we are with friends and family, but we do exhibit it to ourselves; for example when you regret a comment you made. Seeing the 'Mandy Affair' for what it was is a sign of wisdom; recognizing a total lack of maturity on my part. Maturity and wisdom are separate animals. A co-worker once remarked that maturity was giving up those things you enjoy, so as to fit into society. What bunk! There was a time I thought maturity meant not taking an afternoon nap on the couch, or not eating ice cream straight out of the carton. I do these things, and contrary to mature modesty, I sleep on the train going to work. Let the public look on. And, I like to talk about TV cartoons.

I made a list about Breen with two untitled columns; untitled because I did not want to label one of the columns 'negative.' This is not what a 'mature' person would do. A 'mature' person would label the columns: 'good points' and 'bad points.' Donna would have said my hesitancy was due to my lack of security in the situation. Thankfully she was not there to point that out.

OK, I need to list those things about Breen that are important to a relationship with me. Feelings for me? Positive. How I felt about her, positive. Physical appearance...I hesitate, it's positive, but I feel like a hypocrite including this on the list. Hell, I had just spent how many years convincing myself that looks are not all important. Fashion consciousness, positive, but another superficial ranking; not meaning slobbery could ever be positive. Intelligence, positive. Common sense, positive. Charm, poise, and attitude, all positive. Concern about me, positive. Chosen profession, positive; I was not looking to marry an exotic dancer. Nothing against the profession, I'm just too jealous and my woman turns on only one man, me. Sexuality, positive; sensuality, positive; desirability, positive, the list started to degenerate quickly. I had nothing on the negative side and I was turning the list into a lopsided, prejudice, self-conformation of desire.

Right Dave, what are negatives! She fails to ask me what I mean if my comment is perceived to be negative. She did not like talking about problems in her life. She would not enjoy spending a long day at a NASCAR race. She would decorate the house her way, pick out the drapes, take over the bathroom and closets, snore, expect me to stop being so sarcastic; hate if I used the 'F' word...WAIT...what was this about the house, living together...Dave, you want to marry this woman, don't you?

Is there anything negative about her that would stop you from saying 'I do' if she said 'I want to'? I saw nothing in Breen that was unacceptable like smoking, or disgusting negative behavior like not bathing. The list is stupid; it's what teenagers do. It's what friends compile about your intended to help save you from what they perceive as a mistake. But is this what adults do? Yes, but my list was of superficial things, not the personality and relationship things that we both share or do not share. Adults know there are negative things you must accept in a relationship.

What is important is 'want.' In a 'need' situation you put up with the negatives - some of which can be really disgusting - only until the need is no longer required; then it's moving on time. But in a 'want' situation you have accepted the negatives for what they are. You live together and work things out, because the want is the most important thing. So she sometimes snores; so do I. It may be nerve-racking to be in bed with someone who snores, but I wanted her next to me, even if I stay awake all night and get my sleep on the train ride to work or take naps on the weekend.

I tore up the paper because I had identified the one question only Breen could answer: did she 'want' me. The 'need' was apparent, but what about the 'want?' I just hoped Breen and I could discuss this if she had started making a list.

It was only yesterday that Donna acknowledged my intermittent daydreaming trances and the reason for them, my over complication of the situation with Breen, "David, you really have to stop being so concerned over spontaneous combustion!"

"Spontaneous combustion?"

"You know, the ignition of a substance, in this case your rear end...or ass, to put it in laymen's terms, without the application of an outside heat source."

"Since I do not believe in people self-igniting, you're comparing me to a pile of oily old rags, right?"

"No, I'm referring to the mass of over-used brain cells within your cranium that are generating enough heat to power a small city! Please don't use a nasal inhaler around me, because the onrush of oxidation will no doubt result in a chemical reaction that could wipe out the material I have spent the last few hours compiling."

We were at the public library, Donna searching for information on former farmland and a golf course that figured into a case she was reviewing for litigation. Me, I was reading magazines. However, Donna thought I was being cheap. Why buy them when you can read them for free, "Donna I'm not being cheap...at least I am not reading them at the bookstore like so many people do. Read them, get smudgy finger prints all over them, coffee satins, etcetera, and then put them back on the rack."

"Are you accusing me of finger print smudginess?"

"Well I'd say if the shoe fits...and watch out with that book, you had to buy the last magazine you walloped me on the head with!"

"I never walloped you on the head Dave...maybe I lovingly smacked you on the head...besides if you weren't so hardheaded I would not have damaged the magazine."

"Donna, I felt bad that Fred was not at my house the other night."

"Not a good time to drag him around with me, but he understands."

"I don't."

She ignores my comment. "Look at this picture Dave, it's hard to believe this area was farmland only, what, ten years ago."

"I remember the articles in the paper about the project. They were going to build a shopping area, not a shopping center; a shopping area that blended in with the golf course and the lake."

"That's the point of this case Dave, the company made claims that the lake was going to stay, and it would be a scenic park setting, not a small city of large retail box stores. What tipped the scale against them was their misleading claim that they were opposed to turning the remaining lots into clusters of small to medium stores and islands of small stand alones."

"People have really taken sides in this haven't they? But whether they are for or against the growth of the complex, people have no complaints about the tax revenue and convenience of having all of the retail stores and restaurants nearby."

"Tell me about it. I have not experienced such partisanship before. You would think this was a civil rights, or a right to life, case."

"Does it bother you...you know the hints of civil disobedience in the letters to the editor?"

"Yes...but keep that to yourself. The Governor wants my boss to ensure the state and local police take that seriously."

"What about the political mudslinging? You're not going to get me in the papers are you? The last thing I need is seeing my face on page one with the caption 'Mystery man meets with State's Attorney at secret love nest.'"

"You should be more concerned with the headline 'Dumb shit divorced male found in motel room with another Mandy!"

"That was cruel...and on your behalf I apologize to the Mandys of this world and the entire male population. Also, young lady, I did not take Mandy to a cheap motel...she would never think of going anywhere but a high-priced hotel...and then, only if Paris or wherever was thrown in."

What I could not overlook was how Donna made that comment; it was her voice, far too harsh even for her normal acid tongue. I instinctively knew she was scared, not distracted; worried to the point of real concern. "Donna, don't ever think you need to avoid me because you do not want to involve me."

I could see her starting to wind up the biting wit for another pitch. "Donna! I can always set the record straight at work, at play, or whatever. What I cannot do is allow you to be distracted because of concerns about my safety or reputation."

"Dave, smear campaigns are something attorneys have to live with. It's just a hazard we face going up against corrupt politicians and fancy lawyers. You don't!"

"It's more than that isn't it?"

She looks around and leans close, "I have been getting letters and emails. Not nice ones. My boss is concerned and so is the Governor. Dave, you're my closest family member and I...look, I'll make you a promise. You deal with my paranoia and if you get your picture printed as my 'love interest,' I'll make it worth your while, how's that?" Thankfully she burst out laughing. "Thanks Dave for caring about me."

"Nice one. That was just the type of comment some reporter would love to overhear, and to make it worse, as soon as you got my hopes up, just as swiftly you dash them with laughter!"

"I would lean over and dull your pain with a kiss on the cheek, but we need to be careful for a few weeks; but that's not going to stop me." Kiss.

I could not pass up the opportunity so, "You know if you were a little more...sensuous as a kisser we might stumble on the real cause of spontaneous combustion."

"Me! Dave, I think I will have to tell Breen about your lack of creativity in the kissing department."

"How would you know?"

"Word gets around."

This last thrust and parry took place as we were preparing to leave the library. I started to wonder if Breen was making a list and would my hugs and kisses be rated.

Donna noticed my sudden preoccupation. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Not sure they are worth a penny." To keep her from returning to the subject of spontaneous combustion I told her I had given Breen the Oreo Cookie Pretentiousness Test.

"How did she do?"

"I know you will see the humor in this Donna. Since we were talking on the phone Breen could not see my face, so there was a lot lost in translation. Anyway, I asked her the basic questions: Do you pull the two sides apart and eat the cream filling first? Or do you just bite into the cookie? Or maybe pop the entire cookie in your mouth all at once? There's this moment of silence, then Breen asks if I was being a smart ass and talking about sex."

"Great Dave, I hope you had the sense to not make a sexual innuendo to confirm her worst fears!"

"What was I to say...so I started to laugh and told her no, I was just confirming something and this was serious. I think the fourth time I used the word 'seriously' finally convinced her I was not talking about sex."

"Did she pass?"

"Of course, I already knew she would... pull the two sides apart and eat the cream filling first. Breen suggested I not give the test to any women at the office."

Relating that episode put some humor back in Donna's life and I noticed she was more relaxed for the rest of the time we were together. The other thing I noticed was her hesitation when walking around corners and how she tried to hide her concern for her surroundings. Of course concern for your surroundings is a good thing. Unfortunately Donna, like so many others, did not exercise caution until there was something to worry about. The first thing I did when I arrived at work in the morning was to call an associate in the FBI and ask if he would check out the situation for me. A few hours later I received a call from the State Police Detective assigned to the case and as a professional favor he gave me his, and his partner's, emergency phone numbers and said they would keep in touch.

Donna called me later that night, she talked for over an hour, as I patiently listened; an act on my part that was totally out of character. Donna wanted, needed to understand what was causing the changes around her; to understand why her settled world was suddenly so unsettled. She had been grasping at straws these past weeks, hoping beyond hope the letters were just a prank and not, not what she was avoiding. Our exchange at the library had erased any last vestige of reality avoidance. She asked me why her past had not taught her anything. "I was looking at my reflection in the glass of the enclosed bookcase," the case almost filled an entire wall of her law office, "I looked and saw only questioning eyes returning my stare. Dave, my eyes bespoke of being lost of direction. I'm resigned to the fact that nothing learned from my past is going to reach out to me to ease my fears, give light as to the future." She chastised herself, "Some historian I am!"

"Relax. You'll make it through this."

"Want to know something funny?"

"Okay."

"I closed my eyes and thought about camping with you. It was real camping, not the refinement of Connecticut girl's camp camping; cabins with central air, bunk-beds with sheets, indoor plumbing, and hot coffee made by our camp cook. I was remembering the first time we went into the woods of the Shenandoah Valley. Snakes," I could feel her shudder over the phone as she spoke the dreaded word. She feared snakes. "You showed respect of my fear and you listened to my complaints. When we went the second time you still forgot the cots! But...I could not believe you had someone bring coffee to the campsite in the morning;" the owner of the small general store in the nearby town. "The old man just smiled and placed the large thermos next to the fire you had lit while I was still in the tent. He had such an amused look about him I had a feeling something was up."

"As he looks at me fumbling with a shoe lace covered with those little green plant 'stick on you things' he says 'Oh, the young man said to tell you the eggs and rest of the fixens are in the cooler.' I must have made his day, no week...month when I asked, 'fixens?' The old guy almost laughed when he reply's 'He said you would probably say that...here,' handing me a folded piece of paper. I'm opening the note and hear him say 'Have fun!' as he disappeared into the tree line. I still have your note David, 'I like my eggs scrambled, so you have it easy this time.' I almost called you a son-of-a-bitch, but I caught myself. When I opened the thermos and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee I forgave you." She had called out to the opposite tree line, where I had wondered off under the guise to 'use the facilities,' "Cute Dave, real cute!"

The thoughts of camping with me made Donna smile. "You always seem to make me smile. Dave, I know you can help me get a grasp on this situation, but I'm determined to keep this my battle. Like my fear of snakes. Understand?"

"Not completely."

"You respected my fear of snakes, but you never tried to force me to deal with them. You simply made everything else about camping fun and I learned to look at the bright side of being in the woods. I learned to enjoy being there even if I might run into a snake." She paused, "Dave, just be yourself and make me smile, that's the most important, the most wonderful thing you can do, and I will be okay."

"Just don't smash another sixty dollar backpack stove with a shovel!"

"I thought there was a snake in the bag Dave! How the hell was I to know you left the end of the rope sticking out!"

"Donna, I was cutting pieces off to tie down the tent."

"Well buy yellow rope, not brown!"

—////—

### Chapter Thirteen

While Donna's concern about my wellbeing and her safety could not be overlooked, I had not mentioned it to Breen. A few days later when Breen asked me why I thought Donna did not bring Fred to the house, I had to choose my words carefully.

"I guess she needed alone time to think."

"You seem to be guessing a lot, but I'll not press the issue."

