Category: Theme Issues

George sat on the sewer cap spinning the back wheel of his
bike. He had flipped it over, standing it on its handlebars and had
taken off the Jack of diamonds that made the wheel sing. He liked
the zing sound the card made against the spokes when he rode, but
that creep Joey had called him a baby. So, he had taken it off. It spun
mutely now and so; he heard the grind of the moving van as soon as
it turned onto his street.
The furrows between his brows deepened and he glowered
just a bit more, someone else to call him Georgie Porgy. He spun the
wheel again, watching, as the van lumbered inch by inch up the hill.
It struggled with the weight of its load; the engine screamed; the
trailer squawked. Its gonna blow, George thought in anticipation.
But it didn’t. Instead, the moving van made its troublesome way
past him. George reached up to spin the wheel of his bike again and
a face peered out through the cracked and dirty window of the cab.
She stared down at him. He stared back. The van crept along. The
wheel spun.
The truck pulled into the driveway next to George’s house.
So, someone finally bought that old thing, he thought and spun
his wheel again, faster this time. The air whizzed as the spokes tore
through it. The truck came to a stop and hissed as if in exhausted
relief. The passenger door opened with a loud painful screech but
stopped in only a few inches. Then, it slammed all the way out with
a shriek. George saw the girl’s boot sticking out after her angry kick
and then watched her pull it back just before hopping from the
truck. One corner of George’s mouth lifted just a bit. It didn’t erase
the frown on his face, but he watched now with more interest.
The girl looked at him for a long moment and then cut
across the weeds towards the sewer where George sat watching.
“Charlie! Where are you going?” a man’s voice bellowed.
She turned for just a second, said something to the man
who had appeared around the back of the truck and then continued
towards George. The slight smile on George’s face dropped back
down into a frown and he turned away ignoring her, but his palms
began to sweat, and his heart picked up a beat. He heard every
crunch of her steps through the scorched weeds as she moved
towards him. He listened to the silence when she stopped next to
him, his eyes cutting sideways towards her.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned to face the voice and squinted up into the sun.
George couldn’t see her. She was just a dark silhouette against the
glare and then she moved slightly, blocked the intense light, and
cast a cool shadow across his sunburned face. He could see her now
and the scent of something sweet floated around his head.
“Hi,” he said.
She sat down next to him, and his mouth went dry.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“George,” he said with a look that challenged her to make fun.
“Hi, Georgie.”
He cut his eyes at her, but her smile was honest, and it
didn’t sound so bad coming from her. He smiled back, much to his
surprise. “What’s yours?”
“Charleston, but people call me Charlie.”
“They named you after a city?” he asked.
“It’s where I was conceived,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
“Wow,” George said, “Good thing you weren’t conceived here.”
“Yeah.” She grinned and nodded. Her fingers toyed with the
buttons of her shirt. It was a green plaid button down with the
sleeves cut off and rolled up to make a cuff. He knew they were cut
off because one side slipped down and exposed the frayed edge. The
tails of the shirt hung loose over her shorts which were also cutoffs,
faded denim and instead of sneakers, she had on worn and dirty
cowboy boots. Her hair was long and dark and pulled back into a
thick ponytail. She reached up and spun his tire.
“I’m going into the seventh grade here,” she told him.
“Me too.” He grinned at her. “Mrs. Peebles. She’s a mean
old hag.”
“Great.”
“Yeah. I thought it was gonna suck.” He paused and then
grinned at her. “But maybe it will be OK now.”
She glanced up at him and smiled, then looked away, and
reached up and spun his tire. “Maybe it will.”
She had freckles on the bridge of her nose and her eyes were
green. A rosy blush filled in the gaps between those tiny brown dots,
and he realized he was staring at her.
“Charlie!” a voice yelled from behind them.
She turned towards the man and her ponytail brushed
his cheek.
“I’m coming.” She turned back to George. “I gotta go help
unload and stuff. See ya later, Georgie Porgy.”
