Oregon Chronicles; Writing on the public bus on the way to work

    ......makes it easy for anonymous confession because..... I've been skirting some issues and missing keys.... and letters with fingers on bus rides that don't make sense.... code and typos & hidden

It is so much easier to say out of context .... but I don't know where to begin but my no gray matter shades are more psychedelic

So if this were a Quiten Tarantino movie we would rewind

Because there is this darker side to Nigel and me

I have only glossed over

I don't want to put what happens in a light of any filth

sexually .....and to ignore this

in my Electra confessions

This is my dictionary

& ....I am Electra

It happened there. Right there.

deranged so —I worry we are treading on some areas that --as an artist?

.....but isn't it what matters, then.... anyway

Dissecting the scientist; of the Oregon chronicles & meeting Nigel

"This is too soon for me, Nigel...." I tell him and feel myself shrinking before him.

"Is it really so deep?" His tone disarms me. Again. I try to pull back.

But his touch.... is like both father and mother.... to me. 

It is a strange notion and not one I understand at all but like the curious cat one has to know; maybe because I’ve never known it and....

There is such a strangeness

the odd way he looks at me, and how he calls me his ‘mon fē’ from his childhood realm;

Only some moments I find I feel I am like —what is it, exactly? like I am his lab animal that he studies....looking under some microscope?

and something else that is sort of twisted that, at present, I am too shy to write about ....and I start to fear that —
I don't know, this thought occurs to me—this apprehension.... that we are —like ....only sinking further kind of into each other's madness

or is this what all civilizations begin like?

He seems to see me—

unlike Chris—

who would look right at me and not notice me there. So how is it that Nigel knew I was an artist from just one glimpse at my hands.... that day at the Ashland library....?

That day he looked so.... proper Englishman in his neat oxford collar and wearing a fedora.... like some scientist from the 1940’s.... and did I write this already? He isn’t just a professor and a doctor of psychiatry, he’s also an archeologist—he was some kid prodigy and finished his first set of degrees by the time he was twenty..... but should I be flattered then that the way he looks at me actually makes me feel like ....some kind of artifact found in a bog—

isn’t that a strange thing to feel? He has the oddest stare....

To illustrate between the lines
.....my hat fetishes (which for me goes back to when I first started being aware of style and old Greta Garbo movies) After Garbo the Daisy hat from the Great Gatsby that Mia Farrow wore, and I would love that bowler from Unbearable Lightness of Being but, truth told, I am most partial to the newsboy

so about Nigel.... he likes to shop for clothes with me and go into the dressing rooms
—is that weird?


Our fetishes.... I think that is behind the kinky edge of our sexual attraction

I have glossed over this about him. About us. It confuses me. You see. Switching roles; role reversals and I suppose I am not ready to write about this

but he can make the simplest motion erotic in a strange coquettish way that ..... disturbs me

It is like a shattered mirror

meeting Nigel

today I return a book to the Ashland library-- it was such hot today, the heat made me dizzy

I met someone; his name is Nigel, he is working on some project; he researches.... what is it he said he does? he vaguely said something about anthropology .... then he stared at me.

So strangely, and it made me think: like the lighthouse, his eyes.

 as I turned to go

I don't know if it is because I could feel his eyes first, it is when I look up from the floor that I see him sitting at the desk and somehow I drop my phone and my glasses fall off at the same time, both landing in his lap! I notice his book is on druids but his bookmark has the image of Loki

and this is how we meet; losing my sight and all communication, I suppose this would have been the only way ....how else do two shy people meet

 after all?
He says to me,

"Hi, I'm Nigel,” it began


Then he says
“I would like to see you again.... would you mind-- may I call you?"

So....

he says he wants to meet again

I am always in hesitation over new acquaintances


But there was something about how he kept staring at me that made me curious

So..... we do, we meet in town for coffee. He has has such mystery about him and it seems he stares at me when we talk. He stares at me; what does that mean? watches me.... everything I do..... and when he calls me later....and says something so strange,

"I want to know everything that has happened to you.... I want to understand your mind."

