Like Love, You Take It When You Leave.
She could feel him growing thin.
Here in the orange air. Upon the rain-slicked stones. A Friday night. He felt ever so thin. His limbs, stone sticks. His chest, ribbed tight.
“I have to go,” she said.
He did not answer. He seemed not to breathe. Still, his heart a distant echo.
“Really, I’ll be late.”
“Please… just a minute more. Just that.” He tensed his arms. She felt trapped. He tensed some more. Even so.
She breathed in. Worked her arms around in his embrace. She pushed him gently away. He let her go. His arms fell away like scattered bunting. His face full of longing. He had become so thin.
“Will you come back?” he asked. His breath was like the wind of a faraway storm. So hard to hear.
“I don’t think so. What for?” She put her arms up again. Folded them tightly. The late night air pressed her. Smells of exhaust, cooked oil, cigarette.
“I don’t know. Do you think you will?”
What did she know. The lateness of the hour. The chill of the air. Her own heartbeat. That she could never come back. So much set in stone. Stone shattered, scattered like pebbles. What, really, did she know?
“It’s possible.” Like that, a lie. It flew as easily from her lips as spittle. “I might.”
He nodded. Almost imperceptibly, but that she looked for it. His nod faded into stillness. “I’d like it if you could.”
* * *
Because of this:
The first thing he said was, “They say that Walt Disney had wooden teeth.”
“Like Pinocchio?”
His face lit up like a lamp. “Yes! Very much alike.”
“Did you know,” she sipped her drink, barely enough to wet her tongue, “that to watch someone eat, hoping that they’ll offer you some, is known as groaking?”
“You made that up!”
“I did not!”
“Okay. I believe you.” He placed his drink down on the bar. He sat on the vacant stool. Just like that. It was perfectly arranged. That was how they began.
He would cook for her. He loved to cook. He made succotash. She didn’t even know it was a real dish. Not until he cooked it for her. She suggested replacing the lardons with chorizo. He looked at her as if she’d discovered a new planet. A wonderful new planet. And named it for him.
He let her navigate while he drove, and they never became lost. They drove while laughing and smiling. All the way there and all the way back. They stopped on the way in country lanes, made love and still arrived on time.
He always made her come. Always. She couldn’t even believe it herself. She could never tell her friends. Who would believe her?
He introduced her to his friends by her full name, as if she were famous. People would greet her enthusiastically. Hold her hand for a fraction too long. Look hard into her eyes. Smile all the while. She felt as if she were famous. She was.
He did all this. All this and more. He did it willingly.
* * *
On a Sunday it was, that he told her of his mother. She came from Polish stock, lived hard and worked hard and came to England, married a Devonshire farmer. Sometimes it happens. So he lived on a farm, lived in a loving home and heard, by firelight, the tales of Old Europe. Legends passed down through time from mouth to mouth, as though words could not tell them, or somehow diminished them. He ate strange dishes from other lands, made with good food they raised themselves. These things he took as normal, yet never for granted.
These things were simply how he lived his life. Everything comes from the ground, as everything returns. In this way, all things are dirt. This he understood.
She lived a little time, his mother, and died slowly, as he watched. She grew small and smaller still and never stopped loving, never stopped providing. Her last remaining energies were distilled into hearty soups and hot buttered breads. They ate of her, in a fashion, in this way. It was her wish, and she would have no argument. She would not argue.
And when she died, as all things die, he celebrated her return to the earth with his father. And they remembered her when they ate, as she lived on in their lives through food, though they were neither as good a cook as she.
This was his story, and she understood it well. It was a way to define him, as all things became clear. His love for her was pure; he was absorbed in her and gave himself freely to her. It was her perfect relationship, although one that she could never tell her friends, for none would believe her.
He told her of his mother on a Sunday morning. They were in bed, with coffee and the newspapers and some pastries he’d prepared the night before. The sun lit up the room.
* * *
She closed her eyes. She could not look at him. He stood still. Waiting for her to leave. The sodium glare made him gaunter still.
It was cold. She craved someplace warm.
His perfect brow. His fine nose. Those eyes. He would, she knew, feel warm. He always did.
But no more. She could not touch him any more. He did all these things. For her. For love. He did it all for love.
“I have to go,” she said.
He moved his hand. Caressed her cheek. His skin, so smooth. So strong, so dry. His hand so warm.
“I know,” he said, and his voice came from far away.
His thumb gently pressed into the hollow of her cheek. His fingers cupped her chin.
And she could feel him growing thin.
