La Boheme. It started out fine, ended fine, but the middle part was pretty strange and somewhat tense.
It was all about having lunch, a daughter who had a date of some kind in Tacoma, what kind escapes me now, and a few hours to kill on a sunny Saturday afternoon. It was wonderful to have you, have time with you, tangling together amidst the rugs at Cost Plus, sitting side by side in a booth at The Harvester at prime time, and then cruising the antique stores at will in the flea quarter of old downtown Tacoma. We were having what I would consider a pretty magical day. We laughed alot, were happy in our freedom, and behaved like a couple of people in love. Well, we were, M. We were.
Then.
We were on our way to the box office of the theater where I would be watching La Boheme later on in the month. I wanted to see what kind of tickets were still available. As always I heard from you "how would I explain that?" and worked our calendar's hard to find a way to fit you in. It seemed impossible and in the end, was impossible, but on the way we passed in front of the local coffee shop. It was that plate glass window looking out onto the street that crashed everything. It would have been better if I had tripped and went face first through that glass, as far as the pain was concerned. Nothing worse than being "found out" outside your element by someone who was too close in to your "real" life to explain away. In this case someone from your church. Right there, sipping coffee on a stool by the window. Watching us as we went by.
The world knows nothing of tectonic shifting, of plates crashing, of tsunami's washing away a moment the moment your eyes crossed hers.
I was talking to my friend S last night and we talked of many things, but one of things we talked about was the "moment" , the moment when you know that your relationship is on it's way out.
That was "the" moment for us. If not that one, well, it was one of them, one that I failed to recognize at the time. The rest of the day, what little was left, was spent dodging and shape shifting, doing our best to dispell spirits, evil sprites and supernatural watchdogs that always crop up when you spend a moment, or a lifetime, feeling guilty for your pleasures.
That day I secured a ticket, and you secured a boatload of guilt. Somehow we were never able to reconcile that moment. It dogged us to the end of our days.
I remember the day I went to the concert. By then you had run of my house, had keys and everything. Two old householders without a place in the sun to lie down in, but damn, we pretended well. It was a Sunday matinee, the third and last show of the run. I was happy to have a balcony seat, and left on that sunny afternoon knowing you would lock up the house after me on the way to work. I took off, weeped and celebrated the joy of that grand opera, and came home to find notes from you posted around my house.
The one that I cherish most was the one left on my pillow. I had just changed the sheets the day before and you told me that it didn't smell enough like me to please you. What a bummer that was for both of us.
So today I came across not just one but three different La Boheme tapes at Goodwill. I suppose that's what inspired me to write this. I bought one to stick away in our satchel, and I will slip the ticket stub into that tape for reference later on.
Funny about that opera, though. Two weeks or so after the show we were on the couch in the living room, you were finishing up our Calcopo selection for the month, Five Quarters of an Orange, and I was side by side next you, listening to a recording of La Boheme. It was a rainy evening, and it was about one of the last times we would have before your new schedule took you out of our orbit altogether. I don't think that that the opera, which brought me to tears that one afternoon in Tacoma, felt as meaningful or as powerful as it did that evening as I lay next you in my living room.
Somehow we missed the whole proper opera scene, but managed to take in the heart and soul and bohemian majesty of that wonderous opera right there on my couch. No opera glasses needed. No ticket stubs to show the ushers. No programs outside of the one that said "love me now"....
And we did.
Your WHMB
It was all about having lunch, a daughter who had a date of some kind in Tacoma, what kind escapes me now, and a few hours to kill on a sunny Saturday afternoon. It was wonderful to have you, have time with you, tangling together amidst the rugs at Cost Plus, sitting side by side in a booth at The Harvester at prime time, and then cruising the antique stores at will in the flea quarter of old downtown Tacoma. We were having what I would consider a pretty magical day. We laughed alot, were happy in our freedom, and behaved like a couple of people in love. Well, we were, M. We were.
Then.
We were on our way to the box office of the theater where I would be watching La Boheme later on in the month. I wanted to see what kind of tickets were still available. As always I heard from you "how would I explain that?" and worked our calendar's hard to find a way to fit you in. It seemed impossible and in the end, was impossible, but on the way we passed in front of the local coffee shop. It was that plate glass window looking out onto the street that crashed everything. It would have been better if I had tripped and went face first through that glass, as far as the pain was concerned. Nothing worse than being "found out" outside your element by someone who was too close in to your "real" life to explain away. In this case someone from your church. Right there, sipping coffee on a stool by the window. Watching us as we went by.
The world knows nothing of tectonic shifting, of plates crashing, of tsunami's washing away a moment the moment your eyes crossed hers.
I was talking to my friend S last night and we talked of many things, but one of things we talked about was the "moment" , the moment when you know that your relationship is on it's way out.
That was "the" moment for us. If not that one, well, it was one of them, one that I failed to recognize at the time. The rest of the day, what little was left, was spent dodging and shape shifting, doing our best to dispell spirits, evil sprites and supernatural watchdogs that always crop up when you spend a moment, or a lifetime, feeling guilty for your pleasures.
That day I secured a ticket, and you secured a boatload of guilt. Somehow we were never able to reconcile that moment. It dogged us to the end of our days.
I remember the day I went to the concert. By then you had run of my house, had keys and everything. Two old householders without a place in the sun to lie down in, but damn, we pretended well. It was a Sunday matinee, the third and last show of the run. I was happy to have a balcony seat, and left on that sunny afternoon knowing you would lock up the house after me on the way to work. I took off, weeped and celebrated the joy of that grand opera, and came home to find notes from you posted around my house.
The one that I cherish most was the one left on my pillow. I had just changed the sheets the day before and you told me that it didn't smell enough like me to please you. What a bummer that was for both of us.
So today I came across not just one but three different La Boheme tapes at Goodwill. I suppose that's what inspired me to write this. I bought one to stick away in our satchel, and I will slip the ticket stub into that tape for reference later on.
Funny about that opera, though. Two weeks or so after the show we were on the couch in the living room, you were finishing up our Calcopo selection for the month, Five Quarters of an Orange, and I was side by side next you, listening to a recording of La Boheme. It was a rainy evening, and it was about one of the last times we would have before your new schedule took you out of our orbit altogether. I don't think that that the opera, which brought me to tears that one afternoon in Tacoma, felt as meaningful or as powerful as it did that evening as I lay next you in my living room.
Somehow we missed the whole proper opera scene, but managed to take in the heart and soul and bohemian majesty of that wonderous opera right there on my couch. No opera glasses needed. No ticket stubs to show the ushers. No programs outside of the one that said "love me now"....
And we did.
Your WHMB
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