Requiem for Romance

My phone rings, showing a number I have not seen in ages and a name that sends my heart racing. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, as this is the most important call of my life.

I pick up the phone and answer. "Hello?"

"Hi Bobby," she says, her voice already quivering. "How are you tonight?"

"Wonderful, now that I am talking to you," I reply without hesitation. I can barely conceal my exuberance that she has called, yet her nervous laughter tells me that she is uncomfortable by the unwelcomed compliment.

She has called at my request, a generosity only an angel could offer after everything that has transpired over the previous weeks. A dozen letters we have exchanged, a dozen letters marked by the outpouring of one heart and the dismissal by another. My letters have confessed everything to her in words too great to number, but as she waits for my voice to announce the reason for our call, I find that the tender words I once found so easy to confess to her in former days have become like a great millstone weighing down my tongue.   

"I have some things that I need to say to you," I say, unfolding the letter I hold in my left hand that I have spent hours preparing. The paper rustles in my shaking hand and I wonder if she can hear it over the sound of my trembling voice. The words that I speak pour out everything from my heart, all the feelings and sentiments that long months apart have kept hidden within. I ask for forgiveness, I ask for another chance to make everything right...I ask for something else too, something that will determine the rest of our lives.

"Ornela, will you be my girlfriend?"

Silence, but only for a moment.

"It's not that simple Bobby. I can't...it's just that...I just can't."

My head sinks low; tears well in my eyes. For two years I have waited to ask that question. For two years I have struggled with my feelings, wrestled with them without relief, until finally my angels conquered my demons and revealed to me the one woman with whom I am in love with, the only woman I have ever loved. Her...it was always her, and now she drifts away like wisps of smoke that my hand can neither touch nor hold.

Something snaps within. My passion overtakes me as two years of anguish and regret spew forth in a torrent of raw emotions. "Are you in love with me, because I am in love with you!" I shout, startling even myself with such an outburst.

She says nothing for several seconds before meekly replying, "Yes, I am in love with you Bobby."

Finally she has listened to her heart. Finally she has acknowledged that which she always felt, yet never wanted to admit: that she is in love with me, that she has always been in love with me. Two years apart could not break our love, nor could her relationship with another. She knows that she is not supposed to have these feelings, not after so much time apart, yet they are there, binding our hearts together in a knot that neither time nor distance can break. With those simple words from her mouth I am happier than I have been in years.

"But you are with another man," I remind her. "Do you even love him?"

"No, I don't love him," she admits.

"Then why are you with him? Are you going to marry this man? Are you going to marry a man you don't even love?" 

She starts to cry.

"After you left," she begins, but before another word is uttered she breaks down in tears, struggling to maintain her composure against the torrent of emotions now washing over her. After several moments she gathers herself and continues. "After you left, I was miserable for a very long time. You just left me Bobby, you just left me all alone."

My eyes water while my throat clenches shut and renders me mute. The thought of her sitting in her room alone, crying because I abandoned her is more than I can bear. I realize now, for the first time, just how badly I hurt her when I said goodbye. Badly enough for her to flee from me. Badly enough for her to run to the arms of another man she does not love. She is afraid of being hurt again, and I am the reason for that. This is why she is with a man she does not love. He feels safe, and I don't anymore.

"Why are you making me choose between you and him?" she asks. "I am going to regret my decision either way. I wouldn't do this to you."

"I know you wouldn't," I concede without protest. "Because you are a better person than me." She is right. She wouldn't do this to me. She would have let me go a long time ago. No, that is not it...because her decisions are ruled by love instead of fear, she never would have let me go at all. I wipe away the tears from my eyes and struggle to say, "But you agreed to talk to me tonight. Does that not show you where your heart truly lies?"

"I agreed to talk to you tonight because...," she pauses, unsure of whether to admit her reason. "Because I can't say no to you Bobby." Her confession both lifts and breaks my heart. I can't say no to her either. In this moment, there is nothing that she could ask of me that I would refuse, for in my eyes she can do no wrong.

I sigh, wishing that she was beside me that I might hold her hand and look into her eyes as I make my confession.

"Every day," I tell her. "Every day for two years I have thought about you."

"I didn't know Bobby. I thought you had forgotten me."

"Your memory was always there...always. I wrote about you all the time in my journal."

"I know, I read it."

"You kept reading my journal?"

"I have read your entire journal, every word."

"Did you read the story about..."

"Bobby, I have read them all."

"Then you must know then...you must know that everything I write is about you. It is always about you. Everything my pen touches is a love letter to you...everything in my journal, everything in my novel."

"Maybe you don't really love me then. Maybe you are just in love with a character you created in your novel."

"No!" I scream, unwilling to hear such accusations.

"But maybe..."

"No!"

