silent moments

... continued ...

my mona lisa man stood near the door inside the small terminal building. a single shoulder bag sat on the floor, at his feet. he wore a blue jacket over his crisp white shirt … 4-bar epaulets and pilot’s wings glowed in the streaming midday sun. my heart sat in my throat like a stone, skipping a beat when we touched in an embrace. his lips gently brushed my cheek … the hush of his breath in my hair … a flash of goosebumps - mine … and his hands traced the curves of my body, like they had visited these places before.

his touch stirred in me a deep, desperate longing … longing that lurks in the dark recesses of a shattered heart. a longing i thought i could deny, when i thought i’d never see my mona lisa man again. now … this longing haunted me … a restless ghost, enticing me … beckoning me … teasing me. his voice - exotic, european - enveloped me like warm, rich chocolate … creamy, sweet, smooth … so tantalizing, leaving me thirst for more … more … and … more … my mouth felt hot and dry and desire burned in my lips …

we three rode through the small mediterranean town, to his lonely, highrise apartment … we talked about regret, estrangement, and the dark despair of grieving. he spoke tenderly of his wife’s death from cancer three months ago, his self-imposed estrangement from his family during her final days and disownment by his son and daughter for failing to witness his wife draw her last breath.

my husband remained silent, the kind of silent that comes from feeling choked, as i solemnly recounted the details of our youngest son’s untimely demise … the words tumbled from my lips, sailing on a stream of regret, longing and cavernous loneliness as i recalled a loss that could only be described as ‘plucked away’ … as in a large, bright and deeply-rooted feather deliberately plucked from a bird’s plumage …

i did not speak of my husband’s inability and unwillingness to conceive of parenting anything ever again, his oppressive despair at this crushing blow, or the bitter taste of what-could’ve-been that resided in his kisses and lingered on his tongue … all of these things lurked in the lines and angles of his face and lived in the undulations of his voice. i did not speak of the oppresive sorrow … grief over the loss of our youngest son … that extinguished the passion which once fired our marriage. or the desperate emptiness i felt as i wallowed in its charred remains …

i think these resided in our tentative physical contact: the way each flinched reflexively when touched by the other, as though stung. i contemplated all these things i failed to speak of, as we silently disembarked the taxi and waited for the lift … in these moments, grief settled upon us all like flour settles on damp skin …

tension lived in all the silent moments that followed … heavy … weighty … oppressive. i pondered silently now that i understood the intimate familiarity, the enchantment, the captivation … the magnetism of the connection i had forged in that utility closet with my mona lisa man.

… to be continued …