I tell him I have to go and later I think about it and wonder.... what does he want?

he stays on my mind all day and later I go slip out to think; it is so stifling there at night where I'm staying in Talent, a very small --not even really much of a town with one grocery store and its own little library, a couple of shops that you never see anyone go inside and everything is closed by five

and by now the sun has already begun to set ....

it is by the clock by where are benches with vines that wrap around the entrance way to a kind of secret enclosure and there I go to think and be alone, escaped from the opprssion of the family whose house I rent a room from as there are no apartments anywhere around

it is when I am there awhile, I notice someone across the street ..... and see him there!....  as if he knew I'd be there

he crosses the street and walks over to me but stops a few feet away and looks at me and waits, then finally says,

"Say something," he seems to watch me like.... a kind of subject....I think

 I will write more ....on this..... I have to think ....I need to be alone

Fae of Morgan

Fae of Morgan




When you speak of shape shifting, that is only just a shadow of what it is. That is to say, it is a kind of illusion that anyone is the shape they take because everyone really is everything and everything does contain everything.

SansinGauf was wizard stuff, to be sure; the kind all legends of his kind are based upon. Wise and yet still curious, thus containing that element of wonder always. This is the secret of youth; to stay in wonder.....

In the Forrest World time stands still. Rather, there is no time. You go in there and the rest of the world continues; you can watch it all through a telescope too and it looks like speeding on a highway. The images move fast past the windows. That is how time looks from the other side.

Within the Forrest World SansinGauf was exactly as he always was; is; slight of body, like an agile and lean skinned athlete and very tall of frame with notably long arms and fingers; his legs were quite long as well; like his toes and feet which gave him great balance walking ledges and hills; so he had some quality of one of those daddy long legs spiders, wearing a long cape (that took on colors like gray or sage or deep marine blue) and a long, wilted knitted felt top hat dyed of woad and mended numerously with silver gilt thread that fell to his right shoulder from years of knocking into his sheep staff (his sheep were used only for their wool and they never left his side unless by his command).

So watching the Empress Mage Maevis Fae fall like a broken sparrow.... well, it was his moment to become one with this myth, for he had watched her story unfold before him.... on that other side of his glass.... she had been like his mythic legend; untouchable yet almost real; all these years, you see.....

To be sure, it is necessary to mention, many stories have been based upon SansinGauf, in fact, in your world, too; many legends and many fables.... he is wise and powerful; he is old and young; he is generous of heart but always keeps his head about his shoulders.....

She was a little fallen angel falling from the sky

and so, like a magnetic chord to his very center he was pulled to that little faery; to save the belle with the misty gossamer wings,  invisible to the human eye.....her fall rang with her cry that sounded like little bells tinkering down a well. Tinkering bells.....

She looked like a redwood tiger lily

That was her color. If you took alizarin crimson and mixed in a bit of gold.... she was a wood faery. Heir apparent .....faeryqueen; but she had been raised among peasants to protect her identity. A bit wild, to be sure and possibly feral as well; how could he not love her?

And so it took him days to locate her because of the ruckless that grew everywhere; and yet he knew this Forrest very well, even the borderline parts because he traveled quite often beyond it. This journey took him many days and he journeyed alone, without his sheep as the thick brambles would have easily caught their wool. He came prepared too, knowing about the poison of the lapis swans. By now the Hadessins would have given her up for dead not expecting that SansinGauf was watching out for her; long prepared and aware of the forecast. He had prepared the potion and knew what had to be done to preserve her life and revive her from the haunted sleep that slowly consumed her breath.

When he finally found her night had long fallen but it was a full moon. She had actually fallen between the shield of the wall and her invisible right wing was badly caught. This was unfortunate ....his heart broke for her when he realized, rushing to her side; this had not showed on the glass and he realized this would take more time.

When he touched her face it had gone that shade of pale violet. He had only just made it in time. She was down to her last breath. He moved to her side quickly but with light and careful moves and knelt to her, placing his mouth gently over her deathly pale delicate lips; he breathed. He breathed for her. One very long breath first. He exhaled into her, speaking the words. He watched the purple smoke choke out of her. Then lay down beside her. He could not free her wing until she could breath on her own and the violet cast to her skin was gone.