The last thing I wanted to do was keep something from Breen, but Donna's concerns about her personal safety and reputation were not for discussion and, until otherwise, did not involve Breen.

"Dave, do you think you and I should do something with Donna and Fred? You know..."

"You know? I thought you know was, you know."

"I get the message Dave, and you get the point!"

Good, I got a point; but knowing Breen, I would be looking at that point advantage for a very short time.

"You're right it's something we need to do, have any suggestions?"

"Why not a ball game. You want to go and it's a great no pressure place."

Going to farm team games are fun, inexpensive, and the players put everything into the game; which is a lot different from going to an expensive major league games. "Good idea."

Since we are at the shopping center I took out my cell phone to call Donna. Breen looks at me, questioning if I intend to stay where I am to talk on the phone, or go with her to look at bras. "No, I'll let you shop for bras on your own."

"Why, danger to your masculinity?"

"Breen, I have had to buy bras for my wife and for my mother, so my masculinity would not be what would suffer!"

She gives me a quick hug and smiles as she turns towards the store, then she looks back over her shoulder, "Do you think I would look good in rose blush?" My response was written on my face, no words were necessary. "Tell Donna the answer is yes," and she makes two imaginary chalk marks in the air.

"Hi Dave, I have caller ID now. What's going on?"

"Your idea of fun! Breen just said to tell you that the answer was yes to the rose blush bra question."

"Dave, she'll look good in rose blush and you would have never said anything."

"Presuming I would see her in....never mind. I called to ask you and Fred to eat free hot dogs and such at a ball game with Breen and myself."

"I'm not sure if Fred is free, he's been really busy at work."

"BS. It's about your concerns, and I will not take 'no' for an answer!"

"Have you told Breen?"

"No. She asked me a few moments ago why I thought Fred was not at my house and I said you probably needed alone time to think."

"Thanks; at least one of us can keep things to themselves."

"Wednesday or Thursday night?"

"What?"

"The ball game, Wednesday or Thursday, they have late games those nights."

"Wednesday, I'll call Fred; he would agree if it were any night...the poor slunk's in love with me."

"He's got good taste."

"Thanks, and I have good taste in friends."

Double dating is normally a no-no. Double dating should not be confused with couples doing things with other couples they know. In the case of the ball game, Fred was an 'unknown' to Breen, which made this a one-fourth double date. Dating is a not an academic experience, it is science fiction; and the chance of your Sci-Fi adventure turning into a horror movie is in direct proportion to how many participate in the event. Thus, you should avoid multiple couple dates like the plague. If you cannot avoid a group, stop at four people; two of each sex. Never, never more than four.

Regardless of the situation, three couples do not ride comfortably in cars. If you find a car with seating for three up front, one pair is either split between front and back, or four people are smashed against each other on the rear seat. More than likely you'll need two cars and that means convoy coordination and the chance one of the cars will go to the wrong destination. Hopefully a different state, which resolves the next problem, the most important one, six do not fit quant cafe tables for four, or diner booths (like car seats).

More than four causes conversations to become debates, and totally disregards the rule of _quiero algo menos caro_ ; as in 'Do you have something cheaper than what's on the dinner menu?' It just does not work. The rule of four also applies to paying the check at the restaurant; the greater the number of dinners the more confusion and the chance you will be saying 'how much!!'

Then, sometimes double dating is useful. As a teenager, the first time I drove the family car on a date, I doubled. I took a girl whose friends introduced us. They had convinced the girl that I would ask her to the Junior Prom. So here the four of us are in the family car parked on a tree grove hill that overlooked the expressway; real romantic no, but secluded yes...it was my friend's idea, not mine. My concern was not wrecking the car while maneuvering around this local lover's lane without the lights on; least of which was being the idiot in the movie that misses the edge, and four screaming teenagers go down the embankment into the swamp, wherein lives the 'date killing' monster.

Anyway, no sooner do I put the car in park, my friend puts his date in parking mode and they are pressing lips. My date slides over and I put my arm around her shoulders, I look into her eyes, move my face closer, then realize I don't want to do this. Geeze, this is crazy. Sure I want to kiss her, but I do not want to take her to the Junior Prom. I had my heart set on a girl out of my reach, but I still held out hope. My date looks at me, questioning my hesitation, takes the initiative and clings to me like our lips were joined at birth. Damn...this was nice, but...thankfully my friend steps in and saves the day. "OH SHIT, don't move, Don't move!"

In his exuberance of the moment he had slid off the seat to position himself on top of his date, and he had slid his leg under the front bench seat. Now his contortion had wedged his leg straight under the seat, and any movement by his date or us in the front seat was sending pain to his knee and sex-tracked brain. By the time he was free, the moment was lost, at least not his leg, and I was rescued. I never went to the junior prom; the object of my desire went with someone else, and so did the girl I was with that night.

Back to shopping with Breen, who has returned carrying another bag. "So is it rose blush?"

Breen takes the bra out of the bag; it's rose blush and lace, "I thought about keeping it in the bag, but that would be teasing. Did she agree right away, or did you have to convince her?"

"Who?"

"Don't get funny buster, I'm not falling for the old 'was he talking to another woman while I was shopping' hints. No points. The way you look at me, you're lucky you don't walk into walls."

"You noticed?"

Finally realizing she is still standing there with the bra in her hand, she quickly puts it back in the bag and takes my arm to let me know it's time to start walking. I tell her, "Wednesday night for the ball game. Donna does have a lot on her mind."

"Are you watching out for her," not a question, but an affirmation of Breen knowing I would.

"Best I can."

"Good, because I read about her in the paper."

Looking out for her? Best I can do while being on the sidelines, hoping the game would end in Donna's favor. The papers were becoming single story tabloids as the trial date drew closer. My contact at State Police reassured me that there was no identifiable physical threat to Donna, but they were not taking chances. I also now had someone on the other end of the line at FBI and Justice because the threats were communicated by mail. I had to keep my activity to myself, and it was hard not to tell Donna as I tried to belay her fears. It was interesting that Breen, like Donna instinctively knew I would do something. Donna had, over the years of our friendship, come to accept the fact I felt obligated to do something, regardless of what she wanted or I said to the contrary.

Wednesday night arrived as a perfect night for a ball game; the weather was perfect, the women I was with were perfect, and they thought the guys they were with were perfect. If Donna had any reservations, she had checked them back at her apartment before arriving at the game. Even the seats were perfect, and I could say the same for the game, the hot dogs, the hamburgers, and beer. We had a great time and, yes, everyone said the whole affair was perfect.

Donna needed this, and so did Breen. It was not until that night I finally realized why Breen wanted us to be with Donna and Fred. I saw the answer in Breen's face when she watched Donna and Fred hold hands and when she saw them steal a kiss thinking no one was watching. Regardless of words to the contrary, Breen needed to see Donna with someone besides me; to see Donna enjoy Fred being in her life. I am not ashamed to admit that Breen's jealousy gave me a measure of security.

I confirmed something else at the ball game, actually two things. One, Breen and Donna were truly as much alike as they were different. Physically they were similar in size and build; but Breen's thick light brown to blond hair and emerald green eyes were in stark contrast to Donna's silky, straight black hair and dark, mysterious brown eyes. They both dressed well, but their taste in clothes differed. Donna is not hesitant to show off her body. While Breen seems almost self-conscious when she wears something that draws undo attention to herself; not that she dresses demurely.

The two are definitely not twins; yet an observer would be amazed at how their thought process and actions towards the men in their lives were so alike. Donna teases Fred, as Breen teases me; they both instinctively know when Fred or I have something on our minds but are hesitant in saying it. And they both crave the same verbal and physical forms of affection; a soft kiss, a tender running of fingers across a cheek, saying love with your eyes, and letting her feel safe, wanted, relaxed within your arms, knowing you will not break the spell by turning a 'her' moment into sex. As for sex, I have no way of comparison. I am in the dark about Donna, for like Breen, she keeps the physical aspect of sex a private matter between her partner and herself. Donna and I talk about sex in general terms, but we never directly discuss personal likes and dislikes, or the intimacies of our respective relationships.

I also learned that Fred and I are a lot alike; not so much physically, but personality-wise. Both women seek the same things in a man, and I am sure Fred and I look for the same traits in a woman. I had no reservations about Fred treating Donna the way I demanded a man treat her. Demand is a strong word, but the only word to describe the intense brotherly love, respect and friendship I felt towards her. The first time Donna heard about the Breen in my past life her eyes could not hide the way she felt about someone treating me as a forgotten moment. Because of my love for Breen I always defended her actions regardless of how Donna tried to bolster my self-image by pointing out Breen was not perfect. The day they came face to face, like two old friends with a common interest, me, gave me peace of mind.

It was late when I said good night to Breen standing in the doorway of her apartment, but she gave me an extra-long hug and kiss nevertheless. Reading my look, she simply said, "That's for me and for Donna. You did well hiding your concern while at the ball game. For someone who walks into walls when around me, you proved you can steal looks at me while watching the crowd."

Watching the crowd had become an important, albeit surreptitious pastime while with Donna. The only reward I wanted for being good at it was Donna's safety. This was on my mind when I met Donna for lunch a few days later. I felt confident in the State Police. Over the subsequent days after talking to them, I would now and then notice their presence as they hung back and blended in. We were walking out of the courthouse, down those long steep steps that seem to always be bracketed by bystanders, lawyers and clients, trail attendees, the curious, and the ever present press waiting for an opportune moment. As we descended the steps I did my best to scan the scene while maintaining conversation with Donna.

She was telling me about how her assistant wore a tie that looked as if he spent hours contemplating the correct placement of coffee stains, as to make the design look unintentional, when my eyes noticed a flash of color to the right that did not fit into the tableau. The color became a middle-aged man, and as he emerged from the crowd, I instinctively reacted. "Donna, who's that woman over there," pointing with my left arm across her body, causing her to pause and turn to the left, while I watched from the corner of my eye the middle-aged man, now clear of the crowd, advance towards us.

Within a split second I determined he was on a course to intercept us and I stepped to the right, blocking Donna, and facing the guy. I looked directly at him, I made no pretense of hiding my intentions, nor did I show any indication if I was armed or not. I knew I was not armed, but you do things instinctively, in a trained way.

The guy takes two steps then, as if his brain realizes what his eyes are seeing, he stops dead, stares at me, glares at me, hates me with intensity, while I just hold his stare and concentrating on only one thing, reacting to an advance.

All the while, Donna is asking me which woman, then, she stops in mid-sentence. I sense her turn, move closer, and I use my left arm to guide her behind me. I feel her closeness and know I am now firmly between her and the man.

It was over in a few seconds, from moment of the flash of recognition to end; shorter than the time to write these words. Out of the crowd quickly step two detectives, a man and a woman, and before the middle-aged man realizes it, they have him by the arms. Donna puts her arms around my waist and hides her face in my shoulder, she is now shaking. I turned around and hugged her; to hell with the press. 'Please let this bullshit end,' I said to myself as I allowed myself to relax.

Later Donna and I sit together on her sofa, she wants me to hold her, but this time she asked me first. "You knew things I didn't...you were keeping things from me...why?"

"I only knew you had good reason to be concerned."

"Don't BS me Dave, you talked to the police, that's why they knew your name...thanks."

"Talking and knowing something is different."

"Did Breen know about the police contact?" She did not have to add 'but not me.'

"No, nevertheless she assumed I would be watching, and in so many words said she expected me to. She accepted my sense of loyalty...no, my devotion to you."

"Devotion, that's an interesting word."

"Donna you're the one who said I had you as a friend forever, remember?"

"Yeah, I also remember saying you give up points too easily. But, I bet you would have jumped up and caught me as I fell off that stool at the Waffle House!"

"If you were telling the truth, you would have been too engrossed in...what did you call it...smushed facing to even notice."

"Yeah, but you would have tried anyway, thanks."

Breen took the day's events just as seriously as Donna and she rewarded me with a promise of cartoon DVD she had seen in the book store, saying, "If I gave you a kiss you would try this stunt every day!"

Grabbing her around the waist and pulling her to me, "your kisses are not a reward, they are what I live for," and I kissed her as if tomorrow was only a possibility. She did not object.

The police determined the man who was approaching Donna was the one who had sent the threats. He was a diligent protester who had not harmed anyone in the past, but scared the daylights out of people by his assertiveness and bullying. I was pleased with myself for being able to be there for Donna, but, as a professional, I recognized I could have endangered the work of the authorities by my active interest. I thanked the detectives for watching Donna so closely.

