Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “On Love Alone”
Living with her ex husband— who watched for every additional ounce that might appear upon the body of his wife — had not been all that hard while keeping her unnatural diet of a boiled or poached egg along with a slice of dry toast and a small glass of orange or grapefruit juice or tea for breakfast, an apple or pear for lunch and no more than six ounces of broiled or baked chicken or fish for dinner.
How long could Mitchell Lipensky live on love alone?
Chicago, Illinois
November 19,1963
Aware that Mitchell liked seeing her without makeup, deciding to pass on all makeup, Elizabeth choose a pair of loose fitting blue jeans. Also aware that he liked her going braless while at home, but uncomfortable when not wearing one, fitting her heavy breasts into a bra, she then slipped into a light blue cardigan.
Though he told Elizabeth he was going to take the El downtown, he did consider driving and using her pre-paid parking spot, but after going into a skid on the icy street and almost hitting a parked truck, Mitchell slowly, very slowly, drove to the Howard Street El station.
****
“Hi, baby.”
Her dark blonde hair tied in a ponytail, Mitchell’s black mood somewhat brightened by the mere sight of Elizabeth standing barefooted within her doorway.
Coming into each others arms.
Both held tightly, his face within the warm, soft crook of her neck and shoulder smelling the combined scent of Elizabeth’s flesh and hair. His voice catching, “I love you,” he whispered.
Hearing the sadness in his voice, “I love you, too, Mitchie.”
“I hope so, baby, ’cause I’m really committed now.”
Looking into his eyes, “I know you are,” she said sincerely. “And I promise I’ll do everything I can to help make this easier for you, Mitch.”
Looking back into those almond shaped green eyes, feeling absolute love for this woman, yet…
Yet there was a hollow ache in Mitchell Lipensky’s stomach and heart for the life altering change he was in the process of bringing about that would take him from the home of his children.
Yet what was done was done, and knowing the stubborn, unforgiving temperament of his wife. Knowing ‘what was done was done’!
Yet... 'Confussion'
Loving this woman! Wanting this woman at his side for the rest of his life!
Looking into Mitchell’s eyes. Sensing his sadness. Rather sure she knew his thoughts and not sure that he could…
Not sure that he would ‘actually’ go through with it.
On the one hand knowing the change and years of sacrifice it would take on her part…
Knowing the territory, knowing Mitchell—knowing for a family of five Mitchell made a fair living. However knowing for a single lady she made a fantastic living and ‘she’ would have to take up the slack...
Ongoing support of three children for endless years…
Taking her from this perfect life she had made for herself: Living where and how she wanted to live.
Other than the strict maintenance of her own body, doing as she pleased, having to answer to no one.
Possibly… possibly deep down, Elizabeth Herzon hoped he would not, could ‘not’ actually go through with it…
Go through with a divorce.
On the other hand, though: Loving this man wholeheartedly! Wanting this man at her side for the rest of her life!
Yet ...‘Confusion'
Tightening her arms about him, Elizabeth’s mouth moving to his…
Her soft, warm lips on his. Her soft, warm body pressed tightly against his. Far from Mitchell’s usual humanistic reaction, the warmth of this embrace and kiss more spiritually emotional than sexually stimulating, Mitchell’s body did not respond as it always had.
“You hungry, baby? Want me to make you something to eat?”
Having had only coffee at his parents, suddenly realising, “Yeah...” he said, “...I’m starved.”
“Me, too.” Waiting for Mitchell, she’d held off eating. Taking his hand, Elizabeth led him into the kitchen.
Into a place he had never— in the nine months he and Elizabeth had been ‘together’, strangely Mitchell had never been in her kitchen.
Never having breakfast together, both realising they had so much to learn about other.
“How do you like your eggs?”
This simple question as a catalyst. His emotional dam bursting…
Within each other’s arms once again. Holding Elizabeth tightly, his head against her shoulder, Mitchell Lipensky cried.