He had to tilt her face to him as he lay carefully beside her, keeping the caught wing slack so as to not cause it further damage. She was still in pain, the caught wing....he could feel it.... the poison of the Forrest shield had been slowly killing her despite her magick; he reached inside the deep pocket of his cape and felt for the silver box. He placed the flower petal against her right wrist where the pulse beat and held it there with his thumb. He cast ....saying incantation, tapped her with the blue jeweled tip of the fine handle of his blade where a blue energy of light took to glow and come alight.

And so he lay thus: one arm cradling her head and shoulder and the other hand holding the soft petal to her wrist, breathing into her. It was slow going as she was so cold. Her veins would not allow the flow of the potion until she reached a warmer body temperature, he knew, which is why he erected the shield of camouflage; throwing his cape about once peeling away all that lay between their flesh. Bare skin to skin they lay beneath his cape; he breathing into her mouth and holding her tiny wrist; he then closed his eyes and fell asleep holding her to him as if he were her fortress.

SansinGauf was always caring of small animals, of course he loved his sheep and all manner of living creatures.... his great love had been his step sister whom he could never have and all his life his passions were shared with deep affection, but no one had ever captured his heart since his first love.

Watching Fae fall from the sky, as Fae is her name, plain Fae....

the years of study and preparation for when the time would come to ....entwine their fates and purpose as it had been long foretold, long expected to prevent what was to be the evil threat on the horizon


seeing the Empress before him at last, SansinGauf was nearly in awe and all his years of healing kicked in

only stopped to realize for a second--

.....he needed to heal, not just the flesh, but the fragmented soul inside as well.... he felt it as he lay beside her..... felt her soul and all of her pain for within there he felt the poisonous wounds of this incarnation .... the kind to damage deep, which she hid so deeply that it haunted her waking mind. She had spent a life beaten and in chains until she had been found by the faery kingdom and reclaimed; too late.

This had been known

But only now did he understand what this had done to her

knowing only the greatest force could possibly heal this

but where would the chances be to save humanity if she herself was not healed? SansinGauf lay there beside her thinking, watching the full moon watch him; watch them.... it was by morning when he stirred and saw that her invisible wing had been freed..... by the power and light of the moon and the morning light; morganlicht;

"Fae of the morning light ...." he whispered aloud, giving her his pet name, whilst still half asleep. He was over five hundred lifetimes older than the Fae of morganlicht .....

.....and SansinGauf had been called upon for this, task..... and well, she needed a healer, after all; he had saved her life which made him feel responsible for her, so in conflict of emotion he felt ....love for her

like a father but also,

like a lovesick poet.

By the light of the moon he had been too exhausted to find resolution with this thought and fell asleep under the full moon on the eve of the last day of April, as depicted by the human calendar and then awoke breathing out the morning dew of Fae

the legend creates a Fable

When I meet with the wizard he tells me I must write a fable

I say why?

He tells me I am indebted to use my gift to deliver a message

To whom?

But he only says in a vague shrug,
“Humanity.”


The Legend Creats a Fable...... this is The Fable he has asked me to write for humanity:



What she knew falling down upon the soft mossy earth was total exhaustion; for the Faery Empress had traveled many leagues and fought dangers that jeopardized her mission and her very survival.

It had been long known of her coming to this part of the deep forest world and her arrival had been expected and hoped for these many generations as fables and legends had been passed down and embellished upon of her purpose and the change her influence would create by her arrival.

Only SansinGauf knew of the grave dangers that would challenge the possible coming of the Savior; the Empress Faery. He had watched her progress and journey from his glass; the one he had made of Dortil sands; ground by ritual by the full moon for six cycles. He alone knew how to make such a glass and how to ask of it the wisdom it was known to portend.

SansinGauf had watched her fall six nights hence from that very glass, she had been chased into the Forrest by the lapis swans who were the deadliest sending creatures the Hadesissians had and were mostly reserved for extreme  situations as their venom, once administered, emitted such a strong poison that it drained the great Hadesiss of a week's supply of his kingdom's emnil grain; the grain his peasants lived on who worked the fields.