Thankfully, the only lasting effect of the incident was a more comfortable relationship between Donna, Fred, Breen and myself. I really did feel good about Donna and Fred; nevertheless, my mind would not quiet down that evening as I tried to fall asleep. We were friends for ever, having formed a bond the night we met at Rich's wedding. Donna had told me, a few years later about how she came to be at the wedding and her frame of mind when she met me.

She said that getting dressed for the wedding was a watershed event. Having looked at the dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door for what had to be the sixth time since she had hung it there at 9:00 AM. "I loved the dress, I hated the dress. I had spent five mind-numbing days going from store to store looking for that stupid dress, and I despised the entire male population for causing undue pressure on my life." She laughs now, nonetheless at the time, while the dress was in principle fantastic for a wedding, in 'Donna reality,' "it was too 'uppity' for Nancy's friends." Donna smirked, "But who the hell was Nancy anyway. I hardly knew her, so why did I care? It's was not like I had to dress down to impress anyone. I looked at the dress, steeping back a few feet, and finally, in a more lighthearted voice I told myself 'Um, uppish, uppishly, or uppishness?'"

Regardless, she did not fit in with Nancy's circle of girlfriends. Sure she partied and had fun hitting the bars, but she also had an education and a career. While Nancy, according to family gossip, was content living the life of daddy's princess; then, daddy was upset that she was marring one of 'those people.' Donna disliked that attitude of some members of the family. If you were not a prosperous businessman, or otherwise allowing you to be a member of the 'right' country club, then you were one of the 'others.' "Thankfully," Donna said, "I was born into the normal side of the family."

"No, the damn dress was just a symbol and I was unwilling to cast it aside. Belittling the dress was, ergo to belittle myself. Besides, I had class and self-esteem." Her hesitation was brought on by a problem far deeper than not fitting in at the day's big event. Donna's indecision grew out of frustration with her stalled love life and questions about her 'appeal quotient;' not by the men at the wedding, but men in general. Why was she not meeting the man of her dreams; who would assuredly appreciate the dress? The dress spoke of elegance, of Donna's desire to be 'casual elegance.' The dress was New York City, where the world was normal. She was normal, and damn if she was going to stop being normal because she had to waste her time at some abnormal wedding.

"Uppiness to Nancy's friends? I decided to let the idiots wonder who I was; _omne ignotum pro magnifico_ ;" in the eyes of the uninformed she would surely be grand. Then, Donna said she reprimanded herself, knowing she was being too sarcastic.

She did think the wedding ceremony was very nice, "Even if you and the other ushers had stumbled in late and obviously drunk. And the bridesmaids did not appear to be in any better shape. I had pangs of 'I wish I came down yesterday in time to party.' I felt ashamed about the comments I had voiced to myself during the morning's dress debate. Nancy looked very pretty and the groom, Richard, was handsome; but looked as if Death had let him out on probation for the ceremony. As I was scanning the ushers, 'now he looks interesting, very interesting, but also feeling no pain!' I asked one of my cousins 'who's the guy who brought Richard to the church?' She thought Nancy said you were a neighbor of Richard. 'Donald, or Dillerdy, starts with a 'D'. Another cousin piped in, 'probably Dimwit!' I let that comment pass because there was something about mystery man."

At the reception Donna found herself seated at a table across the room from the guy who's name may start with 'D.' "I watched you get up and go over to one of the bars, obviously sweet talking the woman to give you a bottle of something for your table. That was just as Nancy's brother got up and gave his impromptu toast about how some women will be weeping because the father of their children – Richard - was now married to Nancy. It would have been funny, except for Uncle George jumping to his feet and asking about these unwed mothers. What a quiet that stilled the room; an unsettling quiet that a cousin later described as having the aroma of 'oh shit' cologne. No one seemed to know what to do. Then there was that horrendous crash, the sound of breaking glass. The entire room turned as one to see a small table lying on its side and the remnants of, who knows, how many shattered glasses now littering the hardwood floor. And all you had to say for yourself was 'Someone have a broom...and one of those little sweep-it-into-it things?' I instantly knew why I liked you and why I wanted to whisper sensuous words to you in the middle of the night!"

"However, I did not approve of the group you were with, so I waited. It was what (?), an hour later when I decided to take action." She got up and walked outside for some fresh air, purposely walking past my table and smiling a 'hope this is not a misinterpreted hello!' She was unaware I had followed her and I stood in the shadows watching her standing by the railing and looking out over the hotel garden. "I felt kind of foolish waiting there for you to get the hint. 'OK, either he did not get the message or he is gay. Just my luck, the guy is gay!'" Then I spoke to her, "How long would you have waited for me?" Startled, she turned to see me leaning against the door frame. I was not being smart-alecky or vain and my voice was pleasant, as if we had known each other for years. She asks rhetorically, "How long?" I responded with my own question, "Are you asking how long I was watching you stand there waiting or, how long would you have waited until I spoke to you?"

"I..." she smiled at her foolishness and being caught at her own game, "not much longer. But don't worry. In about one more minute I would have walked in, grabbed you by the neck, and yanked you out of your seat." "Somehow, I think you're capable of doing that." As I walked over to the railing, "Dave and you are?" "Donna." "I wanted to compliment you on your dress, but I figured you would think it was just a pick-up line. New York?" "How..."

All pretensions melted away and we talked, as if old friends, for the rest of the night. We watched the show unfold in the ballroom and, after the hotel kicked the last of us, I walked Donna to her room. At the door we kissed and then, it was Donna who said 'no.' An awkward moment. She looked into my eyes, "Dave...you don't want to spend the night with me do you?" "I do, but something isn't right about it...not you, no, you are beautiful and HOT in that dress. Donna, what is it that tells us no? And don't say maturity, because I have a high degree of lack in that virtue." She put her arms around my neck and pulled me close to her, "Respect? Do you want to say you respect me and a good romp in the bed would be wrong, _en ami_?" " _En ami_ , what little French I know. Will you hate me in the morning for not..." She cut me off. Donna kissed me good night; knowing I would call her. Knowing that if we were destined to be lovers, we would be regardless of the night's hesitation.

Donna is pragmatic about love. She feels that love is pure emotion of the heart, to be accepted for what it is and supported by the brain. Whereas right away, just the way I had talked to her from the doorway and not immediately coming to her side, she had recognized the romanticism in my personality. "You are a man who wants to love, but needs to read into it. You need prodding to stop thinking about setting the right mood and let your heart do its thing."

After the goodnight kiss I had walked away confused; what a complex woman, and still so young! When I finally visited Donna in New York I told her she was right about that night we met at the reception, being with her that night is a pleasure to look back on. "Of course I was right. And, when I turn you down again tonight you'll feel only half as bad as before!"

Our mutual war of words began during one of our phone chats, which had progressed from once a month, to supplement letters, to twice a week. It was the one where I professed my view of history and she was too alive to be locked into the past; her 'inner voice was screaming let me out.' "You're saying my inner voice has become despondent?"

"No, if I meant despondent I would have said despondent, because despondent denotes giving up. Your inner voice is yelling let's do something creative!"

Quiet.

"Don-na, hello?"

"That was the first time you have ever vocalized correcting my use of the English language."

"Your point?"

"It took me by surprise. You have endured my...umm."

"Rigmarole."

"Wait dip-shit, I was thinking of how to compliment you on having the balls to correct me, and what do you do, but infer I profess confused, meaningless talk!"

"But you are so beautiful when you do!"

"Dave, if someone could find a way to make fertilizer out of your BS we would all be rich and have green lawns year round!"

Once, she had told me how nervous she was preparing for an important oral exam on a case study. When she arrived at school, the professor's secretary informed her that flowers had arrived that morning for her. An arrangement of tulips with a note: Remember you have to cross New York streets with attitude. Love, Dave.

Now more relaxed, she aced the exam. "The flowers were so pretty; the note, the thought. Dave, what am I going to do with you?"

Commenting a year later she said "That episode spoke volumes about you Dave. The longer I know you, the more interesting and complex you become." Yet there was so much about me she did not know, even after the hundreds of stories I had told her about myself. "Dave you are so open about your life, it's as if you are setting me up. Once you told me 'you know so much about me, you would not believe the truth if I told you.' I have never been sure what you mean by that."

Then, one night as she lay in her bed thinking negative thoughts about me for failing to carry her off to my bed, she finally realized what we had sensed that night after the wedding reception, but could not put into words, it was the unmistakable feeling we were a brother-sister relationship. Realization does not bring comfort, but she also realized that her need of my friendship was far more important than sex.

We all have secrets. Some are personal, like the secret love I had for Breen when she was spoken for. Then, there are secrets that you never wanted to know in the first place. I carry one around with me and my knowledge of it has hunted me for years; it has been a most troubling burden. It was a little over two years after I had met Donna when I received a call from my Mom informing me that she had found a cardboard box with my name on it; one that had sat undisturbed in the basement. When I retrieved the box I had a hard time remembering what most of the junk was about. Old stuff from long forgotten 'this time or that time.' Then I saw the VCR tape; an unmarked black plastic tape.

I sat back in the overstuffed chair and popped the tape in the VCR. It was a home movie of Rich's wedding. I had no idea who shot it. I only remembered someone sent it to me a few weeks after the wedding and I had never bothered to watch it. There was a shot of the ushers and bridesmaids, Rich and Nancy, and the ceremony. I did not even remember who half the people were because I never knew the families or their friends from outside the Pub. With the ceremony a wrap, the scene shifts to the guests waiting outside the church for the official first appearance of husband and wife.

The cameraperson was standing in the street behind the guests. Wait. There is Donna, back to the camera. Someone is approaching her from the rear and she turns to see who it is. An old man, must be her uncle. They are talking, but I can not make out what they are saying because of the overall noise and poor sound quality. Playing the voyeur, I plug in my stereo headset and fiddle with the sound controls. Success! No, utter failure! I listened, but felt disgusted with myself; not only was I being a voyeur, but I learned more than I wanted, needed, cared to know and I can never flee from the burden the knowledge brought with it.

"So talk to him."

"Who" playfully? "Don't play games with me Donnita. The boy you have been staring at all morning."

"Oh, him," putting her arm around her uncle's waste, and in a voice that spoke of poorly hidden, simmering desire, "I don't think the family would want another local getting involved with one of their princesses."

"Sad but true, but since when have you worried about their opinions, or, for that matter considered yourself a princess? And, may I add, he likes you."

"What?" unmistakable happiness.

"I noticed that he is better than you are at sneaking looks."

"He's, ummm, I don't know what it is about him." Her desire was there, but it was far more; a heart in love.

"Not handsome enough?"

"Funny," laying her head on her uncle's shoulder, "Don't know, I just do not know."

"Will you take some advice from your old uncle?"

"Even if I said no you would tell me, but you know I value your advice."

"Donnita is Monet. She wishes people would see the importance of her total character, not just the overwhelming beauty of the flowers. She does not like Monet, and stands in front of an abstract Picasso, where no one part is more important than the whole. That young man over there is abstract Picasso, which he hates, thus stands in front of the Monet, wishing people would see each of his important qualities, and not a single judgment."

"That was deep."

"Meant to be."

"So how do opposites reconcile?"

"When you worked for me at the art gallery what did I say made one gallery shine above the others?"

"Balance of styles."

"You were always so damn smart. How do you obtain balance?"

"You place the two styles next to each other, step back, and let them talk to you." She looked at her uncle and smiled; the look of determination forming.

"So go stand next to him Donnita. And don't worry about me, Aunt Bess and I are going back to the hotel to spend some time catching up on things."

Donna gave her uncle a hug and kissed him goodbye, and as she watched him walk away, I could see unrelenting determination.

She now continued to look at me, even as Rich and Nancy made their appearance and the tape ended. I have never told Donna about the tape, which I immediately destroyed to protect her feelings; least it accidentally come to light. Donna has always tried to hide the love in her eyes when she looks at me. And I have always tried to not mislead her, while reminding her that she is a beautiful Monet.

—////—

### Chapter Fourteen

Since we had now exchanged close friends, I figured I would ask, "Who's next?"

"Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stephen of course."

"Of course, how foolish of me. So when have you planned this excursion?"

"Next weekend. I know, the opera will have to wait...don't even try to act upset, Donna told me about the 'bet ya' twenty."

I would have to stop telling Donna anything of possible value.