"It's just that..."

"No, no, no! This isn't about the damn novel!"

"Let me talk!" she demands, frustrated and upset that I will not listen to her.

We are fighting. We have never fought before. I offered her my love, but when she refused I unsheathed my sword and cut her down with my words. I don't want to do this. I don't want to hurt her, but every word from my lips draws another tear from her eyes.

As I am yelling at her she starts crying. Why is this happening now? At the time I need to be gentlest with her I am violently forcing myself upon her. I am scared. I am so scared right now, of saying the wrong thing, of losing her forever. Does she hear the trembling in my voice? Does she hear the fear? I am afraid of losing her all over again and letting the long years slip away as I spend a lifetime apart from my one true love. Everything within me is trying desperately to show her that the man who gave her up is not the same man who now asks for her love.

"I'm sorry," I eventually say. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I did not want to have this conversation over the phone. We have to see each other. Ask me to see you again. Ask me to see you in Boston."

She will not ask. She knows that if she sees my face her emotions will overwhelm her and all semblance of restraint will be tossed away forever as we fall into each other's arms. She has already admitted this to me before. Our love for one another will overtake us if we but look into each other's eyes...that is how I know we are supposed to.

"Ask me," I say again. "Please, just ask me to see you in Boston."

"I have to go Bobby."

Over the phone I can almost hear his car pulling into the driveway. She has called me when he was gone, a secret phone call that she has hidden from him. I imagine her sitting by the window, staring out the blinds while she waits for him to come back home. When she sees his car pull into the driveway she abruptly ends our call, fearing that he might catch her talking to the man she truly loves.

"Please don't go Ornela," I plead. Still she is silent. "Please don't go. I love y..."

The line goes dead. My breath is cut short. She is gone.

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The night has become my enemy. That moment when I turn off the lights and climb into bed, staring up at the dark ceiling above...I sigh. I stretch out my arm, almost expecting it to wrap around your body before remembering that you are not there. You are in another bed right now, with another arm wrapped tightly around your body, while I remain here alone....exhausted, but unable to sleep.

When we laid together on my bed in Birmingham I asked you what you want from me. "To be your girlfriend," you replied. Everything I would give to hear those words again. But they are not forthcoming, nor are they even tentatively offered. Instead, I am the one asking for a relationship...I am the one being rejected...I am the one crying alone. The greatest tragedy is knowing that we could be married right now, happy and together, but I let it all slip away. I let you go and everything that we have both gone through, all the needless pain and suffering, is my fault. It is all my fault.

You told me in one of your letters that you wish you could undo something that has already been done. Ornela, it is never too late to undo whatever you have done. You don't have to keep going down a path with a man you know is not right for you. It is never too late for us to be together...you always have a choice. No matter what you have done, no matter what decisions you have made, no matter what changes have taken place in your life...I still love you. I still want to spend the rest of my life with you and that will never change. My love for you is unconditional.

We write our own stories Ornela, I with my pen and you with our lives, and I don't believe that our story is over. You told me during our phone call that if we are meant for each other our love will find a way to bring us back together, so I have opened my hand and released you, hoping that one day you will come back into my arms. 

I don't know if you are still reading my words or not. If I knew that you were I would write you a new story every day just to tell you that I love you, with the hope that you still love me too. I have to believe...I have to believe that you love me enough to keep reading my journal, as this is the only way I know to keep talking to you. I am writing these stories because it is the only thing I have left that makes me feel close to you...I hope that when you read my words you feel close to me too. All of my stories, from my novel to this one, every word...is written only for you.

You make everything beautiful.

Moon Rabbit

Her hand feels so frail and weak within my own. I gently toy with the wedding ring that once fit snugly around her finger but now slides freely and seems ready to fall off at any moment. I placed it there myself, ages ago, before all of our friends and family on that happiest of days, and never once has it left her finger. But now, looking at my wife as she lays in this hospital bed and peacefully rests, I hold her hand and make sure the ring never slips off, as she is too weak to keep it there herself.

"Mr. Martin, visiting hours are over in five..." The nurse pauses, looking away as she has intruded upon a broken man shedding tears over his unconscious wife. "Take as long as you need," she says and closes the door behind her.

For two years now my wife has been like this. After the accident she lapsed into a coma and has not recovered. A hundred tubes and wires cover her body, all connected to various machines that monitor her heart rate, breathing, or some other vital function. These machines tell the doctors everything they need to know about what is happening to her body, but none of them can tell me what is going on in her mind.

"The chances of her ever waking up are low," the doctors have told me. "Even if she does, she likely won't remember you or the life you shared together," they insist.