He just waved; his mouth was glued shut. The thought of
that feathery sweep against his cheek engulfed his mind. She stood
up and brushed the dirt from her butt and then headed back the
way she had come. He dragged his tongue off the roof of his mouth
and stood also.
“Hey, Charleston.”
She turned with a grimace and stood jaunty in her shorts
and boots, the heat and little puffs of red dust shimmered around
her. “You can call me Charlie. Everyone does.”
He shrugged. “I kinda like Charleston.”
She laughed lightly. “What do you want Georgie Porgy?”
His hands searched his hips for pockets he didn’t have. So,
he spun his wheel instead.
“I got nothin’ to do. I could help.”
She smiled then, all the way to her emerald eyes. He was
wrong. She wasn’t beautiful after all. She was radiant. She dipped her
head towards the truck, an invitation, and the world changed forever.

“Thank you for tonight,” said Daisy to Marigold.
“Any excuse to spend time with you is a good one,” Marigold
replied as he pulled his date closer to him.
Her skin was soft as petals.
Daisy’s eyes drifted to the small, metallic circle at Marigold’s
right temple, and her smile wilted.
She looked away, and he felt the chasm between them.
Hesitantly, Daisy spoke, “You know… I haven’t wanted to
push, but it’s been a while now… You say that you love me, but I’d
really like to see it for myself.”
She turned her face to his, a delicate blossom searching for
the light.
Hurt, Marigold responded, “Haven’t I been good to you?
Don’t you trust me?”
“You can’t keep me in the dark forever,” she insisted, thornier
than before, “I’ve been open with you, I want a partner who can do
the same.”
He could see the resolution, clear as day on her face. The
colors of determination and courage radiated from her own metallic
circle at her right temple.
His face burned as echoes of his father’s voice reverberated
through his mind. Lock that thing down. Real men don’t make a
spectacle of their feelings.
“Marigold, please, I need to know that you love me.”
“Daisy…”
“Am I a game to you? Are you just playing with me??”
“No! Of course not, you’re the most important person in my-”
“Then show me!”
The wind was cold…
The blazing red of her Mood Ring softened, deepened,
tinged with colors of pain and sadness. She explained herself, “If I’m
just something to pass the time… I need to know. Please, Marigold.”
Once he showed her, she would see everything. She might
not want him anymore, damaged as he was.
“Ok, but… Please don’t hate me.”
He pressed a clammy finger to the metal in his temple.
She gasped and stepped back, hand flying to her mouth in
shock. Tears welled in her eyes and what must have been a dozen
emotions played over her features in a dazzling array of color.
He knew the deep purple of fear all too well, shifting into
teal confusion, into the warm tones of sympathy and compassion,
into tenderness, and was that love coming through? He could hardly
believe his eyes.
“I didn’t want to burden you with this. I’m sor-”
She lunged forward, arms outstretched.
He flinched but could not escape her loving embrace.

“Are you coming over tonight?”
Her alluring voice came through the phone, a siren song
of smooth, sweet promises laced with unspoken risks. A drug that
jumped my heartrate and numbed my brain – the more moral aspects
of which were screaming at me to stop before things turned physical.
I’d stopped listening to that part weeks ago.
“I’m thinking about it. She knows around what time to
expect me, but I can tell her I hit traffic.”
My chest felt as if an intense weight rested on it, pressing
the air from my lungs. Was it excitement? Anxiety? Or both?
I wanted this. I needed this. Ten years of lifeless marriage,
roommates than lovers. My wife had committed numerous betrayals,
some of which I’d even found out about. If not for the kids, I
would’ve left long ago… I thought. I didn’t really know anymore.
I’d grown accustomed to the dull acceptance of an unfulfilling life,
an unfulfilling marriage.
Natalie had awakened something I forgot existed. I need this.
Surely karma would see what I’d gone through and consider
the balance sheet equal. Karma owed me this one after all these years.
My response met only with the sound of steady breathing.