Once she had reached the Forrest World, however, the lapis swans could not follow and this territory was beyond Hadesiss' commanding empire; not that it was with respect that the swans turned to head back to their master with their news; the invisible wall at the entrance of the Forrest World would kill any without invitation, instantly, by agonizing death if the ageant's sting (a deadly bee-like creature that lived only in the Forrest).

It took six days for SansinGauf to find her, using his small, pocket-sized glass. It was tedious going all the way to find her, however, as the exterior parts of the Forrest were more overgrown with ruckless weed than anywhere else (ruckless weed; was known for its camouflage charm to confuse invaders who might have managed to pass the invisible wall).

He watched her fall. In the glass. She fell like a broken sparrow.

He had watched her from the glass.... longer than he could remember. Only, it was only one human life time ago he first saw her. How many hundred had he seen through? To walk this earth and go unnoticed and drift in between worlds; toiling here, toiling there.... admittedly, he had spent several human lifetimes being rather lazy. Quite lazy, in fact. Enjoying the nice plant that the valley friends provided. His valley friends; he liked to spend holiday with them. They were somewhat known in the human world, roughly speaking. Amongst that world, they shaved their feet to fit in, but they did not really fit in. And only the ones that wanted to ever left this world for that one. They did not tend to stay away, however. Why would they?

So, as it was, SansinGauf, knew how to relax, but he enjoyed his work more and being the most admired Sansin yielded a great deal of reward so as to make his work quite enjoyable. As far as wealth, he would likely be the most wealthy in the world, but he owned nothing. He was obliged what ever he desired if he asked. But SansinGauf was a wizard of principle and since he never accepted payment to treat the Forrest World's ailments, if there were things he required for a need for which he could not provide himself, he would gladly accept an obliging gnome's provisions; whatever that might be. This is, no doubt, how he came by their weed.

Rouen (Electra's Dictionary;Bran and Beth stories Chapter 28)

I watch French scenery roll by as Bran drives, keeping my thoughts neutral. I lean my head against the side of the window and look out. The interior of Bran's car has a distinct smell. It reminds me of the way my grandfather's car always smelled; a kind of musky, dusty, sunny smell. For awhile I write in my journal because I want to capture some of this. For me, it is better than pictures. So I write-- my passing, random thoughts.... We have not spent a lot of time in his car. When we have shopped for food in Paris for the flat we walked. So again, as I look around at the inside of his car, I think of how many conversations we have had over the phone with him sitting in here. And as I think of this, I look at what he must look at as we speak; the details of his dashboard or the shape of the windshield edges, the maps stuffed in the visor, the car stereo that has interesting buttons and dials. Those things that you stare at mindlessly as you talk to someone's disembodied voice.

The car stereo plays some kind of music—Bran's music-- that I can't identify. He has diverse taste in music, which I like. I like how it takes me out of my head, and that it is nothing like anything I have ever listened to. And as I listen and watch the scenery go by, the music starts to paint a picture in my thoughts. I start to see a story that I want to write. The scenery, the music, the smell of his car, it all adds to it and I get lost in this for awhile.

I love the architecture I see as we go and the cities that we pass. The street signs, the advertisements, the landscape; I am stimulated by all this. It is new and different to me. I look at the faces of the people we see; their expressions and the clothes they wear; the things they carry; the bikes; the cars.... He was right, it was good that we left Paris for awhile; it is good to get away with him. There is a kind of excited feel as we drive further away.... It almost feels as if we are running away together. It feels euphoric. And also, almost, for me, too much so. It makes me feel.... sea sick. Like going up too high on the Ferris wheel. Of course it is because I am afraid of this. How I feel with him. What I feel. The thrill and rush that is always there. And I don't know, it makes me wonder if I could handle feeling this all the time.... if we were together. And it makes me wonder too why now I don't run away. Like I always do. And always have done. And why, with him, I can't.... disentangle myself from.... this seaweed hold on me.

He remarks at scenery we pass and says,

“it looks like that artist's work we saw.”

And I see what he means when I look at what he points to. The slope of the land, the shape of the house, the trees along the horizon.

We had gone to see an exhibition one day. The same day we had gone to the Louvre. Looking at art with him.... may be my favorite of all things to do with him; observe and listen to his thoughts as we look. We are drawn to the same kinds of works. But I guess that is no surprise because this is what first drew us together. He saw my work first before we met. That is like being handed the legend.