A life we shared together...and the doctors say that my wife will not remember any of it. They tell me that she won't remember the long walks we took along the white sand beaches of Panama City or the night we spent at Compass Lake as we laid beside each other on the dock and stared up at the starry night above. They tell me that she has forgotten the first kiss we shared together in Charleston and the last time we passionately embraced in Boston. They say she has forgotten it all...but they are wrong. She remembers, she remembers everything...only she cannot wake up to tell me so.

On the table next to my wife's bed rests a copy of her favorite book, Moon Rabbit, a love story written by some unknown author. She used to read the book all the time, imagining herself to be one of the characters and relishing in the love story told within its pages. I pick up the book and begin reading, exactly where I left off the day before. Every day I read to her, hoping that my voice and the story will help her wake up and bring my wife back to me. I read a chapter to her, occasionally glancing up to see if my words cause her eyes to twitch or her lips to smile, but she remains asleep, frozen beyond the reach of my words and my love.

After I finish reading, I set the book down and hold her hand. Her skin feels cold so I rub her fingers to warm them up. For the next several hours I will repeat this routine many times, for I have a long, restless night ahead of me, just like all of the others before it, but I will wait right here...I will wait for her to wake up. I will remain in this hospital room every day, holding her hand until she awakens, so that when she finally opens her eyes my face will be the first thing she sees, smiling and whispering, "I always knew that we would be together again Ornela...I love you."

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You told me goodbye, yet even now you read my words and let me speak to you through my stories. No one is forcing you to do this Ornela...ask yourself why your heart has brought you back here. You are reading my words because despite everything, despite the pain and the heartbreak, you still want to be close to me. You still want to be close to the man you love. I know that you still love me...why else would you be here? The feelings that brought you here, the feelings that you are fighting so hard to ignore, are the same feelings that will one day bring us together again.

When you are ready, I am here. I will always be here waiting for you. I love you Ornela.

Hey Baby

"Did you hear the big news?" My friend nudges me and shows me the picture on his phone. "Phillip and Jennifer just had their baby."

I look at the photo and smile. Phillip is holding his firstborn and makes for such a proud father, a man I have known since first grade who is now all grown up. His wife holds their child and cries, and a new family is born.

While Phillip and his wife are celebrating the greatest moment of their lives surrounded by friends and family, I am polishing off the first round of a long bender in some blues bar in east Atlanta. A bottle of Old No. 7 rests on the counter beside me, freshly opened but already destined for the trash heap by the end of the night. I look around the bar and see my Dothan  boys already packing into a booth at the far end of the bar. 

"Come on Bobby, it will be fun. We've got to get you out of that lonely apartment and take your mind off her." After some feigned protests I relent and join them for a night of drinking. Months have passed since last I took a drink, but before they finish their first round I am already half a bottle deep.

In my newfound euphoria I see the flashing neon lights announcing the house band, yellows and reds blurred together like some artist's brush streaking paint across the canvas. The music starts soon, blues of course, a fusion of deep bass guitar and saxophones framing the raspy voice of the sturdy woman who struts across the stage and curses the microphone like a jilted lover. "Mama Brown" they call her, and she belts out the blues with the fury of a woman possessed by demons that only her words can exorcise. My foot taps in rhythm to the unknown yet familiar song, while my right hand slams down an empty shot glass with every beat of the drummer's snare. When her song ends the regulars in the back of the bar whistle and clap before returning the bar to relative silence, save for the music that still plays in my muddled head.

When my bottle runs empty I approach the bartender to request another when a sultry voice whispers in my ear, "Hey baby, can I buy you a drink?"

Before I can turn around she has already laid her hand atop mine, grasping it firmly around a shot glass as she lifts the drink to my lips. The charred whiskey stings as it slides down my throat, but not as much as the memories her presence elicits when I gaze upon the face of my unexpected suitor. Her eyes, dark and alluring beckon me closer and feature prominently against the olive complexion and midnight hair that frames them. They are eyes of the desert, Middle Eastern it seems, yet with a hint of European roots that place her lineage further west, perhaps in Greece...or somewhere just across the border. She edges closer and presses her body close to mine, wondering if I notice the single bead of sweat that slides down her chest and disappears between her ample breasts. I notice. She brushes the raven's tresses from her brow to reveal a face that I have not seen in two years. She looks just like her...just like her...and when she places her hand atop mine I feel your touch for the first time in two years. She leans in for a kiss, expecting the evening's intoxication to take us away together, but I recoil, for she is not you...and even now there is no other woman I would choose over you.

Two years apart and I cannot so much as even flirt with another woman without feeling as if I am being unfaithful to you. I am in love with you and you told me that you are still in love with me, words that have lifted my soul to heights I dared not imagine. More than anything I want to hold you right now, but I am here in this dive bar in Atlanta while you are up in Boston with...I take another drink and remember nothing more.