"You and I can drive up Friday after work. Here," reaching into her bag she pulls out a piece of paper with motel names and phone numbers, "have to be prepared with you. I'll stay at my aunt's and you get to pick a place from this list. The ones with the asterisks are the best."

"Nicer rooms?"

"You really have no idea who you are dealing with, do you," matter of fact statement, "no bars, pools, or any other amenity that could put you in contact with some hot babe."

"You don't trust me?"

"I trust you one hundred percent. I just don't want you to get any ideas while we are at my aunt's."

"How old is you aunt?"

"I am going to overlook that remark. Donna was right, you aren't housebroken." Donna and I need to talk, seriously talk. "And don't go yelling at Donna, she only has your best interests in mind."

"And you read my mind."

"Stop mumbling Dave, it's unbecoming."

In a change of plans, we took Friday and the following Monday off. We would leave early enough on Friday to make the eight hour drive and arrive in time for dinner. Also, this avoided, at least for me, a tempting motel stop. By leaving on Monday morning we could spend more time Sunday at Auntie's and, as on Friday, would get us home while it was still light.

It's 7 PM Thursday night and Dog is sitting patiently at the top of the foyer steps waiting to go to the car for the short ride to the kennel. Like a small child - bags packed and ready to leave for Disney World - Dog has been sitting there for some two hours, ever since I packed Dog's 'travel bag'. The excitement started the moment I pulled the brown paper Trader Joe's shopping bag out from under the kitchen counter. I can take out any other bag and nothing happens. But as soon as Dog sees the Trader Joe's bag – the only one with handles - it's as if Dog can read the black marker note on its side: 'Dog's. One bag of food, twice a day.' As soon as the travel bag comes out Dog will sit patiently by my leg watching me fill the individual Zip Lock bags with food, least Dog has to eat something different; watch me Zip Lock bag the ration of two dog biscuits per day, unknowing they are weight control biscuits made from the food; and the dog chew bag. Hay, I am not a complete meannie, I always 'drop' a few dog food pellets on the floor and at least one biscuit. Gives Dog the chance to dive for them 'before I can pick them up off the floor;' great game as long as you really don't try to bend down to retrieve them, because Dog is fast and heads can go bump.

So Dog now sits by the foyer steps as I move through the house preparing for the weekend trip. Laundry has to be washed. I mentioned to Donna that I had to do laundry before I went, "Good idea, clean undies in case you get lucky."

"At least this time you don't have a chance to slip a pair of Sponge Bob little boy briefs into my suitcase!"

"They were brand new, fresh out of the package...and besides Ashley thought they were cute!"

"Ashley thought I was a pervert!"

"Had nothing to do with the Sponge Bobs. It was later that night, she thought you were my brother and dropped her stupid island something or other drink all over the dance floor when I joked about a foursome."

"Well at least she did not get sick like what's his name...'I love hot peppers.'"

"Robert, and he felt real bad."

"Being sick, or is that how your leg got scratched?"

"You are a pervert Dave! That happened when we were on the bike ride." I started to laugh. Reading my mind, "I did not try to hit that old lady. She walked right out in front of us!"

"Donna, you had your head turned talking to the hot pepperman. She should be eternally grateful we decided on bikes and not motor scooters."

OK, trash has to be collected and placed outside. And, of course charge the cell phone. All the while, Dog waits patiently, never leaving the foyer.

At 9:45 I reach for the leash to take Dog outside to water the grass before lights out, and Dog goes ballistic. Dog is jumping like a kangaroo, with all four paws achieving simultaneous lift off. No matter how many times I tell Dog to stop the kangaroo routine, Dog seems to miss the concept of calmer excitement. Tonight I feel really bad because I know what's going to happen outside. Dog does not even wait to reach the bottom of the porch steps before making the charge to the Trail Blazer. Thankfully I was ready and braced for the initial lunge. Eighty pounds of midair Dog snaps the lead taught. "Tomorrow; I keep telling you tomorrow!"

When I finally turn off the living room lights, Dog is asleep at the foyer stairs. I really do feel bad because I know Dog can not comprehend the concept of tomorrow; hell Dog has trouble comprehending 'wait a second.'

Nevertheless tomorrow arrives and after a 'false start' for morning grass watering Dog finally gets to drag me to the Trail Blazer. I get in and as soon as I turn the ignition key the winning begins. See, Dog loves to get in a vehicle; it's just the idea of the vehicle actually moving that's not fun. Turn the key and winning hits you in surround sound. Get to your destination and Dog jumps out like the vehicle is on fire; then can not wait to jump back in. One day, although pre-warned, Karen wanted to take Dog with us down to the river. Dog was as quiet as a church mouse the entire ride. When we all got out of the vehicle Karen scratched Dog behind the ear, "You are the nicest dog, Dog." Looking at me, "How can you complain about Dog that way!" Dog gives me a dog's version of a smug smile. "Poor Dog, the mean man tells fibs about you."

"Karen, I'd stop winning too if a pretty woman scratched me behind the ear."

"I scratched you behind the ear once and you complained."

"You drew blood!"

"And your point is?"

We were shopping and she wanted to try a woman's hat on me; I tried to duck my head and her nails left their mark. As we walked towards the river Karen patted Dog on the head, "He's really a softy Dog."

That is until a soaking wet Dog climbed in her lap. "DOG!"

"You look like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest."

"Very funny, Dave. Why don't you come over here and I'll SCRATCH you behind the ear again!"

This morning, adding confusion to Dog's morning, I stop at Breen's first because she wants to check out the kennel. Per the impress the ladies routine, Dog stops winning and acts as if Breen is a long lost friend. Paying more attention to Dog – well I did get a nice good morning kiss - "You sure the place treats Dog nicely."

"Why is it women think more about Dog's welfare than mine?"

"Should I answer that?"

"No, from your look I think I'll drop the subject."

"Dog did I ever tell you about the time Dave made me so angry I had to take a long walk, only to find out the shit went to dinner without me and had the nerve to enjoy the food!"

"Dog...wait, what am I doing? I was going to defend my actions to Dog."

Breen rummages through Dog's travel bag, "Dave, how come Dog only gets one chew?"

"Because the mutt will only be at the kennel for four days."

"Dog is not a mutt; he's apparently the only gentleman living in your house!"

"Tell you what, leave your food on the table like Bill did and see what the 'gentleman' does with it."

"Probably learned food stealing from you, 'Mr. Do You Want Your Egg Roll.'"

With Dog now at the kennel - probably already having a doggie massage - Breen and I are heading up the road. Breen and her aunt have a special relationship, more of a mother and daughter relationship; not implying Breen does not get along with her parents.

Which reminded me, the last time Breen mentioned my name and her parents in the same sentence it was not in my favor. Well - a deep subject - we will have to cross that bridge when we come to it, and the last thing I wanted to do was raise the subject of 'how are you going to explain this to your parents?' Maybe Aunt Margaret was the way Breen planned to cross the bridge. Show up at Aunt Margaret's with Dave in tow, count on her good manners and hospitality, then let Aunt Margaret break the news to mom and pop. This was a situation I would have to keep an eye on.

The other interesting thing about this trip was Uncle Stephen; I never recalled Breen mentioning her uncle. Not that she gave the impression there was no uncle, Breen just never mentioned or referred to him. It was always 'Aunt Margaret this', 'my aunt that'. So my mind is working overtime as we make the drive; aunt and uncle, is that being polite, or is that a sign of necessary formality to announce the next step from an 'item'?

"Dave will you do something for me?"

"Wow this is a new one, Breen is asking first."

"Are you still implying I have been bossy in this relationship?"

"No, maybe dictatorial, maybe Tsar incarnate, but not bossy."

"Welllll, why do you put up with it?"

"Cause I'm in love with you, and boys are fools when they're in love."

This time it was Breen who read between the lines. She knew I may play the 'wimp' to her catch-me-if-you-can game, but it was only a role. I was willing to do this because I recognized her game was a way of maintaining the space she needed for contemplation.

"I'm not trying to be bossy. I just know how you are and I want to get things moving along, because you will take forever and a day thinking things out and making plans. I want to get all this formality and introductions out of the way. I want to get us to the point where you can read my mind, which you seem to be getting much better at, take the other night for instance...I lost my train of thought...you said we needed to become companions, friends first. I agree, but - I'm not sure how to phrase this - I have a decision to make and your actions are not going to sway it one way or another. Don't take that as a license to be a dumb shit at my aunt's, on the contrary I know you will be the perfect gentlemen companion. I need to decide who we are by Monday morning."

If I was not the driver I would have been looking at her in silent 'what?' However I was the driver, so all I could do was say, "Would you run that by me again, no, wait...let me pull over."

"Dave it's a highway!"

Now pulled onto the shoulder, "Breen, I love you. You cannot, nor do I want you to change that, it's a fact. As 'dumb shit' as it sounds I was put on this earth to love you. But I also respect your feelings. You do not have to worry about me. I don't want you to do anything against your desires to appease me. I think we've been through that once before. I just can't accept not knowing where I stand. If it's as boyfriend and girlfriend, an 'item,' fine, just keep me in perspective and take your time. If we are at the relationship leveling-off point, you have made me one happy camper by being with me. But, the big but, there are three parts to a lasting relationship, love, companionship, and sex. I think we have come to the point where you have to decide the sex issue. Is that what you were trying to tell me?"

"Yes," she was looking down and her lap, not hiding her face from me, but contemplating, "why is it you are so blunt sometimes...no," reaching out and touching my arm, "I'm not angry or upset. Not with you anyway...with me. There's a scenic rest stop just up the road, let's stop there, give me a moment to think?"

I nodded yes and I drove to the stop as Breen looked out the side window.

With the car properly parked, she asks "How long will you give me to sort out my thoughts?"

"This is not a question of days or months, it's whether you want me to wait because you are honestly sorting them out, or you know the answer and don't want to tell me."

"I don't know the answer...it has to do with...it's more than sex and I don't want to discuss it. I know you understand, the other night was one of those turning points in our relationship, you have changed Dave and I feel comfortable, safe in your arms. I need to get over something in my mind and I will not drag you along just for the ride. This trip is important. What my aunt thinks about you, us, is important, but not mind-changing important. I have already made up my mind that I want to hold your hand when we are together; it's just Ken. I never thought I would want to have another relationship. You have been so wonderful accepting my craziness. That's another reason I know you have changed. You have been so selfless when it comes to my feelings. I never thought I would ever say that to you."

Leaning over and kissing me, "do you still want to go to my aunt's?"

"Yes. You've changed yourself. You're not the girl I knew; the girl who was forced to grow up because the men in her life selfishly took. I like what you have become. Ken did good by you. I'll leave it at that." I kissed her and we resumed the trip to Aunt Margaret's.

"How did you meet your wife?"

"Linda and I met by accident, figuratively that is. I had a rental car, forgot what type it was, and was trying to find it in a crowded shopping center parking lot. I'm walking up and down the aisles using the remote to lock and unlock the doors to get the horn to sound; which by the way did not sound when you hit LOCK; the lights flashed. Anyway, as I approached a car that looked like my rental I heard the door unlock and I got in. Suddenly the lights and horn go into panic mode. I try the panic button on the fob and nothing happens. I put the key in the ignition and it will not turn. The noise is echoing off the parked cars and, to me at least, loud enough to wake the dead. I'm at a loss. Then, suddenly, the raucous stops. I hear a tapping on the glass. Startled, I look to my right and this woman is staring at me like I was trying to steal her car; because it was her car."

"Smart."

"I ease out, not wanting to scare her, and did an embarrassed, slinking of the body into the shadows of obscurity move, and mumbled something like 'oooops, sorry.' Linda just held her stare as I backed away. Of course I was not paying attention to where I was backing into and thankfully the car coming down the lane stopped before hitting me. Okay, I'm the complete fool and Linda starts to laugh. She indicates with her index finger for me to come back. She tells me that my car was one row over; she had seen the lights flash and heard the doors unlock. With a smile that was so...bright, any other word would belittle its intensity, she drives off. A few days later I was telling a friend about the incident and he says 'oh, you're the nut case that tried to steal Linda's car.' He introduced us and the rest is history."

"Is it really history?"

I looked over at her, not upset at the question, but trying to sense her concern, "Yes, has been for several years and the book is closed."

"I'm sorry for that question, really, I'm sorry."

Lightly, "You're forgiven."

"Dave, I am sorry about that remark."

"How important is it to you the book being closed?"