Was she getting cold feet? I hadn’t considered the possibility
that Natalie would be the one to back out. She’d known from the
beginning that I was married; despite her occasional lapses into
religious guilt, she never wavered that this was what she wanted too.
The silence grew louder with each passing second. It was
deafening; I couldn’t take it.
“Are you ok?”
“…are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”
Was she referring to me visiting tonight? Or what I promised
to do when I finally spoke to Lydia afterwards? My heart sank; just
one hour ago, I was on top of the world. Everything I wanted was
coming my way. With one sentence, Natalie had pulled the rug
from under me; the solid footing I thought was there revealed itself
to be a lie.
How to respond without pushing her further down the path
of doubt? I didn’t know what she was doubting. Precious moments
ticked by; I was bordering on giving off doubt myself.
“I’m absolutely sure. I’ve never met anyone like you, I’ve
never felt this way before. You’ve opened my eyes to what is possible
when you find someone that you truly connect with. I want this
with you.”
“I know, I feel the same.” She paused. “I meant tonight.”
The pressure on my chest eased. She wasn’t questioning our
future, only if giving in to our urges before I ended things was the
correct thing to do. Back on solid footing again.
“If you aren’t comfortable” I lied, “I have no problem
waiting,”. I could only hope the prospect of not getting our hands
on each other would push her off the fence. Me, I’d long moved
past worrying about whether we should or not.
“Maybe that would be better, at least until you’ve left her.”
The cold sting of disappointment… my plans for the night,
my excitement, all vanishing as we spoke.
“If you’re absolutely certain that’s what you want… I won’t
press you.” I’d always been terrible at expressing my real feelings,
but I’d learned long ago how to manipulate others to get what I
want. Call it a gift from a less-than-stellar childhood.
“I don’t know.” Still on the fence… meaning there was still a
chance. “Are you sure she won’t find out?”
I had no way of knowing if my wife would ever find out.
“One hundred percent, yes. I’m certain.”
My heart skipped three or four beats when I heard her
respond. “Ok, come over then.”
*****
“Alright kids, it’s time for bed.”
My heart was beating through my chest. Was it excitement
or anxiety? Or both?
Carl would be home in an hour; he’d left the conference
three hours ago. I knew exactly how long it would take him to get
back; I’d checked Google Maps to get the route time and to see
if there was any traffic along the way. I wanted to let him know if
there were any delays; Carl hated traffic. And I hated when traffic
stressed him out. I wanted him home.
One-by-one, I hugged each of our three children and kissed
their foreheads, tucking them into bed. With each bedroom door
I shut, my heart raced a bit faster. Carl had begun to act strangely
after he left for his trip. Nightly calls from previous business trips
over the years became one midday, ten-minute call. He felt distant.
I asked if he was ok. He wouldn’t tell me.
“We can talk when I get back.” That was all he would give me.
Subsequent texts offered no additional clarification.
I wished he would’ve just told me whatever it was. The
anticipation was surely worse than whatever he had to say, but my
innermost fears manifested worst-case scenarios – then replayed
them countless times in the days since. Things that could never
happen, like Carl asking for a divorce. Or worse, that he was leaving
me for another woman.
He was far too selfless for that. My Carl, the man who stood
by me even when I broke his trust. I didn’t deserve him; he was far too
good of a man. I couldn’t think of a better father, a better husband.
But… I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was
coming. Something I wasn’t ready for. My stomach bad been turning
for days. I hadn’t eaten; I couldn’t eat. The thought made me even
sicker to my stomach.
As I sat on the couch, my phone lit up.
Carl Calling.
I snatched my phone off the coffee table and pressed Answer,
trying to calm myself before talking to not appear as desperate as I
really was.
“Hey, on your way home baby?”
“Yeah… I’m on the road now.” He sounded hesitant.
“So, I’ll see you in an hour?”
“I wish. I hit bad traffic, and we’re barely moving. All lanes
might be shut down.”
An icy dagger pierced my heart as he recited his lie. All my
excitement at seeing his name pop up on my phone only served to
raise my spirits higher so that the emotional drop was even steeper.
