GREAT LOVE

It’s 1981, New York, inside the relationship with Paul. An entry: “So, Paul and I went sailing. I practiced my swimming. I am getting more relaxed. All because of Paul. He makes me relaxed, confident, healthy, alive. I love him for that, and much more. I can’t put it into words. Only I will, and it will be a great story, a great love story.”

I don’t know if it was a great love. It never became a great story. Perhaps now, I’ll be able to turn the hints and scenes from the diary into something. Perhaps. But where’s the love to describe? How do I exhume those feelings, not the disintegration and the doubt, but the love itself?

It’s hard to write about it because I have stopped hoping for that kind of love. I’ve just stopped hoping. I am hopeless. I was a hopeless drunk. I am hopelessly unloved. Love will never come, I’m singing the blues. Love was a fluke, it’s only for the young. Nobody will ever love me again, I’ll die by myself, unloved.

I turned the key in the lock, and propped the door open with my foot. I could hear classical music coming from the other side of the loft, was it Vivaldi? I dropped my gym bag at the edge of the closet door and walked down the narrow hall into the main loft space while yelling, “I’m home…Paul?...Anyone here?’

The kitchen counter to the left was spotless, except for the sink: a pot handle stuck out of some greasy water. The freezer door was covered with reminder notes, and half a dozen pictures held by magnets we had bought at rest stops on the New Jersey Turnpike.

A mirror on the wall to the right showed a late 30’s guy in shorts and a grey T-shirt, decorated with darker wet splotches at the chest and under the arms. It was me, back from the gym. My dark brown hair was disheveled, but the eyes were bright, clairvoyant. Something’s not right.

Beyond was the airy main loft with double-tall ceilings and refinished factory flooring, tossed with a few small oriental rugs. An off-white sofa bed faced me. The far wall was cleaned-up brick, punctuated by windows of shatterproof glass that had chicken wire threaded all the way through. The view was mostly rooftops and water towers, though you could see the crown of the Empire State Building if you angled just right.

I wondered where Paul was this time of day; maybe he finally got a job? Sure, I wanted him to work, but isn’t it wonderful to come back from the gym all pumped up and fall into bed with him? Isn’t it great to be in love?

A noise broke my reverie. I looked up to see Paul emerge from the door of the bedroom, shoving his shirttail into his shorts. His face was splotchy red.

“Oh, hi,” I said, walking towards him,” I didn’t think you were here.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m here.” A cough, and then, another body, shorter, younger, more compact, stepped into the room.

“I’m not alone, actually.”