"Very, but I have no right to question your sincerity. Nor, you mine."

"I can agree to that."

Later while fiddling with the radio Breen asks, "How do you feel about Fred?"

"That's an interesting question."

"I did not mean as competition for Donna. Do you approve of him for Donna?"

"Yes, he's good for her. I liked him from the start and I think now that Donna has opened up to him they have started to build a lasting relationship."

"She was scared to open up to him. I could tell, woman thing, that Donna was sensitive to being venerable again in a relationship."

And so are you Breen, but I won't go there. "I agree. Donna was so much in love with Cal; so happy just to be next to him, to share her life with him. Then she was devastated. No, devastated is an understatement. Donna acts tough, but she is really no less venerable than anyone else."

"What do you like about Fred?"

"He brings conservatism to the relationship and, at the same time, a lot of me. Hope that did not sound egotistical. Breen, I know Donna is secretly in love with me."

She looked shocked, "That was an unexpected comment. I know you did not say it to make me jealous. Thank you for having the trust in our relationship to say it."

I smiled and nodded a 'you're welcome,' "Donna has always tried to hide her true feelings and I have tried to be careful not to give her any reason to believe our relationship could be more than it is. But, at times I failed in that respect and I have only myself to blame. Donna and I can joke about it, the...," I was looking for a word other than 'sex.'

"Sex. Dave, you turn each other on, or at least you did."

"Yes, we did; emphasis on 'did.' I wish could put into words how difficult it was to avoid admitting there was an underlining sexual attraction in our relationship. But, attraction is not action."

"You going to coin that one Mr. Prose?"

"That was a good one."

We laughed.

We approaching the exit before Aunt Margaret's, "Will you do me a favor?"

"Didn't we go through that about eight hours ago?"

Jokingly, "Yes, and don't pull over!"

"Okay."

"Dave, take this exit."

I raised a questioning eyebrow, but Breen just smiled and sat back, listening to the radio.

The town was called Warren's Tavern and there was not much to it but a few stores and a spattering of old single family homes. Breen wanted to stop at the Gas-'n-Go. We went inside and bought RC Colas and a Moon Pie for Breen. "Don't tell Aunt Margaret I got this, okay, cause she'll be mad at me for ruining my dessert appetite; that sort of thing." Outside again, she took my hand and we walked over to some chairs on the store's porch.

Now sitting, and definitely enjoying her Moon Pie, Breen looked at me with a schoolgirl grin, "Why didn't you get one?"

"My diet routine, watch the carbs...sooo, even though I love Moon Pies, I want to spend my carbs on the homemade stuff you said your aunt is making for us."

In an amused voice, Breen asks, "Stuff?"

"I said that in a nice way."

"David, my aunt does not make stuff. She bakes pies and cakes."

"OK, I am holding out for the wonderful pies and cakes that your aunt has lovingly, tirelessly, carefully baked for us to enjoy."

"BS, BS, BS!"

I notice she had been looking across the street, "Dave, when Donna and I first met, she said that the two of you maintained your privacy, yet could still be so close." She looks at me with a questioning look.

"We are close, but yes we have our privet lives. Then, my relationship with Donna is not what I want with you. I...Breen, I want to be open with you, but we still need some privacy...it's the balance." I could tell she understood and agreed. So I volunteered, "I overheard Donna say that she had no idea where I went soon after my divorce, and the possible sex with swans part also."

Breen giggled, "Is it a secret? I mean why is it so important to keep it from Donna?"

"I never intended it to be a secret. She never asked and I guess, eventually, as time passed, it became a 'secret.' I did not tell her right out because she would not have approved of the trip. I had planned a cruise, then I said hell, do something totally stupid. So first I went to New York, bought some strawberry cheesecake and ate it while I walked around SoHo. Bought some orange and stuffed it in my mouth as I took a tour of Chinatown."

Breen is staring at me open- mouthed, not wanting to believe what I was telling her.

"I flew to Monterey, California for some key lime cheesecake with mango sauce and watched the sea lions. Albuquerque was next. Went to Dee's Cheesecake Factory on Menaul Boulevard for amaretto cheesecake; I think it was chocolate amaretto. Strange city to have cheesecake worthy of a special trip; that's cause you need to experience it fresh served in the small shop next to the bakery."

"Flew to Del Ray, Florida for some really good, diner-style cheesecake; the kind you used to be able to buy at diners from Baltimore to New Jersey. Now you have to go to where the great diner cheesecake chefs have retired. Then, back home...cheesecaked out, if I might say, but my mind was clear."

Breen had that look of 'should I laugh or cry,' "Your mind? No wonder you kept this to yourself. I think sex with swans in Switzerland may have been easier for Donna to understand."

Moon Pie finished, she put out her hand to stop me from getting up.

Her mood took a sudden change; it became serious, deep in thought. Not knowing why, I waited. She is looking, staring at something across the street. "See that house over there, the yellow one?"

I nodded.

"I was in the upstairs bedroom, the one to the right of the door, when I decided to get married the first time. My friend Trish lived there at the time. We had just walked back from this store. I remember the day so vividly." Breen was now looking off into the distance, not at the house, but through it. "I missed the Moon Pies when we lived overseas. Funny how little things like that stay in your mind. I was here for a visit and Trish and I just talked and shoved Moon Pies in our faces for three days. Well, it seemed like a lot of them; guess I was making up for the one's I had missed and those I would miss when I left."

I had no idea what Moon Pies and marriage had in common. Nor did I have words to respond, so as to help Breen grasp what she was reaching for.

"Trish laughed at me over all the Moon Pies and made a comment about it was a good thing I was not into guys the way I was feeding myself on junk food. It was meant as a joke, but how would she know about my life in the 'big world,' as she called life outside Warren's Tavern." Breen looked at me, studied my face, "I had an instant vision of marriage as the answer to my life's problems. Marriage was the obvious step because he had been urging me to marry him. I could tell you words like 'teenage love' and 'teenage immaturity,' but Dave I never fully understood why I got married the first time."

She had stopped speaking, but her eyes told me that she was continuing the story silently to herself. In a soft, almost whisper, "I tried to be a good wife, I really did try. Maybe the cards were stacked against me from the very start because I chose someone who was so selfish he wanted to share nothing with me, just take." She paused. I nodded, reached out and took her hand. Almost to herself, "That part we have gone over before, haven't we?" I gave her hand a gentle squeeze in reply.

Breen quickly got up and looked at the house for a second or two, then turned around and looked at me again. "Maybe it was to be an adult, maybe a way to leave one's childhood home...who knows, it's past history. But the guilt of your past never really leaves..." she looks straight into my eyes..."and it rears its ugly head when you truly fall in love with someone." She paused, then, "Dave, I'm far from perfect. Don't ever think I am perfect, because I can selfishly take just as good as anyone." She is looking at me and telling me that she loves me. I keep the words forming silently in my mind; I just nod understanding. Understanding of the commitment her openness had just brought to the table.

As I stood, Breen looped her arm through mine and we walked to the car. She hesitated letting go so she could get in. This was real hesitation; hesitation of not wanting to lose me. Suddenly the table was turned. The commitment Breen's openness brought to the table was what I had always dreamed about, but this was not a game; now I had to choose to commit or walk away. I wanted to stay.

When I got in Breen leaned over and kissed me. With seatbelt buckled, Breen leaned against me, placing her head on my shoulder. I started to place the car in gear, but she took my right hand off the gear shift, raised it to her lips, and kissed the back of my hand. "Dave, please stop thinking I am perfect. I can read your mind." Still having no words to say, I just squeezed her hand and pressed the side of my head against hers. Breen reached out and turned the radio on, knowing the mood had to lighten up, "Music time." We completed the trip to her aunt's house in a peaceful, oneness.

The car is half way into the driveway of Aunt Margaret's when three little dogs come charging out of the garage, followed by Uncle Stephen carrying a shotgun and visibly annoyed at the yapping dogs; a face that hinted this was the usual situation. This old guy, pushing 80, ambles up to the driver side window as I bring the car to a rest, shotgun cradled in his left arm, and stands there looking at me.

Breen has said nothing other than, "here comes Uncle."

Having been close to this situation once before at a bar-store-gas pump place in backwoods North Carolina, I do the only thing you can, I get out and look at the three yapping mutts and to her uncle, "how far do you want me to toss them, skeet or trap?"

"Breen's aunt would be real upset if I took you up on that. I've been banished to the garage while the house is kept spotless for you two, not that she'd let me get anything out of place anyway...so I thought Breen can find her own way into the house while you and I shoot some groundhogs."

I look over to Breen, who is already half way to the house, "It's OK, my aunt will understand."

"They're two peas in a pod," reaching out and shaking my hand. So off I go with Breen's uncle to take care of some pesky groundhogs.

"You know Dave...do you mind if I call you Dave...Breen calls me Uncle Steff...if that's OK with you...I need to warn you that Breen's aunt is putting on the Ritz for you. Ken was the only boy Breen has ever brought over." As if he needed to complete a thought for himself, "unless you count that other one, but that mistake started and ended without real introductions. Oh, Breen may think her aunt is in the dark sometimes, but I never understood why. The two of them are like peas in a pod...read your mind like a well-worn book. Breen is like a daughter to us. With her and our own children grown and living hither and yonder, like their visits, Breen's are real nice. Ken was almost family, church, his mom. You knew that, I can tell. My wife and I have an understanding...she runs my life and I run my mouth. That's probably why she wanted me to be out of the house; knowing I would take the father to the 'young man standing on the porch' role. Oh, we really are going to try and nab a groundhog."

We're now sitting on a felled tree, Uncle Steff pointing to a clod of dirt that marked just one of the many holes that had made the field unsafe for horses. "Breen may have tried to hide it, but she was smiling when she got out of the car, knew I would be talking to you. See if I didn't like you I would have said hello and ignored you."

"Blunt, to the point. Thanks,"

One dead groundhog later we walked back to the house, "By the way, I didn't forget about Dave, the one up here. He pines for Breen, but I hate to say this, guy never had a chance; thankfully."

—////—

### Chapter Fifteen

The house was as Uncle Steff said, in order. Breen's aunt was a gracious hostess, and a great cook. It was a comfortable house, a nice house. Since Breen and I had stopped for supper along the way, we gathered in the kitchen for a nice dessert; coffee and 'how's the weather' small talk. Then it was into the living room for the real talk. If I thought Ve had done some probing and prodding, Aunt Margaret was ten times worse, but far better at it. But thanks to Uncle Steff, I felt up to the task of sweet talking Aunt Margaret into letting me hold Breen's hand in church. I also discerned from the conversation that it was a good thing we had Saturday to prepare to meet the 'women' at church on Sunday. I was not sure what we had to do to prepare, other than get comfortable around Breen's aunt and uncle; I thought we might enter the church with linked arms in solidarity.

The motel I picked was about five miles from the house. I had not even settled into the room when Breen calls, "You got an 'A,' and you did not even send flowers this time."

"Thanks, but your aunt and uncle liked the candy."

"OK, you also get an 'A' for the candy."

"Breen, your uncle likes me."

"So does my aunt. But don't take 'like' as the same thing as instantly trusting you with my heart. Regardless of how old I am, they will always think of me as their little girl. Do you realize how old we are? Seriously, their oldest granddaughter is as old as I was when we first spent time together."

"And your point is?"

"I'm not the eighteen year old you first met..."

I cut her off. "Breen, I'm not complaining!"

"You're not the twenty-three year old I met either. Good night Dave."

"Night Breen."

On Saturday morning before I had a chance to come over to the house Breen called and said she and her aunt were going to visit Ken's mother. Breen had told me that she was not looking forward to seeing her under the current circumstances; apprehensive to say the least.

Spending most the day with Uncle Steff was interesting; interesting was the best way to describe it. He was not sure, nor was I, as to what and how much we could talk about. I liked that, Uncle Steff respecting Breen's privacy and my privacy. But like Uncle Steff said when we met, there was no doubt as to the reason we had been left alone by the women.

So, sitting in the kitchen, eating a lunch of sandwiches and drinking ice tea, we discussed as much of the weather, town, city, history of the area, etc. there was left to discuss, and we just sat there looking at each other. In a move that would have made Donna proud I spoke up. "You and Aunt Margaret have a great relationship, what's your advice?"

Uncle Steff gave that some thought, sizing me up. Knowing something of my past and current relationship with Breen, it was one thing to be nice to me because I was Breen's friend, but it was something entirely different answering this question.