Crushed, I didn’t know how to respond. How do you tell the man
you hope isn’t coming home to tell you he’s leaving that you know
he’s lying – without pushing him further away?
“Oh… that’s not good. Have you looked it up yet on
Google Maps?”
“Yeah, it looks like road construction up ahead. We’re backed
up for miles. It’s going to be a while.”
All my worst fears, the dread I’d felt for the past three days,
bore down harder than ever before. I’d been fighting my fears,
telling myself I was being irrational. Hearing how much Carl had
rehearsed this lie, though, cut through any delusions I still had left.
“Carl, where are you headed?” My voice was much steadier
than I felt, my fears turning into resolve as I spoke. The silence grew
louder each moment he didn’t respond. The only thing I could hear
was my own beating heart as I waited.
“What are you talking about?” His voice was slower,
measured. He was gauging how much I knew. 10 years of marriage,
I knew when he was lying, when he was trying to gain more time to
figure out how much he could still hide.
My heart broke as I realized he wasn’t headed home.
Wherever else he was going, he didn’t want me to know. Based on
his lie, he planned on being there for hours. Was he even coming
home? I was afraid of the answer, but I asked anyway.
“Are you coming home tonight?”

It is the 33rd year of a marriage that failed: her second, his
first, and I am imagining it all, still looking from the outside in and
bargaining. I can only bargain with what I see to be true, to be false,
but mostly I bargain for some kind of reality that I can accept.
It is an embryonic Spring day, a morning not quite born,
with birds, with the tiniest red nubs of tree buds, with an early bed
of purple and yellow crocuses, all converging to tease them at their
breakfast, the breakfast she is preparing and will soon set as a gift
for him on the aging, green formica-topped dinette that stares at
its own view of the backyard patio. His place faces the front of the
house, looks onto the street where the action, if there is any, will
occur. She will sit beside him, her view the wall that separates the
kitchen from the garage. She won’t notice the wall, will look past
the linen dish towel calendar that decorates it. She will see only him,
and over his shoulder, whatever the world provides as hints of Spring.
Before she sets the table, she carefully covers the partially

worked 1,500 piece interlocking jig saw, a puzzle that pictures in
its incompleteness a field of vivid flowers, perennials, I think, and
a barnyard of weathered wooden structures. She covers it with
yesterday’s news, but not before she pauses to review the previous
day’s progress and contributes to it by fitting into the framework a
single piece. The piece is blue, almost white but blue, and it fits into
a sky of similar blues, the fit perfect, bringing up into her throat an
almost humming sound. Not a significant enough piece to make the
hum more than a vibration, but she feels it and smiles; and then coughs,
ending the hum. Then the newspaper covering carefully applied.
Over the newspapers she places a tablecloth, flannel-backed
vinyl with oranges, rust, greens, all forming leaves and flowers in
patterned sequential squares; K-Mart, $1.99 on sale; earth colors,
her favorite colors remembered from the old farm kitchen of her
youth. Her mother’s favorites, also. She presses at the centerfold
mark to smooth it, presses down firmly with the heel of her hand,
stretching then in her smallness to run her hands along the edges
and down the sides, an extra gesture of wrinkle-control, ensuring
smoothness over the roughness that she knows is there.
This is all in my memory. I feel the warm sun through the
patio window, smell the new vinyl of the K-Mart cloth, and the
bacon lying ready to fry across the room. I hear her coughing away
her hum of pleasure.