Holding this man, “Shhh.” patting his back as one would an infant. “Shhh, baby.” Feeling his pain, ‘truly’ feeling his pain, “I know, baby,” she said. “I know.”
Releasing Elizabeth. Catching his breath he swiped the palms of his hands across his eyes… Then took the napkin she handed him. “ ‘Over easy’...” forcing a weak smile “...I like my eggs over easy.”
“Okay...” forcing a weak smile“...that’s good to know.”
A pot of coffee brewing. Hoping there would be bacon or sausage to go along, but knew there wouldn’t.
He watched as, first pouring a little oil, she cracked two eggs into the frying pan.
“None for you?”
“Eggs?” She looked at him. “No...” dropping two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster “...just toast for me.”
He watched as Elizabeth set the table with two napkins, one dinner dish, a butter knife and fork— presumably for him—and a saucer for herself.
“Juice?”
“Yes, please.”
Going to the refrigerator, she removed a plastic container.
“How’d it go this morning, with Sinclair?” Pouring half a glass, she placed it alongside the dish.
Leaning against the sink. “Good.”
Scraping and turning the eggs, “Really?” She looked at him. “How good?”
“ ‘Really’ good!”
Placing the toast onto a saucer, Elizabeth brought the dish to the table. “You…” sounding more as an accusation than a question “… like butter?”
“Uh, yeah. If you don’t mind?”
“Don’t have any butter, but there’s some ‘Oleo’ in the fridge.”
Opening the refrigerator door, Uh, oh! For a man who’s two ongoing, life long passions had always been sex and food—not always necessarily in that order—Uh, oh!
On the top shelf, alongside the orange juice container was a quart container of skim milk, a bottle of vinegar and another of light salad oil—the same oil his now burning eggs were frying in.
On the middle shelf was a large mixing bowl with apples and oranges, and a second bowl overflowing with mixed raw vegetables.
On the lower shelf, among a number of small bottles and odds and ends that one might put in a refrigerator, was a quarter pound stick of ‘oleomargarine’.
Reaching for his dish, she scraped the overly fried, hard yoked eggs — before they burned more than they already had, from the pan and, laying them on the dish brought it to the table.
Unbelievable that in nine months they had never…
“Uh, how do you like your coffee?”
“Black.”
Learning a bit more about each other. “Me, too,” Elizabeth said.
The toaster popping,.“I’ll butter,” Mitchell said.
“None for me, please.”
“That’s ‘it’ for you, Liz?” Asked disbelievingly, “A cup of black coffee and one slice of dry toast?”
“No...” going to the refrigerator “...I’ll have an orange too.”
****
Throughout the months of their ‘knowing each other’, they’d had lunch three times; each time meeting at Harding’s, where Mitchell would usually order a hamburger and a Coke and Elizabeth never other than a salad, roasted chicken breast or broiled fish. And she always left a portion of whatever she’d ordered.
If love was one and the same as sex to Mitchell Lipensky, than sex and food were opposite sides of the same coin. And if this breakfast was an indication of Elizabeth Herzon’s cooking skills, she’d be graded with an ‘F’.
“I don’t suppose you have any, uh, like jelly?”
“No jelly, but I’ve apple butter, if that’ll do.”
“Yes, please.”
Opening a cabinet door, she rummaged about the bottles and small boxes. “Here we go.” Unscrewing the top of the jar… “Uh, oh!” Elizabeth showed Mitchell the ring of green fuzz. “Sorry.”
A half glass of orange juice, two somewhat burned, hard yoked eggs fried in salad oil and one slice of dry whole wheat toast hardly what Mitchell would call breakfast.
Spartan breakfast notwithstanding, for the first time sitting across a breakfast table with this fresh faced, beautiful young woman with the honey streaked hair, that…
His senses torn between the love he felt for Elizabeth and the breaking of his home, in comparison—although a bit disappointing, this terrible breakfast was not really all that important.