"Um, give me a moment. Dave, when I was young I gave a lot of concern to becoming mature. You know, talking like I was mature, wearing the right clothes in public...that's the best example. I wore a suit to the bank, I wore a short sleeve white shirt and tie to go shopping, that's the way adult men dressed, so that's how I dressed."

"One day, not long after Aunt Margaret and I married, I was dressed for work, suit and tie, and Aunt Margaret was standing by the kitchen door waiting for the off to work goodbye kiss. I remember it like it was yesterday. I gave her a peck on the cheek and she reaches up, grabs my tie, right at the base, good grip on it, pulls my head down level to hers, and places a finger on my lips to keep me from talking. 'Tisk, tisk,' she tells me, 'tisk, tisk, mister, you may wear a suit and tie to work and have sights on an office with your name on the door, but don't you ever lose sight of me. I don't care if you're a hundred and five, when you kiss me it better be like a teenager in love'."

"That moment we kissed with the passion of two teenagers. You know, now don't repeat this, cause I'll deny it, Aunt Margaret was right. I'm going to be 79 in two months and my bride will be - that's not important - let's just say younger than me. Age and maturity has nothing to do with how young you feel here in your heart," tapping his heart for emphasis. "We may have joints that ache, but that's nothing how my teenage heart aches when I am away from her."

I was floored that he was so candid with me.

About 2 PM – just before I went back to the motel for a few hours - I was discussing with Uncle Steff ways to secretly terminate the dogs, Breen called and said everything was fine. Uncle Steff was pleased, smiled to himself. Later, as he sorted out the day's mail, he made a to-the-point comment, "Dave, Breen and her aunt are two peas in a pod," and left it at that.

When I arrived back at the motel I saw the light on the phone flashing to alert me to a message. There were three messages from Donna, all the same "Need to talk, CALL!" I did.

Donna jumped right into the conversation, "Do you remember the day you told me about Breen coming back into your life?"

"Yes, but what has that to do with urgent call me messages?"

"I need to tell you something and don't interrupt!"

"Okay, but can we be a little less melodramatic?"

"OK...Dave...sorry. Do you remember the Saturday we met and you told me about you and Breen bumping into each other?"

"Yes Donna, I remember you telling me to treat every woman as someone special, all women in their own right were Barbie dolls."

"Thanks Dave, that's what I need to talk about. Well, not just the Barbie doll part, but...don't know where to start." 'Don't know' was a sign Donna was in deep thought, her cue to 'listen, please just listen.'

"I had stayed home on Friday with a cold. Okay, to set the record straight, I had been home because I did not want to trudge to work in the downpour. Spent the day going through my collection of newspapers. You know how, for good intensions, I subscribe to four papers. However, for an assortment of excuses I had neglected to read any papers for over a week."

Donna liked to read newspapers like most people read novels. For Donna, papers are a window to the ever changing human race; from human interest events, too nice to know information, like how to make a salad from six types of apples, to the ads for clothes.

"That day you called me about Breen, Saturday, I had been looking out the window of my apartment when I saw the first rays of sunshine in three days. Remember it had rained so hard the day before and I had thought about calling the local church to see if they were taking Ark reservations."

That Saturday morning the sun was peeking through the clouds and the rains had moved north to pester another town.

"I needed to get out of the apartment and you gave me a purpose to my travels, the red dress."

Now I was at a total loss, but knew better than to interrupt her chain of thought.

"I had a mountain of work piling up at the office and since receiving the first crank letter I had found it difficult to concentrate on Fred. Regardless of my concerns at work I was preparing to move the Fred relationship into high gear, thus the red dress.

"As I pictured myself in the red dress I thought such inspiration, country music was dangerous. But all the blame was not yours, it was also Fred's because he is so much like you. Fred thinks too much about love, and I decided he needed to be jumpstarted into the next phase of our relationship. Poor Fred, like you, he is so unaware of the manipulative nature of a woman in love! The phone rang and I remember hopping across the room trying to put on my sock while grabbing for the phone. It was you."

I told her, "I remembered the conversation. You had answered 'And speaking of Dave, good morning!' I think the exchange went something like 'Excuse me, but how did you know?' To your 'No excuses, you ran out of them years ago. Just a guess, I was thinking about you.'"

"And you asked if I had Voodoo."

"Then Miss Sarcasm says 'Actually I was thinking that I would give you one last chance to marry me, but never mind, Mandy said you were terrible in the sack.' Such nonchalance before morning coffee took me by surprise."

"You did not barb back very well Dave."

"I know, and you sensed something was up and decided to test me with, 'Mandy said you left the light on, something about your shoe being eaten by her dog.'"

Donna counters, "And you were so flustered you stuttered something like," mock whinny voice, 'First off, you have never spoken to Mandy, who by the way would never own a dog, much less let one in the bedroom, and secondly that was not Mandy it was...forget it!' Touchy that morning, weren't you?"

"Donna, I called to tell you I needed some advice, and based on your response to my plea I wondered which sister was home, the good one or the evil stepsister. Then you stepped into the good one's personality asking, 'How serious?'"

I said very.

"And was it 'Work, love, or sports?'"

"'Love."

"But I did say the doctor was in, didn't I?"

"No, you said the doctor has an opening; you paused, then asked if I was buying lunch."

"And all you offered was dessert!"

"But you agreed, and said let's meet at Page & Cup."

"Well, I thought at the time meeting you at my favorite coffee haunt would be good for both of us, because as I told you I needed your advice as well. Wanted to know if the red dress I had bought to wear when I went out with Fred the next day was appropriate. Of course you responded 'Appropriate? Appropriate for what? Besides, I've only met Fred once.' Dave, I thought it was obvious, appropriate for entrapment, why else would I wear it!"

Donna pauses, she kind of 'hummmms' to herself, then "No sooner had we sat down, you launch into the story of Breen walking back into your life. Talk about an eye opener. Damn Dave." She started laughing and to explain the humor, "No, not what you said, but at my pun, because while listening to your story of Breen, I kept an eye on your peach pie, ordered with good intentions, but from your expression it was apparent you would probably not eat it. That's why I ordered tea, which came with a large gingersnap cookie, leaving room for the pie you would eventually shove across the table to me."

Real interruption time, "is the peach pie important?"

"No, just adding flavor to the conversation."

"That's adding color, flavor is for cooking."

"Anyway! You continued your saga of Breen and I enjoyed the pie at your expense, literally and figuratively. But, I also began to silently wonder if you and I had grown old. Breen was from the past. How long ago is 'past?' Or, when do memories of the past become 'once upon a time' events that took place so many years ago the events have lost their physical properties? Did Sleeping Beauty wake up to only find a Prince Charming who was a generation younger and unable to relate to the life she had before the deep sleep? That troubled me, now divorced and wondering if the physical and mental reflection I see each morning in the mirror is the same vision the world sees. What did Fred see when he looked at me? That's why in typical 'Donna obtuse style' I asked has Breen physically changed? And you answered honestly. Then you hesitated, realizing you had almost missed the intent of my question. You said 'this has to do with you, doesn't it?' Yeah, I wanted to know if I had changed."

"Dave I know I had changed over time; see that's why when you described Breen as a Barbie doll I was still mentally battling the thoughts of aging thanks to your prior comments about Breen. I had listened to enough. If anyone else would have been across from me I would have quieted-up and let the silence speak for my contempt. But this was Dave and the thought of Dave wanting to find his Breen still perfect in the face of the years, as if she were Sleeping Beauty waking up in the arms of Prince Charming, was too much. I forgot myself and...okay, I want you to know, I allowed my true feelings for you take control, thinking 'damn Dave, now I'm too old for you!' Guess I jumped in with both feet and defended not only myself, but women in general."

What was going on here? I was starting to get concerned that Donna was making a last effort pitch for me. "You told me every woman is important, every woman was a Barbie doll...Love Breen because she is special to you, but treat her as you would all women."

"Dave I knew I caught you off guard...guess today as well, but it brought you down to earth. We're still brother and sister, cheek kisses and no groping when you hug me"

"When have I ever groped you?"

"Lighten up Dave," she chuckled at that. "When I climbed down from the soapbox I was thankful the part about women in general had hidden my true words from your ears."

She started talking slower, as if thinking out loud, "I left the Page & Cup angry with myself for letting you get to me like that, and driving home I was plagued with thoughts of self-doubt. Why did my heart keep coming back to you, you did nothing consciously to reignite these flames of desire. After all this time I still loved you. Was this any different from your love for Breen all these years? Lot's to get off my chest here, so hang on. And get thoughts of my breast out of your mind! Wait; that was not a very good witticism for several reasons, which will become apparent."

"So why was I slipping into a red dress? What reason did I have to feel doubts about the growing relationship with Fred? That night while reading a woman's magazine I saw an article on breast enhancement. I suddenly dropped the magazine on the bed and stared into the far corner of the bedroom, emotionally lost. For the third time in my life I admitted to myself that I had allowed my confidence to be shaken. The first time was just before I met you at Nancy's wedding. Thankfully I did meet you and our relationship was instrumental in my confidence returning. The second was when Cal broke my heart. Even when my confidence took a hit when Cal 'found someone cuter' you were there to prop me up. But not the night of the red dress, you were lost to me, blinded by your quest for Breen. That's what I was thinking; of course it was not true."

"So, as the needle said to the thread, I looked at the before and after pictures that accompanied the article on breast enhancement. I asked myself what is it men find attractive about the woman in the picture. I had never worried about my body because I am naturally slender and keep in shape. OK, I have small breasts; but I am fully aware that I fill out a dress with firmness and curves that can strike a raw nerve in women I meet for the first time. Vain, sure. I put down the magazine and turned out the reading light next to the bed, then remembering that I had forgotten the bathroom light. As I reached in to turn off the bathroom light I saw my profile in the vanity mirror. Is that why they call it a vanity? Dave, this is when thoughts of breast enhancement, what had started out as an 'insider joke,' became serious."

"A few evenings later, the day of your lunch date with Breen, you came over for dinner. We talked about your lunch experience. I used the rose blush bra incident to open the door to your thoughts on breast enhancement. Thankfully you said the idea was a non-starter, as had two of my good female friends at work. Dave you made sense and I value your opinions because you are always honest with me. Still, I thought, what did Fred think?"

"Which brings us to today. I'm not at home, that's why I asked you to call the cell phone."

"Where are you?"

"Fred's parent's house, I flew down on Thursday. Can you stand another long story?"

"Of course." Strange, she did not tell me that she was going. Was that a good sign, independence from my influence, or a bad sign, a rash decision? No, from the last half hour it became obvious that Donna had not rushed into this. Hope her cell phone battery holds out.

"The cab was late, more than a half hour late, and I was pacing in front of the apartment window. I had chosen to wait inside, a good thing because the weather had turned damp; rain was forecasted later in the day. I was not sure if it was the fact I would now be late arriving at the airport or the pending rain that had pushed up my aggravation? Neither issue mattered in the long run, for I knew the stress of meeting Fred's parents for the first time was paramount. Yep, going to meet Mom and Pop and I wished for the hundredth time I had taken Fred's advice and got the car fixed, 'it's the battery, just get a new battery.' But no, I am now waiting for a cab and I knew full well that it was my defiance that kept me from taking his advice; defiance against aging. You are right, I hate getting older and I allow no one, not you, not Breen, nor Fred make me face reality. What the car battery has to do with age was irrelevant I thought as the cab finally pulled to a stop in front of the complex. It was simply not admitting that anything, man or machine, wore out or aged."

This was an interesting turn of events, Donna had voiced that she recognized her abhorrence with getting older. And I recognized the conversation, if this was a conversation - the what little I was adding - was only half way there.

"So I'm settled in the cab and now safely on my way to the airport for the flight to Florida; where I am by the way. I chuckled to myself at the thought of trashing the 'meet the parents' trip and hoping a plane to Vegas. But no, this I would do for Fred. Even if there was not a Fred, you were too wrapped-up in Breen to drop everything and go to Vegas with me. 'Fred, you're stuck with me, displeasure, brooding mood and all.' I did miss Fred and, regardless of the depressive thoughts of meeting his folks, I knew it meant being with him and that was what I wanted."

"Donna, hold on a sec," I put the phone down and answered my cell phone. It was the young girl from the kennel. "Is it okay to take Dog swimming in the owner's pool?" Damn, I get the Ritz of Small Ville and Dog gets spa deluxe. "Sure, just keep an eye on any alcoholic drinks, he's a sloppy drunk." "You're so funny, thanks." Relieved there was nothing wrong, "Okay, I'm back. Kennel business."