He sits sunken down into the couch, a spot just his size and
shape has grown downward into the fabric of it, an inch at a time,
over the last twelve years since the time he bullied a beleaguered
salesman into delivering it on Christmas Eve, a story he still tells
whenever he gets the chance. He likes remembering that Christmas
Eve: going into the store late in the day, choosing the couch, telling
the salesman “Deliver it today, or the deal’s off,” making his purchase
seem many times larger than the actual price. He is a muscular
dwarf of a man, overstuffed like his couch, with his middle sagging
and his stocky legs just touching the floor. His hair is grey-white, a
flat-top with a GI ‘high & tight”, his hairstyle caught in the timegap

of his 30’s where everything important had happened, where
his life had been lived. His square jaws flex against the earthenware
coffee mug as he gulps the coffee, she has carried to him, gulps it
down and then, in a sputter, wipes his chin and lips with the side
of his right hand as he looks over the headlines of the paper she
retrieved earlier from under the shrubs at the front of the house. I
find some glory in the memory of the dampness of his paper and
the stinging burn from the hot coffee, little victories in memories
that otherwise are filled with defeat.
But, what do I know? I am looking into this marriage from
the outside. I hear the rustle of the paper, feel its soggy dampness,
hear him swear, calling her “Bitch” as he wipes the hot coffee from
his mouth.
She is small, everywhere. Petite. Her grey-white hair is rinsed
“Charcoal Dawn,” a concession to her years. There is always half a
smile here, ready to live or die away completely at the whim of the
moment, a half-smile that apologizes more often than not, but that
can greet neighbors, friends, and her grown-up and away children,
first with assurances and then with blessings. It’s her eyes that draw
them in though: the eyes that I remember and miss so much. They
are green, the shade of April greens, a shade, and a half darker than
lettuce, almost frivolously squirreled away among her wrinkles and
crow’s feet, and they look clear and alive and penetrating no matter
what her smile is saying. She hears him muttering now, and rushes
in with a towel, saying “sorry, sorry.” Always sorry.
On the table she places salt, pepper, margarine, two knives,
two forks, two spoons, two breakfast plates—smaller than dinner
plates, larger than saucers—and a jar of Smuckers Strawberry Jam.
She wishes she had her own mother’s strawberry patch and the
skill to whip up some of her own. She starts away, then comes back,
looks to see if he is involved with the news, and removes the salt.
His diet. She knows he will be irritated that it is not on the table,
and she will get up to get it for him, but she watches out for his diet
anyway. After all, if his heart….
She thinks about his anger and puts the salt back again in
the center of the table.
A piece of the puzzle catches the hem of her apron and falls
from her chair to the floor, a center piece with notches on all sides.
It lands upside down, and when she reaches over and picks it up,
she finds she is holding the face of a small child. She remembers
from the picture on the box that the child is in the lower left of
the puzzle hiding, peering out from behind a rusted wheelbarrow.
I hear her chuckle very softly as she puts the piece into the huge
pocket of her apron.
The bacon begins to sizzle, showering grease onto the range
top from the cast iron skillet. She feels guilty about the bacon, and
about the eggs she is about to fry for him. She knows he shouldn’t
have them, that she shouldn’t be frying bacon ever, but then he loves
it so, has been used to eggs and bacon all these years. They are a part
of him the way he is a part of her, she whispers, a habit that starts
the day, that almost makes you afraid if it’s not there. She drains the
bacon on the paper towels and breaks the eggs into a cup. Maybe
if she switched to safflower oil instead of bacon grease? Maybe he
wouldn’t notice the difference.
He finishes frowning at the headlines and the picture
captions in Section A, nodding disapproval but reassured that
the sonofabitchin’ world hasn’t changed overnight. It’s a world he
understands, has a name for. This is a moment she studies, watches
him as he reaches for the sports section. This she understands: if his
world is the same, hers will be also. Maybe his team won yesterday.
She refills his coffee and pats his knee to let him know, looks across
to see that he has smoked three cigarettes already this morning and
another one is burning in the ashtray. Lung cancer scares her at his age.
I have not gone away. I am still watching, smelling the bacon
draining, the cigarette smoke. I hear the paper crinkling against
itself, burying the news into its own archives. I see so much; I think
sometimes I know so much when really, I know so little.
The eggs were so perfect this morning. Spring eggs: brown,
large, and soft-shelled. Early Spring eggs, maybe even, yes—doubleyolked. He’d be surprised, pleased. Well, she wouldn’t scramble them
even though he asked for scrambled. Double-yolked, basted gently.