But then I say,

“Bran, I thought you told me-- when we first met, you said that you and Clair had been together for ten years, like me and Dean. Remember? But before-- when we were talking this morning, you said that you were only together a short time before she got pregnant.”

I look at him.

He looks back at me,

“well.... yes and no.”

“.... but it can't be both.”

“Well, yes it can,” he tells me. He does not continue right away. He concentrates on navigation; checking Google map as he drives --and I wonder if he does this to stall sometimes. He says, “I knew Clair from the office of one of the places that I used to do a lot of business with.... I was with Anna still--”

“Anna? --the woman you told me about that you saw recently?”

He nods,

“so, initially, when Clair showed an interest in me, I had to turn her down.... I was actually surprised when she approached me. I never really noticed her that way. Maybe because I was always more preoccupied with Anna.... anyway, so what happened.... Anna and I broke up, but it only lasted for a few months....”

“And during that time you hooked up with Clair.”

He nods,

“someone told her Anna moved out. So I got a call from her one day to console me.... and we met up and went out a few times....”

“Hmm,” is all I say.

He says,

“I didn't ever lie to her what my feelings were for Anna, Beth. She knew I was still....”

I am still trying to figure out the math, so I say,

“so, ten years?”

“By the time it was really over with Anna.... it was five years that Clair and I had known each other....”

“It carried on that long? And every time you and Anna split up there was Clair waiting in the wings?”

He does not answer this. He rubs his beard uncomfortably and concentrates on the road.

“So what finally ended things with Anna?” I ask.

“I found her with my best friend.”

He says this simply but the weight of it looms heavy. I watch scenery for awhile and fill in the rest for myself. But then I have to ask,

“so how soon after did Clair get pregnant?”

He makes a frustrated sound,

“I remember it was May when I …. showed up that morning, unexpectedly, at my friend's house and I remember that only because it was the day after her birthday.... When Clair got pregnant it was the end of August....” It is awhile before he says anything more and when he does, he looks at me, glancing away from the road for a second, “I know what you're thinking and I suspect you're right, but.... I have two amazing kids that I would never trade for anything.”

I look out the window again and blindly stare at the moving sights and don't say anything. The wind blows through the car windows that are down as we drive, the air is warm. He reaches his left hand to me and without words, slides his fingers through mine and holds my hand for a long time in silence until he needs to use it again.

***

I notice when we arrive in Rouen that the streets are somewhat narrow and busy and I wonder where we will find a place to park and ask him.

He says,

“I arranged with the hotel. They have a garage. I've stayed here before.”

“Oh, did you have a credit here too?” I ask.

He gives me an ironic smile.

We go down a narrow street that twists around and then pull through a narrow entrance way. We go inside to register. He says,

“let's just put our things down in our room and head out to the Cathedral. We can take a tram.”

“OK,” I follow him.

It is a small hotel, pretty and modest. The furnishings everywhere are not new but rather antique and quaint. I like the sounds of our footsteps as we walk towards our room and the way that our voices carry down the narrow hallway. I watch him open the door.

The room has pretty windows with lace curtains. I go to look out and see the view is of the street below. It is a modern city I see, populated with its own rich present day culture. But then, I think about the medieval history of this city of Normandy.... and try to imagine what I see without the modern details.... try to imagine people on horseback going down these streets and the story of those lives long ago lived here; the politics and the wars and the people like King John and King Philip II ....how it obviously lingers here in affected details of brown paint to suggest the medieval style of a past long gone.... perhaps as a source of identity.

There is a crystal chandelier that hangs from the ceiling near the bed. The room is painted a pale blue-gray and the bedding matches, along with the Louis XIV chairs that flank a small, round, gilded table. I notice the bathroom has a nice bathtub.

And then he says,

“ready?” and he takes my hand and we go.

Electra's dictionary (Bran and Beth stories; Chapter 27)

The times he goes to call his family, I go downstairs to the courtyard and write in my journal. Or go for long walks. Which is what I need. It lets me reestablish the distance I still need.

“What are you writing about in your journal all the time?” Bran asks me when I come back after one of these times. He watches me close it.