"She still likes to call you?"

"She is twenty-two!"

"And your point?"

"Do you want to change the subject, or continue with your tale?"

"T a i l?"

"Story, Donna, STORY."

"Ok; touchy. Thankfully I made the flight. I was so stressed that I drifted off to sleep almost the same time we reached cruising altitude. My dreams were of New York and jazz clubs, of dinning at a small café, of the first time I really kissed, kissed you. Of how, not long ago, just before your dinner party - when you stopped over and left your ice cream melting in your car - I told you of my jealousy of Breen; of losing you to Breen. Sure I couched it in terms of friendship, brother and sister, of underlining love, but hiding my true feelings, the feelings I had that New Year's Eve, the kiss, the one that lasted for what seemed forever. You said twenty minutes, I said less than five, but I had finally told you I enjoyed it. Then I warned you off, to protect myself, to protect you, and because I like Breen, honestly like, but nevertheless envy Breen."

"Fred was waiting at the airport entrance hall, flowers and a box from Cartier. Thank you Dave, cause I know my Bro helped him out! He is so much like you Dave. Is it wrong to say that's what first attracted me, that's what gave me the desire to deepen our relationship"

"I only told him what time Cartier closed. He did everything else, and I really had no idea what he was buying."

"Sure! I do love the ring!"

For Donna, a relationship had to be a partnership. I would never have been a partnership, I am companionship. Partnership was the whole extent of the heavens, Toto caelo. It was an ideological difference from companionship, not the traditional definition of words. I wanted to share life equally with Breen, but Breen and I are too strong of will to cede total ground; a line never to be crossed. Fred never doubted his love for Donna and wanted to share the air he breathed with her. He also knew how to please her with word and deed, with silence and touch, with a single rose or the sapphire and diamond ring that Fred had just given her. I did not lie; Fred told me what he purchased when he returned from New York.

"Tired of listening? Cause I need to tell you about the billboard"

"No. A little confused. What billboard?"

"I haven't told you yet!"

"OK, continue telling me about the story."

"You thinking about tails?"

"Donna!"

"Breen's going to pick up the job of keeping you in line; won't miss it cause I have Fred! So, we were in the rental heading for Mom and Pop's condo, easing down the highway, passing small communities and shopping centers, when a billboard picture of some guy caught my eye and triggered mind association. Once, when I was twenty-four and at a party at the Mayflower in D.C., a Congressman propositioned me. I was not impressed that he had a room at the hotel. One night stands are demeaning, but preplanned one night stands are more than demeaning. It was poor taste and a sign of an inferiority complex. 'You're passing up a shot at a Congressman?' he had the nerve to say, and with an air of importance, I might add. I responded 'see that person over there,' pointing to a way too short skirted, twenty- if she was that old - something; 'impress her. If you don't have the balls to be a real man, at least proposition a girl, not a woman!' The sarcasm went over the guy's head, but I felt good. A year later I read about the jerk being busted for picking up a prostitute working the bottom end of South Capitol Street. I've always wondered if he had planned to take her to the Mayflower."

"Okay, so here's the rest of the story. I'm thinking about the Congressman and Fred brings me back to today, 'please don't bow to Mom, she hates that!' My retort was 'Freddy, the last time I bowed to anyone was at my twenty-first birthday party and I was not being polite, get the point?' He ceded the point, called me 'Miss Pun,' and said that you had warned him about my ruthlessness at the points game. You seem to relish the opportunity to pay me back for giving advice to Breen, so we're going to have a talk when I get back!"

"Paybacks can be sweet."

"Dave, I love Fred and I would never allow myself to get too far ahead of him in the points game," pause, "sorry, I have been wondering around in the wilderness haven't I?"

"That's alright. I'm the last person to keep a story short. Is this a story? I'm still confused."

"Dave, the one time I felt that you had let me down was your failure to read Cal; no, you read Cal, you just failed to warn me. I know you regretted not stepping in and trying to persuade me not to get so involved. By then it was too late, for I had become too 'in love' to hear anything you had to say about Cal. In truth, why would you know anymore then me that Cal's professed love would fade with time. Still, I silently harbored feelings of being let down. Maybe it was guilt transferred. Maybe I sensed my own failings in you, because we mirror each other. I honestly felt you had let me down. However, this feeling would never come between us, time has already proven that. What the 'Cal' experience did was cause me to rely on my own instincts about Fred. And as for you and Breen, Dave, I said as much in the words 'can I trust you to be alone in the world.' There. Done."

"Wait! All this was a lead up to you and me being on our own in love land?"

"Oh, the Congressman, I forgot about the Congressman. When I met Fred's parents, I'll tell you that story tomorrow..."

"Not tomorrow," but nicely, "I have plans."

"OK, damn, what a party poop. The guy on the billboard is the son of the bitch!"

"Donna, I doubt that, you met the guy...a few years ago."

"Nice recovery Dave. No, not the old guy, but the son of the old guy."

"No shit. Donna...do me a favor."

"Sure."

"Where is Fred?"

"He's playing golf and having dinner with his dad, why?"

"Because you called me to say you miss him, you need him next to you, and you're afraid he may not spend his every moment with you."

Quiet. "You think you're right, don't you?"

"Am I?"

"Yeah; I had a real bout of scares there didn't I?"

"Donna, the favor you said you would do, this is it. Do not drive to the country club or call him there, do not eat any junk food, and do not call anyone else. Just take your right hand and place a kiss on the tips of your fingers. Do it. Now, make a fist and hold the kiss. That's a kiss from your brother to remind you that I will always be there for you, family."

"That's the favor?"

"That's it."

"Dave, thanks for listening to me."

"Thanks for calling me, Sis."

After I hung up the phone I had to admit that I was still confused, but knew that I had been there for her. She had unburdened herself with the last thoughts of me and was now totally Fred. I was happy for Donna and I hoped the same for Breen and myself.

I looked at my watch and realized I was going to be late getting back to Aunt Margaret's.

As I drove back I could not help but think about what Donna said, about the past. Breen was from the past. How long ago is 'past?' Or, when do memories of the past become 'once upon a time' events that took place so many years ago the events have lost their physical properties? Did Sleeping Beauty really wake up to only find a Prince Charming who was a generation younger and unable to relate to the life she had before the deep sleep?

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### Chapter Sixteen

So on Sunday it was off to church as a group; not a 'family,' but not 'family and guest.' Oh, when the two returned from their visit with Ken's mom and shopping I was promoted, or maybe demoted, from guest, as I was given the task of potato washer/peeler; almost to 'family.' Aunt Margaret drove a ten year old gray Buick sedan; the last car she intended to buy, thankfully. She had insisted she drive to church Sunday morning. A tradition, a need to remain independent, and a means to show she approved of me. I learned very quickly that impressions were important in this area of the country; which was small town, traditional, conservative values. Yes, we were on our way to meet the rest of the women, as Breen and Uncle Steff referred to them.

We picked up Ken's mother on the way. I got out of the car, was introduced, and was warmly received; everything was fine, just as Breen had said. I felt happy for Breen, knowing she could now relax; and told her so later that day. I was in front and Breen, Ken's mother and Uncle Steff were in the back. When we had got in the car at the house Uncle Steff commented that at Breen's age she did not need a chaperone.

Aunt Margaret drove the Buick as if she were driving a tank; you did not want to have your Vette parked anywhere nearby. Also, braking was STOP; seems she had forgotten the process of slowing down. Stopping like this cannot help but draw attention to yourself. Heads turned, but I am sure it was more than Aunt Margaret's slam on the brakes stop, which she likely did every Sunday. No they turned because of who would exit the car. This would be something to talk about for at least the next few months.

I could have kissed Ken's mom, she got out, immediately took my arm and led me over to one of the women and introduced me as Breen's boyfriend. This was not planned, taking Breen, Aunt Margaret, and Uncle Steff totally by surprise. All was well and I felt even Aunt Margaret looked more relaxed. When we got back at the house I overheard Uncle Steff tell her that she had "...worried for nothing. Women!"

During arrival introductions, during the church service, and during the social minutes that followed Dave, the other one, was part of the shadows trying to blend in like lavender wallpaper. I paid no attention to him, and Breen bless her Christian heart, did try to say hello. But Dave would have nothing to do with us; he just visibly sulked like a child whose parents won't give him money for the ice cream man. Did I care? Yes and no. I felt bad for him, but I was not going to lose sleep over it. During the service Dave would steal a glance, OK stare, out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth was set like someone forgot the sugar for the lemonade. Jealousy, anger, and unwarranted feelings of betrayal. Uncle Steff had echoed Breen's comments that Breen befriended Dave and had never given him reason to feel there was, or could be, anything more than what there was. I felt no jealousy towards Dave, nor towards anyone else for that matter, because either Breen and I were an 'item,' or never would be. I trusted her to respect my feelings since that was the only way she would trust me with hers.

The women all said goodbye to me no differently than Breen's family; I am not making believe they accepted me completely, because I am sure some held out hope for Dave and others felt widowship should be a lifelong avocation. On Saturday Uncle Steff had commented that should he ever die he would like Aunt Margaret to find another husband, a comment that was just made and totally out of context for what we were talking about; hear it and move on. Nevertheless, its value was not missed on my behalf. That weekend I learned a lot about Uncle Steff, Aunt Margaret, Ken's mom, strong family ties, and the meaning of 'tisk, tisk.'

Not more to tell about Sunday, until seven that night. Breen and I were at the local, small town, no mint chocolate chip, nice family ice cream place, not even really talking, just letting the nervousness of the weekend pass, relaxing before our road trip in the morning. Who should walk in, the other Dave with one of the ladies I had seen at church. Obviously Dave wanted to say something. His expression left no doubt he was checking me out, and not a friendly checking. Now he was probably kicking himself for this opportunity of seeing Breen away from her aunt. Not only was I with Breen, but a woman was with him. I had the impression Dave would have quickly forgotten he was with someone if I was not there. Tough luck Dave.

Breen said hello, the woman said hello, Dave said a mumbled hello, and me, I said hello. We ignored Dave's stares as we at our ice cream and when it was time to leave Breen said goodbye to the two as we walked to the door.

That night Donna's Sleeping Beauty remark was still haunting my brain. I was not going to call Donna back and spoil her mood by unburdening myself of any last 'pastnesses.' But falling asleep that night was difficult as my thoughts kept going back to the day Breen closed the door on my life.

So who was the Dave who Breen sent packing so many years ago, never to be heard from again? Not that my life was in any great shape, not that I would instantly grow up, become responsible, stop treating women as objects of fleeting attention, stop the partying, stop the daydreaming of what I wanted to be and accept responsibility. No, my life did not instantly change. As for my moving on to a lasting relationship with a woman, I recognized I needed to mature. My surrender to Breen's charms was pathetic; but my selfishness of need was, to me, disgusting. I had to learn to pick myself up off the floor and put her memory behind me. I had to stop sitting alone amongst the crowd, crying in my beer. I had to forget her and stop using the hurt as an excuse for my actions.

I may have been harsh on myself, but the harshness resulted in maturity. The process was slow. In the subsequent days, then months I dissected and analyzed my life, trying to find the answer. Oddly, inspiration arrives in the most improbable wrapping. For me inspiration arrived while watching _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_. I fell for Teri Garr as she stood in the kitchen while her world started to spin out of control. How could her husband, Richard Dreyfuss' character, ever think of leaving HER to follow some spacecraft.

Like all of us, I never expect to live a 'movie' life or be the perfect person described in love stories. I needed to be at peace with myself, peace by accepting who I was physically and mentally. Accept my physical imperfections, see my gifts, and put aside daydreams of walking into that kitchen, punching out Richard Dreyfuss and living happily ever after with Teri Garr. Be real! Daydream of winning the lottery instead, you have a far greater chance. I opened my eyes to reality.

Then my acquaintance Jackie opened my eyes to what the Pub was for me, a crutch. I recognized that if I really wanted to get over Breen, to change as a person I had to throw down the crutch and learn to walk on my own. I left the Pub on Trinity Street; I left the people there - they did nothing for my life but feed my self-pity – and I moved on with my life.