A happy surprise! No broke yolks, please, she willed, squeezing her
eyes tight in child’s prayer for just that flickering second.
I blink and rest my memory, storing the data. I pick them
up later in the day, and the sun is around the house and low in the
western sky, streaming in the front window past his couch. This
moment they are both at the kitchen table. The dinette is uncovered
now, with the puzzle between them and the overhead light glaring
down over their work. The frame is finished, the sky filled in, and
the barn and sheds with their beds of autumn mums begin to tell
a story from their childhoods. It slows them both a bit to see this
lazy scene and not be able to connect it exactly with the proper
memory. Looking now, over their shoulders, I shudder expecting
that someone will appear to disturb this peaceful pastoral beauty.
Again, she sees that his cup is empty and moves to fill it,
brushing her hand against her apron pocket with a smile as she does
so. It is the smile of a kid with stolen candy, apprehensive maybe,
but naively secure. As long as she has stolen candy school will pass
quickly and the homework will be easy.
I see now that this is a game.
While she has her back turned to the coffee pot, he reaches
into the very center of the puzzle and removes a piece, wipes it
against the side of his trousers, and slides it into the pocket of his
olive-green cardigan sweater. It is clear to me that he now also has
stolen candy; he also has a sly smile that he hides by wiping his
mouth with a wrinkled handkerchief.
Hours pass. It is a large puzzle, and they work outside in,
surrounding it’s story. They like the suspense of knowing they do
not know something for certain. They work long into the evening.
The sun is continuing its journey elsewhere and they have pulled the
curtains and lighted the living room also. They still sit in the favorite
kitchen spots: he, facing anticipated action; she, with a view to the
puzzle and to him. They are almost finished now, have filled in the
framework piece by piece during this long day. Each piece seemed
a victory of sorts, but confusingly so. Her victories seemed more like
his defeats; his progress for them both. They work in silence, the TV
playing in the background has no drama that draws them from this
theater of action. His piece, her piece, his piece, her piece…
I remember it all. Memory, too, fills in the picture for me:
suspense, anticipation; putting one piece into another until I think
I have it figured out. It closes in on me, always on me. Now I am
the puzzle, a puzzle framed in the afternoon of another day, waiting
long into this cricket-filled night. And there are these two missing
pieces, staring back at the world as two green eyes, empty, and the
soul, my soul, escaping through the emptiness. She is dead now,
died on another sunny, embryonic Spring day just after breakfast,
her fingers curled as if to shelter stolen candy. He lives alone, sitting
deeper into the couch with each passing year, too blind now to work
on puzzles. His fingers, curled in arthritic anticipation.

In the center plaza was a crowd of the collective: humans,
cyborgs, and robots alike. In the rush of colors and emotions,
the cyborg found herself entranced by the scenery. Confetti was
flying with flower petals and streamers were in the hands of every
inhabitant. Both the flesh of humans and the false-metal skin of
machines were painted with various symbols and brilliant colors.
In this part of town, however, cyborgs littered the streets
with little symbols above their metal areas. There were many others
like her: machines with flat metal chests and breasts alike or humans
with sculpted, solid alloy around places they wished to modify.
Then, as she observed further, there were couples of all
different flesh, their beauty intertwining to produce colorful swirls
of skin-tones no matter what material plated their skeleton. It felt as
though she was dancing on clouds, delusional among the gathering
of celebrations.
She was pulled from one trance to another when a metal
hand reached out to brush the hair away from her face and gently
nestled a singular daisy against her ear.
“Do you want to dance?” Despite the robot’s human
appearance, the diamond symbol painted into their chest revealed
their secret. Its voice was programmed to an androgynous tone that
made it hard to differentiate.
She nodded hesitantly, and felt the embrace of another entity,
a machine she wasn’t supposed to encompass. There were strict rules
in the traditional part of the city, far away from the west side. It was
even disliked that she had replaced her attributes with metal parts
to fix her dysmorphia, the very reason she spent her days away.
