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“Feels kind of surrealistic, doesn’t it?”
Almost startled at the sound of her voice, taking a deep breath. “Yes! My God, yes!” I answered.
“This, now,” Barbara said, “is so unbelievable that I feel like I’m living a dream.”
The waiter returned.
Lost in this dream, the dream of actually being here, of actually being together. Afraid if I released Barbara’s hand the dream would dissolve. Afraid if my eyes strayed from Barbara’s eyes I would awake and the dream would dissolve.
Quiet again, neither she nor I spoke.
Cyber Affair 7
Day One - 5: Friday, June 18
Sipping my martini, knowing the dream would end in another day and a half, a deep sense of sadness coming to me, “Yes,” I said softly as though Barbara’s words: “I feel like I’m living a dream.” were spoken seconds ago. “It is a dream, Barb. That’s what we have: a dream where you and me have only three days to live together…It’s like we have our lifetime in three days.
Repeating: “ ‘A three day lifetime’.” Emotion tightening her throat, afraid to say more, Barbara brought the tip of her finger to her tongue, then, lifting a bit of salt from the rim of her glass, touched it to her tongue.
Attempting to lighten the moment, “You like salt do you?”
Hesitating, bringing her emotions under control... smiling, “Yes, I do like salt.”
There have been many actresses and actors who’s smile helped to launch their careers, so let me say here that if any newcomer were able to duplicate my Barbara’s smile they would be a shoe-in for success.
“Hmmm?” Kind of an innuendo, “I may have something salty for you, then.”
Catching what I was intimating, smiling evilly, “Yeah?” seductively running the tip of her tongue over her lips. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Offering Barbara the martini soaked, toothpick speared olive, which, smiling again, she closed her teeth around and pulled off the toothpick.
“Excuse me.”
Our eyes shifting upward.
“Would you care to order now?”
Barbara looked at me.
“Yeah,” nodding, “I know what I want.” Waiting as Barbara ordered…
“Porterhouse, medium-well. Mashed potatoes, spinach and, for the salad, uh, Italian.”
“Serf and turf, please, medium-rare.” I said. “ 'Baked' for me with all the stuff, spinach, too, and blue cheese dressing.”
Waiting until the waiter left, “We’re learning a lot about each other, aren’t we?”
Taking her hand again, “Yeah,” unable to shake my sudden depression, “that we’ll never need again.”
“Mitchie,” bringing my hand to her mouth, she kissed it. ”Please,” she said, her eyes becoming misty, “let’s not think about that now.”
“I know, baby.” Sighing, taking a long pull of the martini, “I know.”
During our months of Emailing, when our friendship went from friendly/formal to, minimally, flirtatious, when we began to feel a stronger bond than “minimally flirtatious” we spoke of our lives and she knew of my frustration over my long term relationship with Helen and, of my then confused feeling towards her, and I knew of Barbara’s lock-down life and of her uncaring, unfeeling, more than slightly controlling husband.
These conditions, of course, became our rational...our excuse for this weekend, for our weekend together.
Except, really, I am a single man.
Taking another swig of my drink, feeling the gin, “Tell me,” I asked, “so often, your poetry... so often I had the feeling that you were writing to me, only to me.”
Drawing on the straw, “You’re right, baby, I was. A lot of what I wrote, I wrote just for you.”
“You did you job good, then, honey, because I really felt it. Reading 'you'... What you wrote, sometimes I actually imagined myself with you.”
Taking another sip of the margarita. “Mitchie, that’s what I want! I want you to feel it... I want you to feel me as you read each line. I want you to feel my mouth.” Her eyes intent, staring into my eyes. “I want you to feel each kiss traveling down your body,” she said passionately, “I want you to hear your name being whispered between the kisses, I want your skin becoming wet from my tongue.” Stopping, blinking her eyes a number of times and taking another drink. “This is what I want when I write. I write for you as if it is happening at that very moment and, baby,” squeezing my hand, “I actually feel it myself, I actually feel my lips touching your bare skin, I actually hear myself whispering your name, tasting your skin and, oh, God, in my mind I’m actually holding 'you' and I feel your excitement.” Stopping, forcing the passion and emotion down, her eyes fixed on my face, “That’s what I always try to put into whatever I write about us.”
Hesitating, speaking softly, she closed her eyes:
“My lips render promises
in a path of kisses
from the Nirvana
of your neck
to the vale
of your navel
as I whisper your name
with each breath
my tongue
breaking your silence
as you sigh
into the night.”
Tears coming now, from Barbara, from me...
“I love you!” Bringing her hand to my lips, I kissed it, turning her hand palm up, kissing it again, “I love you!”
Placing her hand flat onto the side of my face, “I love you, too, Mitchie.”
****
“Want anything else, Barb?”
“Yeah!”
“Desert? Coffee?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You, Mitchie! What I want, Mitchie, is you.”
Reaching into my pocket, “Honey,” removing a small pill bottle. “You’ve got me.”
“What’s that?”
Knowing it takes an hour on an empty stomach and longer after eating. “Insurance.” Popping the lid, shaking a little blue pill out, I washed it down with water.
To be continued
©February 23, 2012 / Mark M. Lichterman
Poetry with permission of
Elizabeth J. Russo