“Thoughts,” I say.

“Legendary? ....to be later transferred into your blog....?”

***

I have been using Bran's laptop to read messages from my life back in Detroit. Messages from Dean, which have been impersonal and short; dealing mostly with money concerns. It has been a blessing and a curse to not have my phone. I miss my daughter. It has been strange not being able to communicate with her frequently. I feel conflicted and strange; to miss her but to not want to leave Paris. When I mention Jamie, Bran insists I use his phone to call her. Only I wish she could be here with us. I wish she could know Bran and be a part of ….this secret life we share. This life we have when we are together. And I find that I wish.... we could stay in Paris and never leave.

“Tell me something about your mother,” I ask in the morning as we are waking up.

He says,

“hmmm,” and rubs his eyes in a drowsy state, “she liked to write, like you. You remind me of her. ”

“Do I?”

“Yes. There is something about you in your manner that she had, just a sense about you. I noticed it the first time we met at the exhibition. Remember that day?” he asks. And I think of the first time I saw him; how he was the tallest person in the room, the immediate attraction and how he made me laugh. He says, “you were wearing that striped scarf....” I feel him kiss the top of my head.

“Tell me something else about her.”

“Well.... she made the best apple pie,” he says thoughtfully. And then he says, “she used to have this funny habit of calling me--” and he says something in his language. Then he says, “which means, 'my little man'. But she called me that all my life, even after I was grown.”

“How cute!” I laugh trying to think of him little. Then feel an unfounded pang of regret that I never got to see that. I would have liked to have known him then. And wonder what it would have been like to have grown up knowing him and how different everything would have been. After awhile I say, “you don't like to talk about your past.”

“No, it's not that. It's just so long ago. Don't you also feel that now as you get older? It is close yet far away,” his voice is still husky from sleep. I am going to miss waking up with him.... I turn my head into his side and press my face into his bare skin and wish I could stop time from moving from this moment.

“What was your father like?” I ask muffled by his body.

He is thoughtful before he says,

“like me, I would say. And he was also tall. I don't know if I look more like my father or my mother. He was a scholar, he liked to read about history. He was more forthright than I am though. He could put you in your place and slice you to ribbons with his words without ever raising his voice. But he was also funny. He liked practical jokes.”

“What about your siblings? Tell me about them.”

I feel the vibration of his laugh,

“why so many questions this morning?”

“Because there is so much about you that I don't know.... and so much about your life that I will never know.... I know....”

He makes a sound that is frustrated and indulgent at the same time. And after consideration, he sighs,

“as kids, my brother and I would ride our bikes through the neighborhood and egg people's houses. We would get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday while everyone was asleep.”

“The crack of dawn? That's pretty ambitious. ”

“We were a deadly team. I followed his lead into trouble every time. Only, I think my sister was worse, especially if she had her friends around. They were always so wild. But I really missed her when she left home. We were a close family.”

There is something in his voice. It has a warm timbre that moves. I can feel that longing sadness. It is contagious. But I love listening to him speak; it is like listening to bedtime stories; it is lyrical and lulls the mind into believing you are safe. And right now.... it seems so impossible that I am going to be four thousand miles away from here in just a few days and will not get to hear him ….or feel him... this close. I close my eyes as I listen to him and try to ignore the ache that has begun to surface. I had no illusions when I came here to Paris. I tried not to think about what would happen. It was a blind faith leap into a new set of emotional variables that I am not sure I was fully prepared for.

I move up to look into his eyes and without planning to, it falls from my lips.

I say,

“I am going to miss you,” my throat tightens painfully and I go hoarse. My eyes sting and begin to pool. I feel a tear escape and spill. It rolls down my face without permission. I hold myself together and watch his face to try to read him as I try to master control over my emotions. He stares intently into me, wiping the tear with his thumb. And then kisses me. Long and deep. Desperate and consuming. When he stops and looks back at me, I see that his eyes are red and that his lashes have clumped together. I notice a wet trail. And fall into the whirlpool of the shifting planks of mud and moss.