When she placed her hands on their shoulder and looked
into darker eyes, suddenly the world fell still. The daisy resting on
her ear bloomed, traveling around her arms, and restricting her
moment. It uprooted itself and laid down onto her heart, and she
swore that the sensation cut her breath short. The tingly feeling
of its stem traveling through her ribcage and tangling around her
throat was foreign to her at any time before.
Oh. Oh. Was that the normal feeling? The feeling of a love
not impassive, or the beauty of it found within the smile of the
robot in front of her?
She couldn’t breathe because she was holding her breath.
Butterflies became natives within her metal chest’s flower field the
longer their eye contact remained.
She had always felt apathetic towards love; she had not even
known the definition. However, watching the eyes of the machine
squint so beautifully reassured her. It was the rush of adrenaline after
making eye contact or the daisy blooming in her chest as evidence.
“You’re really pretty,” was all that she could muster, and they
smiled so beautifully.
She felt paralyzed when the icy hands of the machine blazed
against her warm skin and laid gently on her jawline. It hissed at the
leaves of the flower and smoke resided in a twinge of puffs. There
was an alluring sense of importance as they maintained eye contact
and the celebrations faded away into background noise.
The daisy continued to blossom and spread across their
connected arms, and she watched as petals opened further on the
robot’s mouth, drawing her in through the motions. When their
lips met, new seeds sprouted between them, and fresh daisies grew
from the rich nutrients of her adrenaline.
She felt herself melting into Spring’s embrace, becoming
cradled within the golden pistil, and wrapped by the purity of being
reborn. Stabilized by metal arms, she could only imagine the future
of diverse fields they could create from their June daisy.

When my husband died of cancer, I felt alone, and grief
stricken. He was my whole world, and my days without him were
sad. I missed him the most when I needed advice about various
problems and on cold, dreary nights when I wanted his loving arms
around me.
I spoke to my son, Allen, about how I felt, and he said,
“Mom, you need to get out more. Join a club or become a volunteer
for a good cause. It is not healthy, moping around the house all day
wishing things were better.”
I knew he was right, but being middle-aged, I felt it was too
late to start over. Also, in the rural area where I lived, there were
very few places that needed volunteers, and the only club around
was a crochet group of mostly widows. Also, there seemed to be
no eligible men. The ones I knew were either happily married or
looking for someone younger and more attractive.
After I had been single for around two years, and the initial
shock of being a widow had abated somewhat, a friend of mine
suggested I try online dating. I thought the idea was absurd, which
I found out later to be true. I was also very nervous about contacting
strange men even though it was by computer. Nevertheless, one
rainy, autumn night when I was feeling especially blue, I decided to
give it a try.
My first efforts were both comical and bizarre. A few times
I entered sites by mistake that were male seeking male or female
seeking female. There were grannies seeking grandpas, old men
seeking women half their age, and one time I was on a site where
gender did not matter. I was very confused for a while.
Then I stumbled onto a site that seemed to have possibilities.
Usually, women did not have to pay to send a message. They were
a draw to keep the site going and to keep the males paying to be
a member. I checked out several profiles and decided to contact
a few. I found that most were on the site to play games, lie and
see how vulgar they could be. Several regaled me with impossible
tales of their prowess in the bedroom after only a few minutes of
conversation. I was shocked by some of the remarks.
However, I decided to give one man a chance, as he lived not
too far from me. I agreed to meet him halfway for lunch in another
town. I was so excited! My first date in thirty years! I went to a salon
and had my hair professionally cut and tinted. I bought an attractive
dress to wear and got a pedicure. I wore my best, most seductive
perfume.
He had told me he was divorced. He also said that he
weighed one-hundred-eighty pounds. His nickname was Twister. I
pictured him as a muscular he-man who would take me in his arms
and be my love forever. When I met him in person. I discovered
he probably weighed at least three-fifty. He wore blousy-legged,
checkered shorts that ended at his hairy knees, turquoise socks and
red, running shoes. His belly hung over his belt and was not quite
covered by his tight T-shirt. His gray hair spiked in all directions.