I drink until I can't remember your face. I drink until it doesn't hurt anymore. I drink until the world disappears.

And then I wake up, in my own bed as I look over at the clock that flashes 4:00 a.m. I don't know how I got here. I don't even know if the night's proceedings were merely a dream. As I look around the room to collect my thoughts, my phone buzzes from a voicemail that had been left hours earlier. For a moment I hope that I will hear your voice, asking me to see you again, asking me to come back, but when I hear the unfamiliar voice of the woman whose unwanted advances I abandoned only hours before, I toss the phone aside and let the message play itself out, where words of fidelity speak only into the open air with no one to hear their pleas. 

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One of my dearest friends had his first child today and all I can think about is you. It should have been us. Te dua.

Sands of Time

Sands blow harshly in the desert air, stinging my tear-filled eyes that burn from the scorching sun above. For two years I have wandered alone in this desert. Not a single drop of water has touched my lips nor has a hand reached out to guide my steps. I have been alone, save for the memory of a woman I search for in this barren desert. She is out there somewhere, I am sure of it...and it is only with the hope that I will one day see her face again that I have not let the desert sands claim me. I wipe the tears from my eyes and press forward.

Two years alone in the desert give a man time to think, about the steps he has taken to bring him to such a dire situation and where his next footsteps might lead. When I started this trek across the desert sands all those months ago, I knew that I cared for the woman I am searching for, but still I was unsure if I loved her. She told me that she loved me, but I would not say the same, and so I abandoned her in the desert where I expected the sands of time to reclaim her memory. But that did not happen. Instead I thought about her every day, from the moment we parted until this one now. Your memory is always there, which is why I am here, searching through the desert that I might find you again.

Far in the distance I see something, a figure, lone and tall she rises like a single stalk of wheat from the desert floor. Her windswept hair shields her face from the unrelenting sandstorm until for a moment, just for a moment, the winds subside and I see her beautiful face. She smiles...and I am finally happy.

I race towards her, ignoring the searing pain of the soles of my feet as they bake atop the desert ground, ignoring the sands that cut like a thousand razors against my exposed flesh. I ignore the pain as my battered face is fixed only on her gaze, for her smile draws me close and I feel nothing other than the unconditional love for a woman I have crossed deserts to find.

Our stares meet, our bodies separated by only inches as I look into the eyes I have not seen in two years.

"I love you Ornela," I exclaim, my arms outstretched and ready to hold her close.

"I love you too Bobby," she says...and my heart melts. Words I have not heard in two years. Words I have dreamed about every day since last I saw her. She has given me everything I have ever wanted in that simple phrase and for the first time in years I am truly happy. I have found her again...and I will never let her go.

I wrap my arms around her, expecting to feel her body draw close, but instead my hands pass right through her. Her arms begin to crumble, her skin dries and cracks. Wherever my hands touch her begins to be reclaimed by the desert as her body slowly turns to sand. I reach out to hold her arm but it breaks apart in my hand and is quickly carried away by the desert winds.

"Ornela!" I scream, her body disappearing in the wind.

Her body has turned to sand and melts slowly into the desert floor as I desperately try to shield her from the storms crashing around us.

"I love you," she repeatedly says as the winds carry her away before my eyes.

"Please don't go!" I plead. " Please don't leave me...not after I have crossed deserts to find you again."

I try to hold her close but the more I touch her the quicker she breaks apart and dissolves back into the desert. Every effort I make to get close to her only pushes her further away so that at last only her face remains, a face that is filled with tears and sorrow.

"I love you Bobby...I love you," she says, her voice faint and weak.

"I love you Ornela," I gently whisper, as my breath on her face breaks apart the last grains of sand and scatters them into the unrelenting winds that have torn our love apart. I stand alone in the desert and weep.

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Three words pass from your lips...and I am happier than I have been in years. Two years apart... and we are still in love with each other. One decision to make...and our lives will change forever.

I had to pass through my own desert in order to find what I was truly looking for, which I have finally found in my love for you Ornela. The past two years have been a difficult chapter in our story, but I believe that our story is not over yet. I believe that we are still writing it. Now I am handing my pen to you, to write the next chapter of our story, one that I hope will be the beginning of a lifetime together. 

You know that I am in love with you, just as you are in love with me...where our love will take us I leave in your hands. If I thought that you were in love with him I would have stopped trying a long time ago, but I knew that you weren't, just as you admitted to me. Would you look at what your life looks like in 30 years Ornela? Is it with this guy? Is he the one who you can see yourself waking up next to every day, or are you just staying with him because you don't want to hurt somebody's feelings? This isn't about him or me Ornela...this is about you. Stop thinking about what I want, or about what he wants, or about what anybody else wants. Ornela, what do you want?