Love

It is Saturday, late afternoon/early evening.  I can't tell, really, the sky still a high, perfect blue while the shadows fall so slanted and steep, the bottom half of the houses and lawns now in total shadow.  The temperature is perfect as is the humidity, the right end to a surreally beautiful day.  And I feel. . . in want of company, a girl if you will.  I have done what needs to be done and laid in the sun half an hour, too.  I've fertilized the lawn and sprayed a weed killer besides.  None of that sounds romantic, of course, but it is about beauty, you see, making things more beautiful, and that is how it leaves me feeling.  My tenant had a man working around the apartment all day, creating more patio and cleaning out the fence line.  As he was working, I was doing my piddly shit and talking to the neighbor with whom I am a friend.  And as we talked of travel and the marvels of his retirement, another friend that neither of us sees often pulled up in his pickup truck.  He, a stained-glass artist of some repute and a fellow I climbed my first high altitude mountain with a long, long time ago, is part of a "group of friends."  And so I listened as they talked about people we have traveled with and whom we've known, all of an age, an amalgam, I should say, and I felt an open rebellion welling up in me as I felt a death coming on, not a life-denial exactly, but a life-limiter.  I have never enjoyed anything that is age-related, never identified with "my generation."  Etcetera.  But my neighbor is leaving in two days for Mongolia and so, at least, there is that, and we were standing in the most beautiful of afternoons, three compadres.

And when I finished wrestling with the new hose which was kinked in a hundred places, and when I finished my yard duties, I took a shower and put on khaki shorts and a crisp, white shirt thinking I would go somewhere, would do something.  But my tenant texted me and wanted to know if I would pay the worker which meant I had to go to the ATM because he wanted cash, but for a whole day's work he was asking too little and so I had an opportunity to seem generous in giving him a tip for doing such a good job, asking if he were married.  He was a tall, gangly Jamaican man with only a few teeth.  He said he had a wife for twenty-five years but when he needed her most, she had left him.  It's an old story, I told him, and then giving him the tip told him that he should spend the money foolishly on something fun.  My tenant was going to take him to a bus stop, but I offered to drive him home which seemed to please both of them.  As we drove, he told me about his four kids, all grown and through college, and about how hard he had worked and the truck he lost and about his days as a d.j.  I asked him when he left Jamaica, and he said 1974 which was the year I went there with my girlfriend and the year the British had given Jamaica Independence.  We talked of hippies on the island and of voodoo and how to keep duppies in the grave, and we talked of Little Nancy Stories.  Quickly and without effort, we were friends.  To my disappointment, though, he had me drive him to the downtown bus station, but I think he had far to go, so we shook hands goodbye and he told me, "Respect."  Yes indeed.

And so feeling something like humanity, I drove home in the rich light of the golden afternoon and decided to stop at the Fresh Market to buy a good steak and some tiny asparagus and a small fruit tart.  I picked up an expensive wine on an impulse on my way out.  Life, I thought, was good.

And now as the jasmine rice cooks and the asparagus steam and the grill gets hot, I feel fresh and good and in love.  I am.  I am in love.  If only there were an object of desire.

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I ate the meal and drank the wine and sat in the fading light feeling. . . just that.  I am too confessional sometimes, I feel, for there are people I know who read this from time to time and maybe an ex-girlfriend or two.  I make myself sound so. . . unappealing, I think. . . so good to be away from, for I know that women want strong men, not love-sick puppies, especially when there is nothing to love.  But I've had a lifetime's practice, having felt this at an early age even before the hint of sex, then afterwards when the hint was there but not the fact, then ever after.  Yes, I'm afraid I am stuck with being that guy no matter how many mountains I climb or seas I sail.  I am not a hard man.

Now, Sunday, and another perfect day.  This long streak of perfect weather is unusual and heartbreaking like a love affair that you know eventually must end.  So, sad enjoyment, yearning and love.  That is the way we roll.  As long as we can, I guess.  At least its something.