“I related your lack of dialogue to me because the most significant person in my life, my fiancée, can’t carry on a conversation with me. We can’t have a discussion without an interpreter – that’s where the frustration comes from. At first, her beauty and loving was enough but sometimes I just want to have a chat with another individual. I’d like a free flow and exchange of ideas on a level deeper than just sight and touch. I miss the surprise that the conversation with an intelligent person can offer.”
Even though I could see that he was serious, I smiled an ‘aw, come on smile.’
“You have what most men want, a beautiful woman who loves you and knows how to love you. You get all the loveliness and none of the verbal irritation or nagging that men accuse women of.”
“When you put it that way, I think that I should be completely happy with my situation but instead I’m starting to think that maybe I was too hasty in trying to make her mine.”
He was speaking in a thoughtful voice, a quiet, reasoning voice. It felt like he was puzzling it all out and working hard to be fair and clear about what his decisions could and would do to his future.
I listened without feeling any pressure to respond.
“I think I need to make my worries known to her but I’m concerned for her feelings.”
He continued, half to himself.
“I think I would go ahead and marry her if it meant not hurting her feelings.”
An uncontrollable urge to protect her, whoever “her” might be, was building within me. Not pulling any punches, I said.
“That’s chicken shit! And it really doesn’t do her any favors. If you don’t give her the truth, she won’t be able to figure out how she fits into the scenario or allow her to resolve her own trepidations.”
He flinched from my forthright words and the vehemence in which I delivered them.
“Ouch, that was harsh.”
“Like I said, I‘ve given myself the gift of honor; that gift allows me to say hard things and I don’t always remember to temper them with softness. Please forgive me for being so blunt. But, if you can get passed the rudeness that you perceive and just hear the words, you will see that honesty is so necessary for her as well as for you – that is, if you truly want to make positive, meaningful progress. You are, after all, talking about forever and ever.”
We sat in silence while he pondered my words. After several minutes, I was the first to speak.
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you talk and I will just listen. I’m actually pretty good at listening – I’ll listen to understand before I comment again. Then later, we can switch off and I’ll talk while you listen. How’s that?”
Michael nodded ever so slightly, like he didn’t want to chance disturbing the thoughts that were already taking shape in his head. He sat across the table looking at me but he wasn’t seeing me. He seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts.
The quiet didn’t bother me. When my jello was gone and more time had passed, I started eyeballing his jello.
I let my mind wander to the ocean and to the horizon and noticed that the classical music was over. Making a move to the CD player Michael put his hand on mine and stopped my advance. He went to the player, himself, and selected the best of the 70’s.
Michael sat back down and put his hand on mine again, like an anchor. He looked into my eyes and started to talk.
A Connection Was Made
“I’ve lost the camaraderie I use to have with my band. We don’t have the same easy dialogue and familiar horse play. I want it back; but, I don’t know how to fix it. I think it’s due to them thinking they have to be careful about what they say, plus the fact that every spare moment I spend with Lu. We don’t joke around as much or talk about sports or women like we used to. I feel so out of touch with them and I’m sure that I don’t know what they need or want and it seems I just come in, we rehearse, and I go.”
Michael began to move his hand over mine; maybe he was just doing it for the same reason other people bounce their knees or tap their fingers. To test the waters, I turned my hand over so that his fingers were in the palm of my hand. He looked up at me with a surprised look on his face. Then he moved his hand to line up with mine so that we were palm to palm and then he laced his fingers through mine in a very personal way. After a moment he unlaced our fingers and laid his hand flat over mine, he pushed his hand harder into my palm so that the most sensitive part of our hands touched. It was an oddly sensual feeling, like our hands kissed. Then he picked up my entire hand and cradled it with both of his.
Even though we were locked together because of the way he held my hand, he had that far-away look in his eyes as he stared at nothing in particular again. Maybe the music had seeped into his trance, maybe not. He seemed to be lost in thought and wasn’t in a hurry to come back to the table. He softly rubbed my hand as though he were trying to soothe and comfort me. I didn’t comment but just sat there feeling the strange sensations that were beginning to alarm me. That touching was not unpleasant but completely distracting. As I drifted off into my own reverie, I noticed that the feel of his hand on mine was not soothing or comforting but rather sensual and disturbing.
He continued with his puzzling as the next 70’s tune began. It was Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.” He puzzled in his own head and I listened to the music, undisturbed by his internal struggle.
‘I want to live, I want to give
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold
It’s these expressions I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold
Ann I’m getting old
Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
I’ve been to Hollywood, I’ve been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
I’ve been in my mind, it’s such a fine line
That keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold…’
Glad when the tune ended, I was working very hard not to break out in to song. I have some kind of condition that won’t let me just listen if I know the song. It’s like the song demands that I join in. It’s really quite pathetic and I struggle with it all the time. Most of the time I am in my car and I just enjoy the invite and sing with abandon but when others are around I take pity on them and hold back.
It got more difficult when “Reminiscing” by the Little River Band filled the balcony with a flood of more memories.
‘Friday night, it was late, I was walking you home
We
