Often only long after the event do we register its effect. Does the impact come from the event itself or the touch up of our processing? Can you ever know for sure?
I only met him a couple of times on my way out. I usually visited Sian after dinner, when school work of the day was all done. He didn’t talk much nor looked nearly as attractive as she and that is all I can say about him first-hand.
Their marriage was not going well. Sian could not work due to nerve damages in her hands from years of working in hospice. So she spent most of her time at home with her two dogs, a Great Dane and a fussy poodle mix. Danny often worked late and all he did at home was drinking in front of the TV. Cliché. Sian suspected that he was talking to other women.
I was visiting her for the first time in 2 weeks. “Hey lady dove,” she greeted me at the door, the TV paused at a frame of them sitting center stage-she was watching her wedding video again. “He does love me, I believe,” her eyes half empty, half fixed on the screen.
“I married my dad,” an hour later, she said over a bottle of white wine.
It was another 2 months before we found ourselves in a motel room off Cerrillos Drive, near the airport. She stripped down to her underwear before hopping into the shower. “Am I really that atrocious?” she asked, arms swung out on each side.
I didn’t know what to say. She is a head-turner. Lean, muscular, curvy, lithe, striking, graceful, nimble, plump… I don’t know how all these words can fit one person so well at the same time. She was drop-dead gorgeous with such profound sadness. Reminds me of Betty Draper.
I was called to keep her company. She could not spend the night at her house for some reason. That was before she officially moved out. And that was the last time I saw her, except one time when I saw someone with a Great Dane walking on Cerrillos by the side of a guy I couldn’t recognise. I couldn’t see her face but it was probably Sian.
9 out of 10 times when I think of her, I see the look in her eyes as she stared into her wedding video, like an endless tunnel, like an abyss. They were so happy on screen, surrounded by flowers and people. Maybe it was the happiest day of her life. Maybe she thought it was day that would mark a bright new beginning. The promises of a wedding. Who’s to blame?
Paul
The year I met Sian, I was living with a neurologist. I don’t know why I always referred to Paul as the neurologist. He was so much more than his job. Paul had just had a series of complicated surgeries on his right ankle. “That’s what 70 years of walking on flat feet does to you,” he often said.
Paul loved theater. I moved in with him partially to drive him to rehearsals every week because he couldn’t drive. Still in a cast and cane, he was Tevye, the main guy, in Fiddler on the Roof. They put on 5 shows at the Lensic downtown that summer. Great success. A big Russian jew from Brooklyn, Paul exuded charisma and commanded attention on stage. He also sang so well with a voice that could project for miles.
His private life was messy and clandestine. I had no interest further than peppering it into chitchats with friends for gossip during a lull. With a successful career, an ex-wife, some non-girlfriends, both his kids in Oregon, a couple of aggressive African Grays, an epileptic Vizsla, a messed up ankle, a lifetime of fun stories, he felt as empty as the rest of us.
Every few days I would catch him watching the recording of Fiddler on the Roof late at night. He would rewind one part over and over. Tevye on screen had the whole theater mesmerized with his singing. He was the star. He was what everyone was looking at and listening to. After Paul was done getting his fix, he would shut off the computer and go to bed.
I couldn’t see his face but Paul’s slightly hunched back slumped in the chair, the screen half illuminating the room, and the singing from the computer are burned into my head.
Sian had been married for over a year. They went to high school together in New England, great friends, lost touch, 20 years later reconnected. That was 3 years ago when she was going through a really rough time. Challenges from all directions. He swooped in and gave her hope.
I only met him a couple of times on my way out. I usually visited Sian after dinner, when school work of the day was all done. He didn’t talk much nor looked nearly as attractive as she and that is all I can say about him first-hand.
Their marriage was not going well. Sian could not work due to nerve damages in her hands from years of working in hospice. So she spent most of her time at home with her two dogs, a Great Dane and a fussy poodle mix. Danny often worked late and all he did at home was drinking in front of the TV. Cliché. Sian suspected that he was talking to other women.
I was visiting her for the first time in 2 weeks. “Hey lady dove,” she greeted me at the door, the TV paused at a frame of them sitting center stage-she was watching her wedding video again. “He does love me, I believe,” her eyes half empty, half fixed on the screen.
“I married my dad,” an hour later, she said over a bottle of white wine.
It was another 2 months before we found ourselves in a motel room off Cerrillos Drive, near the airport. She stripped down to her underwear before hopping into the shower. “Am I really that atrocious?” she asked, arms swung out on each side.
I didn’t know what to say. She is a head-turner. Lean, muscular, curvy, lithe, striking, graceful, nimble, plump… I don’t know how all these words can fit one person so well at the same time. She was drop-dead gorgeous with such profound sadness. Reminds me of Betty Draper.
I was called to keep her company. She could not spend the night at her house for some reason. That was before she officially moved out. And that was the last time I saw her, except one time when I saw someone with a Great Dane walking on Cerrillos by the side of a guy I couldn’t recognise. I couldn’t see her face but it was probably Sian.
9 out of 10 times when I think of her, I see the look in her eyes as she stared into her wedding video, like an endless tunnel, like an abyss. They were so happy on screen, surrounded by flowers and people. Maybe it was the happiest day of her life. Maybe she thought it was day that would mark a bright new beginning. The promises of a wedding. Who’s to blame?
Paul
The year I met Sian, I was living with a neurologist. I don’t know why I always referred to Paul as the neurologist. He was so much more than his job. Paul had just had a series of complicated surgeries on his right ankle. “That’s what 70 years of walking on flat feet does to you,” he often said.
Paul loved theater. I moved in with him partially to drive him to rehearsals every week because he couldn’t drive. Still in a cast and cane, he was Tevye, the main guy, in Fiddler on the Roof. They put on 5 shows at the Lensic downtown that summer. Great success. A big Russian jew from Brooklyn, Paul exuded charisma and commanded attention on stage. He also sang so well with a voice that could project for miles.
His private life was messy and clandestine. I had no interest further than peppering it into chitchats with friends for gossip during a lull. With a successful career, an ex-wife, some non-girlfriends, both his kids in Oregon, a couple of aggressive African Grays, an epileptic Vizsla, a messed up ankle, a lifetime of fun stories, he felt as empty as the rest of us.
Every few days I would catch him watching the recording of Fiddler on the Roof late at night. He would rewind one part over and over. Tevye on screen had the whole theater mesmerized with his singing. He was the star. He was what everyone was looking at and listening to. After Paul was done getting his fix, he would shut off the computer and go to bed.
I couldn’t see his face but Paul’s slightly hunched back slumped in the chair, the screen half illuminating the room, and the singing from the computer are burned into my head.
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