Peeling the orange. “You didn’t tell me.”
Watching her peel the orange. “What?”
Biting a section in half, chewing. “Sinclair. What did he order?”
Not quite the question he was expecting. “Oh, yeah.” Cutting through the yoke of one strange tasting, overly fried—in salad oil—egg. “A pretty good order: seven twenty-five 10 Transco’s and five hundred 10 regulars.”
“Million and a quarter envelopes! Not too bad an order for such a crummy day.”
Putting the rest of the orange section in her mouth, chewing, waiting till she swallowed. “So why now?”
Finishing the first egg and half of his one slice of toast. Knowing what she meant. It would probably be best if I tell her I said it while conscious. Thinking, But, yeah, ‘why now?’ And at three in the morning, yet?
Looking into Elizabeth’s questioning eyes, taking a sip of coffee before answering. Deciding to go with the truth. “I was sleeping.”
“You were ‘asleep’?” she asked incredulously. “What do you mean you were ‘sleeping’?”
“I was asleep,” he said, lowering the cup. “I was talking in my sleep and said, ‘Lizzy, I love you’.”
“And she was, coincidentally, awake and heard you? And put two and two together?”
“Yeah. She said her period was starting and the cramps woke her.”
“You couldn’t deny this and pass it off as just a dream?”
Looking at the remaining egg, distastefully moving it around the dish with his fork.
“To be honest I tried!”—Not wanting to deny his love of her. “But...” haltingly, “...you don’t know Marsha, and… For some reason she was staying calm and I didn’t want her to get hysterical and wake the kids with this, so I…You know how much I love you, Liz, but Marsha kept pushing…” Looking up, his eyes on her eyes, considering lying. “But, to be honest...” looking away again, “I... was really afraid to admit it, you know, that I love you, so I didn’t and then she slapped me…”
“You did ‘not’ admit that you’re in love with me!”
Misunderstanding the question. “No, Liz,” speaking softly, “I did not. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry! It’s good you didn’t admit it.”
“ ‘Good’?”
“And she hit you?”
“She slapped me, then told me to get out.”
Knowing some of the questions he would be asked by the lawyer.
“You’re ‘sure’ you never actually admitted that you love me...” she asked excitedly “...or that you and me have been seeing each other?”
“No… uh, yes, I ‘never’ admitted that.”
“And she slapped you?”
A bit bewildered. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t slap her back?”
“ ‘No’, of course not!”
“And then she told you to get out!”
“Yeah. She even got the suitcase out of the closet and started throwing my stuff in it.”
“Mitchie, let me ask you…” staring intently at him “...do you want to go through with this? Do you ‘really’ want to be with me? To marry me?”
Familiarity:
In any marriage...Correction: In most marriages or in the case of the ongoing, nine months long affair of Elizabeth Herzon and Mitchell Lipensky there comes a time when the sight of the other, no matter how appealing becomes familiar.
There comes a time when the habits of the other become familiar. There comes a time when the personalities of the other becomes familiar.
And when two people— no matter their physical appearance nor their individual personalities are, so to speak, landlocked. ..
When their times together are spent ‘only’ in a bedroom as opposed to having dinner in a restaurant… As opposed to sitting in a movie theater side by side. As opposed to even taking an outside walk together.
When Elizabeth becomes irritated at Mitchell’s continual hurried phone calls. When the start of ‘love handles’ about the waist of Mitchell become noticed by Elizabeth. When his late afternoon beard stubble begins to irritate her thighs...
When Mitchell begins to notice stretch marks upon breasts, stomach and thighs and small deposits of fatty tissue that seemingly cannot be dissolved. When Elizabeth has no idea how to fry an egg...
When the heightened excitement of an illicit sexual affair becomes a familiar relationship...
“Mitchie, let me ask you…” staring intently at him, “do you want to go through with this? Do you ‘really’ want to be with me? To marry me?”
Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “what’s Mine is Yours”