When I inquired about his family, he accidentally let it slip that he
was married and living with his wife! He said it was a miracle she
let him out of the house that day.
When I asked him why he lied, he said he did it because
he knew I would not date him if I knew he was married. He was
right about that! He insisted that he was separated from his wife,
but they lived together for convenience. I ended the date before our
lunch orders appeared. Disgusting! Was this an example of what I
had to look forward to if I dated anyone else, I met online?
However, hope springs eternal to a determined woman. I
wanted to find a decent person to communicate with and possibly
have a relationship with. Bad luck struck again when I met a guy
from Texas. He drove a long way to meet me in person. He seemed
nice enough, but he was string-bean skinny and had a lung disease
that made him whinny like a horse. I felt he was too sick to date
anyone and told him goodbye as nicely as I could. At first, he was
downcast and then he became angry because I would not go to a
tavern with him. He roared out of Oklahoma on squealing tires.
Time moved on, and with it went my hope for love. Then
one day on a dating site I saw a profile of a man named Terry. He
lived in Kansas in a small town about three-hundred miles away.
He was willing to email me, and we also corresponded by phone.
He was in his early sixties like me and was a life-long bachelor. I
learned he was a security guard in a salt mine just outside of the
town where he lived. He seemed very decent and respectful. He
might be the one I was looking for, but I couldn’t be sure until I met
him in person. Terry did not seem too enthusiastic about meeting.
One time I emailed him for a week with no answer. My heart
was broken. I thought he was ghosting me. I decided to send him
one last message: Where are you, Terry? Is this goodbye forever?
That same day I received an email from him asking if I had received
his emails! That was the closest I came to ending our relationship.
We kept in contact for about six months. More and more
I felt that he was the one. Allen, who was between jobs, told me
he would be happy to take me to see Terry. He didn’t want me out
on that long road alone. After an eight-hour trip, we ended our
destination at a quaint little house in Kanopolis, Kansas. I was out
of the car before it had fully stopped, knocking on Terry’s door.
When he opened it, I grabbed him in a big bear hug, startling him.
He had been alone for many years. He looked as though
he was getting ready to run! It was hard, trying to differentiate the
reality of him from my fantasies. It took a while for the two to
coalesce. All I had before was his picture, which was professionally
made. Most of the other photos I had seen were of scruffy looking
characters who looked as though they hadn’t shaved or bathed for a
month! Terry had beautiful, wavy hair and blue green eyes. I loved
everything about him. He had a wonderful smile and was very calm
and caring. His keen sense of humor kept me laughing.
We visited each other back and forth for the next three
years. We wanted to get to know one another before we made a
commitment. He proposed to me at Quartz Mountain State Park
Lodge, about seven miles from my place of residence in Blair,
Oklahoma. Of course, I said ‘yes’ and wondered why he had waited
so long. Terry and I decided to make our home in Blair, where
we now reside. We were married at a church we both attended
in Altus, Oklahoma, a few miles from Blair. Several relatives and
friends attended. We went to the Bahamas for our honeymoon. We
have been married for fifteen years, and every moment has been
wonderful. As far as online dating goes, I feel it is not a good way to
meet someone. There are too many pitfalls, false profiles, and many
people like to hide behind their computers and spin fantastic lies,
but when I met Terry, I truly lucked out.

I cup my hand around the wax number four atop the cupcake,
protecting the flame. I can still feel you, but it’s a stinging phantom
pain. Eyelashes tick my chest as you fall asleep to my heartbeat.
Tiny hands tug my pant leg, reaching for my fingers. The back door
slides open. “Up early today?” My ears ring with what I imagine
your first cry would’ve sounded like. First laugh. First, I love you. A
wind gust eats the flame, and I drop the cupcake into the trashcan
before he sees. Before we must start another day without you.