my heart, again

I never really met him.

Not technically, anyway.

I wasn’t watching where I was wandering when we bumped, I mean when I bumped into him. His drink didn’t spill, though mine did. I stained the carpet with two fingers of tequila. He used two fingers to point to an empty hall. I made my way through the crowded room to apologize for my clumsiness.

What I thought was wrong, so very wrong.

He introduced himself, but didn’t say his name doing so. In doing what he didn’t do, he reminded me of the complete opposite of those black and white film carnival barkers directors use to foreshadow everything yet to come. His was a series of well-rehearsed motions in which those in close proximity would swear something of great importance was just about to happen.

And it did.

So I listened with an intent I never displayed before.

And I learned.

He told me of my life. He highlighted my highlights and delved equally into my pitfalls.

He knew me as I didn’t even know myself.

When he spoke of Mary, the one I let slip away, the one who fought against my ego, I wanted him to cease. When he spoke of her new life without me, I regretted asking him to stop. He knew I wanted to know more. My eyes begged and my pride gave way to my heart. I wish I had this level of composure with Mary when it mattered.

He told me she had a son, a healthy, happy lad who adored his mother and respected his father. The three led the life they wanted. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t that far away either.

I wanted more. I thought I had that right. Before speaking, he lifted his eyebrow, so subtle was his action in terms of energy expended, so powerful his action in terms of energy received, I held my tongue while he continued his narration.

Time had always been kind to Mary and her family. She aged well and her son grew. However, not all was well in her world. Her husband, twenty years older than her, began declining in health last spring. By fall, he would pass leaving their house emptier than ever. Mary bore his death well, on the outside. However, on the inside, to those who knew her enough to know the difference, Mary suffered. While she loved her husband, he was never to be Mr. Right, only Mr. Right Now. He gave of himself all he had to give. It was more than she ever could ask for, but it was never enough. Once he understood this feeling she carried, he never spoke of it again to her. He accepted his place as the older gentleman with more-than-adequate resources and a less-than-adequate appeal. She never tried to explain the hunger she had that he could not feed. It was not in her nature to aggravate wounds.

When he halted telling his tale, he took a sip from his drink. Almost, as if he did not want to divulge more, but under an oath to do exactly that, he drew breath and finished his story with the location of a vehicle parked in the hotel garage awaiting a date with destiny. He also told me if I break her heart again, he would kill me where I stood. As if we never met, he turned to walk away.

I turned to the nearest exit and found the parking garage.

It had been 25 years and she still had her pink Mustang.

And now she had my heart, again.