Pictures I had taken of Breen eventually became just one more photograph in my past, the album sitting unopened. Her letters became mere souvenirs, as did the items she had given me, now left in a box. Life goes on, we move on and the physical things associated with the emotional memories, also become memories, some to revisit, but some only by chance. One day you meet someone else and that person deserves your full attention, you close the book on a chapter of your life. You recognize a journey has ended and a new one has begun.

Which brings us back to fairy tales. The true facts surrounding my first days with Breen had become distorted. I wanted to understand, and in the process of the self-analysis, the facts became distorted. As the years passed, the distorted facts became more fiction than fact. Fiction became fact. And one day, when faced with an uncomfortable life, I reached back into the corner of my mind for those old memories. The fiction was far more pleasant than the underlying facts. I had to recognize it takes two to fail a relationship and images of the past became the honey to sweeten the medicine.

In the morning, having checked out of the motel, I drive over to pick up Breen and to say goodbye to Aunt Margaret and Uncle Steff, who made believe he was going to stuff the dogs into the trunk of my car while Aunt Margaret fed me another slice of cake. As I am carrying Breen's suitcase to the car, this old Ford comes into view and slows down as it passes the driveway for a long look. "Don't do something rash Dave," its Uncle Steff whispering from behind me.

"No way, if I did Aunt Margaret would cut off my ration of cake and pies." But I had to do something, so I walk down to the end of the driveway and checked the mailbox. Of course it was empty, because it was too early for the mail.

"It's too early for the mail," a dry voice emanates from the Ford. "Yep, too early," and I walk over and place my hands on the bottom of the window frame, "too early for the mail, and since I just had some really delicious cake that Aunt Margaret made fresh just for me, I guess there's no point wasting my time asking if you want to go somewhere and talk over coffee. I'm willing to pay the bill, Dave!"

Dave was small town and city sarcasm went over his head; but the calm, measured tone of my comment got the message across. If Dave was going to say something, he thought better of it, placed the Ford in gear and drove off.

When I got back to the porch Uncle Steff asked me what I said. When I told him, Uncle Steff asked if I would have 'paid' for the coffee.

"For Breen I would pay for a lot more than coffee."

"I better check on the dogs, you may not have been joking about picking up their tab and I would be the one stuck explaining their disappearance," laughing on his way inside the house.

"What's so funny," Breen asking as she passed Uncle Steff.

"You know, man stuff, have to check on the dogs."

Final goodbyes said, we head back to the city.

As we drove back Breen was deep in thought, so I used the opportunity to think about the visit and what the weekend would really mean tomorrow morning. My mind drifted along the street of memories as the car drifted down the highway.

We traveled back from Breen's aunt's house in relative silence, Breen lost in thought. Outside the earth still was rotating, the grass and flowers still swayed in the breeze, and I am sure raindrops were falling somewhere. But in the car it was as if time was unimportant as Breen contemplated what was on her mind. We stopped for lunch and I doubt Breen remembers what she ate.

As we neared home, where the highway parallels a river, Breen wanted to stop at the same scenic overlook we stopped at on the way up. She asked me to wait by the car and started to walk along the waist-high wall at the edge of the overlook. Breen stopped about thirty feet away and stood looking out towards the river valley. I leaned against the car and forced myself to look away from her, not wanting to bother her.

The sky was an expanse of blue that defied the word blue as we know it. It was a blue of everlasting depth and exhilarating warmth of the soul. The few clouds only added to the magnificence and gave height to the heavens.

Restless standing by the car, I had moved to the wall. I felt Breen move next to me and we silently stood there looking at the river below with no expectations, just allowing the restfulness of its flow to carry away the last vestments of trepidation. The scenic splendor around us echoed the joy of our hearts. I had never felt this way before. As I contemplated what words of ode I would sing of the treasure that now stood beside me, a hawk moved on the air currents to my left. My thoughts stopped, I watched, I just followed the bird's movement as it searched for something my human eyes would never see.

'Human eyes would never see,' how prophetic. What had I missed? What had I not seen? Words of love and devotion splintered and my mind was suddenly filled with a single question I had failed to ask, yet this last piece of the puzzle had lingered in the recesses of my heart. My promise to myself was to ask what had to be addressed and chance losing Breen, or fear losing her by not asking.

Placing my arm around her waist and lowering my head to emphasize my seriousness, "Breen, why did you come back?"

"Curiosity...mixed with needing to touch my past."

"Thank you for being honest. Why did you ever let me be part of your past? Our first time together, our trip, it was a complete failure on my part. You even told me that you did not enjoy the experience, nor the next. But there was a next, why?"

"I needed someone and I am not ashamed to admit it. You were that someone for as long as there was no one else. I am truly sorry." She laid her head on my shoulder.

As soft and needing as I could invoke in words, "what about now? Are you looking again?"

"I deserve that. At first, before I saw you. Then, I don't know how to explain what happened...Dave, please don't judge me for crossing mountains." She lifted her head and looked into my eyes, calling out to me.

Another reference to a Patty Loveless song; _When Fallen Angels Fly_. I wondered if she knew I had worn out that CD. "Yeah, 'we've both been wrong and right'. We have both loved someone else and that should not be changed."

Her head once more against my shoulder, I knew our relationship had grown stronger. She was comfortable, secure. It was a sense of security being with me; my being a part of her life.

Breen said nothing for a while, just resting her head on my shoulder, then "It was selfish of me to think about using you. I saw you a couple of weeks before I spoke to you. My insides took a jolt I never expected to feel. It was as if I had somehow crossed back in time. The worst part was realizing seeing you made me happy. How could I do that to Ken? Sure he wanted me to find someone new, to carry on with life, but words are so much easier than reality. I was ashamed that my heart fluttered and I was ashamed that all these years I had thought I had no feelings for you. Please, don't say anything, not yet. You tell me how much you pined for me, how much you ached at the thought of never seeing me again. Me, I convinced myself that I never wanted to see you again, and I found true love, so it was easy to do that. What do we do now?"

"I'm not in competition with his memory, can't be."

"I know. I don't want you to be. I want us to have a chance no matter how complicated and confusing this whole thing is. Dave, I know you love me. I saw it in your eyes that very first moment years ago when you held your silence, even if you tried to keep it a secret. I saw it when we were together, but I convinced myself to disregard it. I saw it again when you turned to look at me in the coffee place...I just need to find a way to show you how much I love you...I'm not sure you want me to, or can trust me."

"You just said you loved me. Tell me again."

"I love you," sealed with a kiss. "Hold me."

I did, and when my arms wrapped around her she asked me to hold her tighter. For what seemed like an eternity she was content to press against me. Then she buried her face in my chest and started to cry. They were personal tears and I knew the reason, I felt like the lowest person on earth. But I held her as tight as I could. When she stopped crying she looked up at me and placed her fingers over my mouth to keep me from speaking, "For two people who have traveled life's journey we still have a lot to learn about love, don't we?"

"Yep."

"But the important thing is that we have always loved each other. Just, our lives had to take different roads, different journeys. What matters is we have found each other again."

"Breen, do you want me?"

"Yes, I want you. Let's give ourselves the chance to travel together. You told me the difference between need and want. I took that as your way of telling me how it had to be between us...not half way, not just for today, but for always. That's what I needed to answer when we went to Aunt's house. It was not about giving my body to you again, that would simply be sex. It was 'wanting to give you me, Breen the person, because I get you in return." She kissed me as if it was the first time we had ever kissed and I felt the desire; the doors opening to her, no longer guarded, no longer afraid to accept my entry. As our lips parted she asked "What about you?"

I answered by taking her deeper in my arms and kissing her...letting the world revolve in my love for her.

Two weeks later I was walking through the door when I heard Breen leaving a message on the phone answering machine "...call me when you get back." I had just enough time to stop the recorder and tell Breen I was on the line. "Took Dog for a walk. You're calling early?" It was seven in the morning.

"Remember when we stopped for dinner coming back from my Aunt's and you said you missed French bread?"

"Even though you say I'm getting old, since it was only a month ago I still remember stopping."

"Very funny. I know a place that makes great croissants and I thought I would pick up some and come over about 8:30. You game?"

"Never turn down a beautiful woman; specially one that feeds me."

"Good, see yah about 8:30."

Placing the phone in its cradle I told Dog he just got a pass, because the bath he knew was next on the list of things to do was now out of the question. Dog took advantage of the situation by barking his let's play bark at me. "Ok, we'll play slobber toy," and Dog made a beeline into the dining room to find an appropriate squeaky toy.

The game is quite simple to play. I throw the toy, Dog brings it back, I have to wrestle the toy away from him, and throw it again. The task of removing the toy from his between gripping teeth becomes more difficult as the toy takes on the descriptive game title. So we played slobber toy, with me sitting on the living room floor, and Dog charging after the toy as it sails across the air into the dining room.

Finally Dog tires and plops down on the floor next to me. "You know Dog, she is definitely not going to like it when you try to get her to play this game by pushing a wet toy against her leg." Dog just looks up at me as if I was talking to the moon. "Don't act like you have no clue," I reach out and scratch him behind the ear; Dog puts his head in my lap. The two of us sit there. Dog enjoying the attention, and me thinking.

I looked over at the sofa and pictured in my mind Breen and I sitting on it the Sunday following our return from her Aunt's. It was just a lazy Sunday afternoon. I was reading when Breen had finished using my computer and came into the living room, sitting down next to me. For a while – with her back against my side - she looked at a magazine. I felt her voice before she spoke, "Close the book and look at me," her hand now rested on mine, "the words will still be on the page when you reopen it." Breen waited silently while I closed the book – paged marked with a coupon for toothpaste – then placed the book on the end table.

She reached for my hand again, "Now open your eyes and look at me."

"I see you even with my eyes closed."

"I know, but I need for you to sometimes let me touch your dreams, not just your heart."

"You are my dreams."

"And you mine."

"Then why..."

"Unvoiced dreams can become weights on the heart." Breen rested her head on my shoulder and I looked at her.

Back to the reality of the day. Breen arrived five minutes late, but I forgave her because she was right, the strawberry and cream cheese croissants were fantastic; still warm, melt in your mouth fantastic. "I could get accustomed to this."

"Me being here, or the croissants?"

"Have to think about that," as I reached across the table to wipe a piece of croissant from the corner of Breen's mouth. She playfully nipped at my finger. "Breen didn't anyone teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?"

"Excuse me, I brought the food remember."

"That's right; it's just age, I forgot. I brought something."

"What?"

"A little something for you; that is if you want it," and I pulled out of my pocket a small Blue Box from Tiffany. When I opened the box and Breen saw the channel-set, full circle band of baguette diamonds she covered her mouth with both hands and stopped breathing. I reached out and took her right hand and started to slip on the ring, but Breen stopped me.

"Not my right hand." She exchanged her wedding rings from left to right; then held out her left hand.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"I thought about this a lot Dave. When I told you I wanted you, I meant totally, not half way. Just the fact that you were willing to let me wear my rings tells me...thank you for wanting me."

With the ring now on her finger, Breen, dazed, kept holding it up to the light watching it sparkle. I interrupted her trance, "Like your eyes Breen."

"My eyes?"

"The ring sparkles like your eyes when you look at me."

She got up and gave me a long passionate kiss.

Back in her seat, "Where's Dog?"

"In the run, probably sleeping and dreaming of squirrels."

Breen was looking out the kitchen window.

Somewhere in the yard beyond a dove softly cooed a song. Breen closed her eyes in concentration. A sudden shift of her body; I watched as her mouth reset itself with a tone of seriousness. Then, as if the moment was taken over by a desire to set some record straight, Breen turned towards me and asked in a voice that spoke of ten thousand love stories, "Do you want to dance?"

No music was necessary to dance the dance she had in mind. She did not even wait for a verbal response, but reacted to my rising from my chair. And when my arms enfolded her, when my lips sought out her own, she melted into my existence and I into hers.

We danced that afternoon and into the night. We shared an inner music that ushered in morning's light. Now sitting on the living room floor, her back against my chest, my legs hugging hers, we watched the shadow play on the wall as the sun was born between the branches of the dogwood tree in the front yard. Breen took my arms and pulled them closer around her waist and whispered, "love can never come too late." I drew her closer and kissed her neck.

Want is shown in the silence of a kiss.

— **////—**

_Through a Stranger's Eyes_ is a work of fiction (2005), and poems _Wooden Ships_ (1967), _My Only Wish_ (1977), _Close Your Eyes and Trust Me_ (1977), and _I remember Yesterdays_ (1977) are all copyrighted by Steven S. Walsky, all rights reserved.

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