Mirror, part II

Mirror, part II

“There is no middle ground
Or that’s how it seems
For us to walk or to take
Instead we tumble down
Either side left or right
To love or to hate”

-from Peter Murphy’s “Strange Kind of Love”

Within a year, Leo married his girlfriend. He finished his undergraduate and they moved out of state where he started law school. We emailed regularly, then occasionally, and then rarely, and then silence. During these years, I split with my partner, lived with two women, lived on my own, and then moved to California.

Leo sent emails from China where he was doing some kind of internship. His marriage was on the rocks. His love of the people, the culture and the landscape came through in his poetic descriptions. Each time I heard from him, I could see his amber eyes in my mind. The emails stopped, but I could feel him within the silence.

He emailed me a year later. He had divorced, he had finished law school and he was completing an internship in San Francisco. He had been in the Bay area three months. Could I meet him for lunch? We set a date and time, several days ahead.

I drove across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco, weaved through the streets of North Beach and found parking not far from the Italian restaurant he had suggested. A man in nice slacks, white shirt, open collar, short clipped hair and black-framed glasses stood on the corner. Leo had been shorn. His eyes were piercing and he was smiling as he stepped close and pulled me into a hug. I could feel his heart beating. I could smell his faint cologne. He felt solid and muscled. I don’t remember moving away or sitting down at a table inside.

“You look great,” he said.

“You do too,” I said. The short hair cut suited him, but I could see him with his long hair in my mind’s eye. “Very corporate! Someone’s been doing serious shopping.”

He looked down at his shirt and slacks, blushing slightly. I’d forgotten how easily he blushed, his cheeks turning pink, red, and then fading. “Work. You know how it goes,” nodding towards my own shirt and slacks. I nodded back, letting one half of my lips curve to a smile.

The restaurant faded to the immediate space around our table. We stared at each other, and the years rolled back and rolled away, leaving what I knew and what I thought I knew of him as a small lump in my throat and tears at the corners of my eyes. He reached across the table and held both my hands in his. I couldn’t talk. He let go when the waiter brought a bottle of wine and two glasses. We toasted “to forever friends” and drank. While waiting for and during our meals, we caught up. We finished the bottle and shared a dessert. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs, placing his calf against mine.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he said.

I was flippant and said, “Are you supposed to?” He shook his head.

“I don’t understand it. I’ve known you forever, it feels like. I’ve always felt close to you.” He took a deep breath and pressed his leg against mine, more firmly. “I was married. I only stepped-out on her once, which was symptomatic but not the cause of our split. I’ve lived on the East and West coasts, I’ve lived overseas. I’ve been hit on by men before and never reciprocated.” I listened. I could see where this was going. I let my face be still. He was touching the rim of his wine glass, letting his fingers make the glass sing in slow circles. I waited.

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. I don’t know what he found, but he continued.

“I want to know what it’s like,” he said.

Yes, I knew what he was saying and not saying, but I pushed back a little. “Why me?”

There was no hesitation, which surprised me. “Because I trust you. Completely.” He took another deep breath. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

I noticed the mirror across the room and looked at our reflection: two men with empty wine glasses, their feet and calves touching under the table. I remembered him on that New Year’s Eve. I had looked up to this man when I felt lost. Now he was here, looking to find his own way.

I turned from the mirror, locked eyes with him and leaned in close. “Yes, I’ll stay with you, Leo.” He was smiling, nervous, and I felt sadness flood my heart. I wanted to say that there’s no going back, that we can’t unwrite this, that tomorrow I’d be out of his head. We paid for lunch and he put his arm over my shoulder as we walked out the door. A man and woman smiled at us in the foyer.

I would remember him as he was.

Mirror, part I, is here.