They gauge his moods, the moss unearthed. They are kaleidoscopes, engined by whatever element induces mood rings to change color. They camouflage and change and reflect light. Mud and meadow. And as I look into them and fall, I think of what Jean Paul said. That Bran is in love with me and that I doubt it.... and think of how we have never said it. Only I know why we don't. Why we can't. And why we shouldn’t.

Bran says,

“it won't be forever, you know that. We're working together now, so we'll have to see each other. I'll get us more clients.... I have to be in the US next month for business. I can stop in Detroit or you can meet me.”

But that isn't what I meant.... It is this flat.... which has become home with him. Even as I know and knew that our time here was only ever ephemeral.

Before I know what I mean to say, I blurt out,

“but I'm sure you can't wait to go home. You must miss your family.”

“Beth, don't,” and the hurt in his voice punishes me.

It is the fact that our time is coming to an end. I need to remind myself of the reality of our situation.

I say,

“can I ask you something?”

He says,

“what do you want to ask me?”

“Why did you wait so long to start a family?”

By now he has told me many things about his children. They are twins; Crystal and Dylan. They are five. I know things about them that he has told me. Things like, Dylan likes football and archery, even though he isn't old enough to have a bow and arrow, he likes to play a video game that simulates this. Crystal has an inclination to piano because she spends hours playing with the keys and her favorite color is magenta. And I also know, though he doesn't say, that Crystal is a daddy's girl and sense she holds a very soft spot in his heart.

“You mean because I am old enough to be their grandfather?”he laughs.

“Well, only if you started very early! --but, no, really, Bran, why did you?”

He is staring up at the ceiling and thinking about what to say. He strokes my hair before he begins,

“because it didn't happen until then. I guess I was looking for something.... and it just never appeared,” he says this simply. He shrugs, “and then it happened unexpectedly. We had only been seeing each other a short while when Clair got pregnant and I figured it was about time.”

There is so much that begs the question. Or questions. But some things are best to remain ignorant of. I keep my thoughts to myself and decide to respect his past without prodding in that place.

But then he says,

“there was someone. Before Clair.”

Because this is what I didn't want to know. Where I didn't want to delve. I feel myself holding my breath.

“It was an unhealthy relationship and lasted longer than it should have.... it took me a long time to get over her.”

“And did you ever get over her?” I ask.

He breaths in very deep and slowly lets it out. He says,

“yes. But only recently. I saw her, by chance somewhere....”

“Somewhere?”

“At a local food store one day,” I feel his body go tense, “we said hello. It was weird.”

“Weird?”

“Because I saw what she had become --or maybe what she always was ….and maybe it is because I could be objective that I could finally see.... her. Finally after all these years. She told me she was divorced and....” he shrugs and makes a sound of disgust, “I'm glad I finally saw her for who she is and thank God I never married her.”

“What was it that you saw?” I ask.

“Her ego. And her greedy nature.”

I can tell how he says this that whatever image he has conjured from his memories is flooded with repulsion and bitterness.

“When was it that you saw her?”I ask.

“About five or six months before I met you.”

I think about this and after awhile I say,

“'close yet far away',” repeating what he said about looking back. And it hangs there between us for awhile, “yes, Bran.... I do know what you mean, as I get older. I do see that. Even as it feels, sometimes, like you can touch a memory, as if it is that close and tactile ….but then suddenly, like an old yellowed photograph-- it feels like ancient history ….and then you wonder how you got to be this old....” And then I say, “do you think that is what it will be like one day between us? How it was when you saw her?”

I don't know why I say this. Some wicked part of me. It is the self-sabotaging impulse that always takes over for me.

“Beth....” he pulls me to him roughly and then I can't breath because his arms are so tight around me. I can feel my bones being crushed. Only I don't want to be released.

But I knew this week would end, I knew this.

And then my emotions change on me and suddenly I feel like I need to escape from him because it feels like I am suffocating. These emotions. It is too much. I start to push him away but, again, he says, “Beth,” and comforts me in his arms like I am a child. He strokes my hair and skin as he rocks me and it makes me cry. He speaks to me in his language saying things I don't understand. The strange words that sound so beautiful. He says,

“don't cry, Beth. Let's drive somewhere. I don't want us to waste this day and regret it later. Let's go to Rouen and spend the night there.”