Got a letter today, a short, sweet note from a horse-woman who wants me badly. It's already got the earmarks of a whirlwind romance, from dinners on the fly and evening walks unadorned to sleepheaded Sunday afternoons on the couch watching barely watchable movies. But what set off this note, and what set me on this flight of fancy, was being call "hon" once again. It's an endearment rarely heard outside of a greasy spoon diner, and usually when a woman calls me that she's got her hair up, her spongy soled shoes on and is carrying an order pad, as in "want cottage fries or hash browns with that, hon?"
So, I was surprised, that's all, the way that I was surprised when you called me that in the aisles of Fred Meyer's years ago. It was a hit and miss, you called, I came, kind of shopping moment. How did you find me, considering the Estranged One was back, living in the front house with the brood in tow? How was it we that found each other in that busy store, ended up connecting like two gummy bears in a plastic bag on a hot day at the beach? We gravitated towards the furniture but knew better, found ourselves in the end in the gardening section, wandering between large plants, oogling at yard tools, standing too long in a popular summertime section of the market and ended up being a magnet for friends and acquaintances. We stood there, parrying questions from pals and neighbors until time and common sense ran out. We left it like that, and met again early the next day, a staff meeting respite, a quick burrito shared, mugs of coffee passed around from a hot thermos, as always, on the worn wooden bench at the harbor observation booth down the walkway from the branch.
It was all grand, the start of a grand week that ended in the greatest bust of your life.
Today I woke with two of the kids sleeping in pockets around the house. I padded down and opened my email, looking for news, word of a job, for notes from friends and for friendly notes. Never anything from you, and baby, and believe me, I don't expect it. So when I found that note from my new friend, oh, yes, all too new, almost too new for that kind of endearing word, I was taken aback, pleased, honored and yet worried just a bit. When I was gifted with that sweet endearment by you oh so long ago it stuck like a burr under a saddle blanket, it touched me a like a firey branding iron. I still wear the sonic impact of that word in the deepest recesses of my brain. It comes on like a slight throb, the kind like you get in the back of your head after a long fever or a bad infection. Something akin to malaria, something that just never really goes away.
I wish had a form of quinine for you, M, my dear, something to take whenever that fever comes around, when the slightest of things triggers a remembrance of you. A bit of medicine would be good to have around, something to take when I want to set the record straight instead of reminice, whenever I need to be reminded of your duplicity and the fact that you never left that damned marital bed of yours. I need a draught to quaff whenever I feel that sweet, acute pain coming on. I need something to nip that unhappiness in the bud, something heavy, like a maul, to hit me between the eyes, that will tell me once and for all that, baby, you were no good for me, that you sold me out to God and the Detective and that you, in midst of all your pain and heartache for me and that sweet, sweet freedom I offered you, were, in the end, just self serving and shallow. Yeah, where is that damn quinine, my love? Why can't I ever remember to take it when those painful memories of you make me swell and throb like blister on a hot saddle, like an artery about to explode?
I got a note today in my email box from the horse-woman, and she called me "hun". I will take that as a compliment, as a sweetness, as a touch of something nice in the wind. No heartaches, no fire brands, no tattoos, no drumbeats of a relationship on it's way to the gallows. Just a note, a touch to my heart, a kindness from a woman who seems to want whatever it is I have to give, and baby, right now, that's not much.
But, you know, that's alright, cuz darlin' you rode me hard and put me up wet and I will forever thank you for that.
Your WHMB
So, I was surprised, that's all, the way that I was surprised when you called me that in the aisles of Fred Meyer's years ago. It was a hit and miss, you called, I came, kind of shopping moment. How did you find me, considering the Estranged One was back, living in the front house with the brood in tow? How was it we that found each other in that busy store, ended up connecting like two gummy bears in a plastic bag on a hot day at the beach? We gravitated towards the furniture but knew better, found ourselves in the end in the gardening section, wandering between large plants, oogling at yard tools, standing too long in a popular summertime section of the market and ended up being a magnet for friends and acquaintances. We stood there, parrying questions from pals and neighbors until time and common sense ran out. We left it like that, and met again early the next day, a staff meeting respite, a quick burrito shared, mugs of coffee passed around from a hot thermos, as always, on the worn wooden bench at the harbor observation booth down the walkway from the branch.
It was all grand, the start of a grand week that ended in the greatest bust of your life.
Today I woke with two of the kids sleeping in pockets around the house. I padded down and opened my email, looking for news, word of a job, for notes from friends and for friendly notes. Never anything from you, and baby, and believe me, I don't expect it. So when I found that note from my new friend, oh, yes, all too new, almost too new for that kind of endearing word, I was taken aback, pleased, honored and yet worried just a bit. When I was gifted with that sweet endearment by you oh so long ago it stuck like a burr under a saddle blanket, it touched me a like a firey branding iron. I still wear the sonic impact of that word in the deepest recesses of my brain. It comes on like a slight throb, the kind like you get in the back of your head after a long fever or a bad infection. Something akin to malaria, something that just never really goes away.
I wish had a form of quinine for you, M, my dear, something to take whenever that fever comes around, when the slightest of things triggers a remembrance of you. A bit of medicine would be good to have around, something to take when I want to set the record straight instead of reminice, whenever I need to be reminded of your duplicity and the fact that you never left that damned marital bed of yours. I need a draught to quaff whenever I feel that sweet, acute pain coming on. I need something to nip that unhappiness in the bud, something heavy, like a maul, to hit me between the eyes, that will tell me once and for all that, baby, you were no good for me, that you sold me out to God and the Detective and that you, in midst of all your pain and heartache for me and that sweet, sweet freedom I offered you, were, in the end, just self serving and shallow. Yeah, where is that damn quinine, my love? Why can't I ever remember to take it when those painful memories of you make me swell and throb like blister on a hot saddle, like an artery about to explode?
I got a note today in my email box from the horse-woman, and she called me "hun". I will take that as a compliment, as a sweetness, as a touch of something nice in the wind. No heartaches, no fire brands, no tattoos, no drumbeats of a relationship on it's way to the gallows. Just a note, a touch to my heart, a kindness from a woman who seems to want whatever it is I have to give, and baby, right now, that's not much.
But, you know, that's alright, cuz darlin' you rode me hard and put me up wet and I will forever thank you for that.
Your WHMB
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