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A tiny spark
A tiny spark "There's always a chance A tiny spark will remain And sparks turn into flames And love can burn once again" -- The Spinners I saw her today. There aren't many times in our lives that we can confidently say that we were head-over-heels in love. It's much more than a crush, of which I've had plenty. It's to the point of losing yourself in the other. It's not a healthy relationship, but it is intoxicating and powerfully addictive. And the recovery program would take more than 12 steps. Thankfully, I've completed the program. I think. I knew that she may be there but expected her not to be. I knew through a mutual acquaintance that she comes to this place often, which is so close to where I work. But I never went there solely for the purpose of seeing her. I'm not a stalker and I firmly believe in setting something I love free. She didn't come back and I didn't expect her to. Actually, she set me free. But I wanted to come back. I did once, but it made no difference. So I let her go free, in a sense. I'm sure our cars have crossed paths a few times over the years. Mine is quite easy to spot, while hers is more generic-looking. She used to live within two miles of me. I'm not sure where she is living now. Like I said, I'm not a stalker, but I do understand why they do what they do. So I walked into the building, my heart beating a little faster than normal, feeling nervous in an excited way as if I were meeting a blind date. There were a few people near a scaffolding, include the friend who asked me to help him with a project. So there was a reason for me to be here after all. Otherwise, I wouldn't walk into this building. Actually, I've never been in it since it was renovated a year ago. Before then, I've only been in it a few times to see the beginnings of the renovation. But I haven't stepped foot in it since it reopened to the public a few months ago. I looked to my left and scanned the area. It looked wonderful compared to how it looked before. Then I looked to the right. And saw something else that looked wonderful. My friend called my name when I walked into the room, so there was a good chance that she saw me before I saw her. She was sitting on the floor working on her own project, her face hiding from my view. But I knew it was her, even though I couldn't see her face. I saw her hair, styled a bit differently than I remember, but I'm sure it felt and smelled the same. I never believed a woman secreted pheromones through her head until I met her. Every time we embraced, every time I kissed her neck, every time I lay on top of her and bury my face in her hair, I smelled her powerful scent. I still remember what it smells like. I saw her clothes. She still wears the same type of clothing that she used to. I remember feeling her hard, athletic back through her clothing. I saw her hands. I remember the way she touched me with her hands. There wasn't a part of me that was displeased with seeing her for the first time in almost six years. Most of the two hours I spent at the building was on the other side of the large room where she was seated. I didn't stare at her but couldn't help glancing in her direction a few hundred times. Once, when I turned my eyes to her, she was looking at me and quickly turned away. Our eyes finally met, if but for a fraction of a second. And in that fraction of a second, I finally saw her face. She looked older, not happy. Maybe she was pissed at me being in her space. Maybe she was still not the happiest soul on the planet. She was very high-maintenance, never happy with herself or others, including me after we were together for a month or so. Everything had to be perfect for her, a strict list of requirements, conditions, specifications, whatever. Any deviation from her norm was unacceptable. No wonder she never seemed happy. No wonder she dumped me after a few short months. I felt a flare of anger, recalling those frustrating times when I puzzled at her sudden whiplash attitude toward me. One week, we were vaguely talking about our future; the next week (literally), she explained to me that we had too many differences. One minute, we were holding hands in a theater watching a romantic movie she wanted to see; the next three hours found her telling me on the phone that we shouldn't see each other anymore. No explanation, no Let's Work It Out, no reasons, no accusations, no offer for a defense in this kangaroo court. This is how it was to be. I might as well be talking to the highway patrol telling me that she was just killed in a car accident. But in my case, I had no closure. I visited her soon after asking for that closure from her. But nothing. The only thing I could do is return the cards, gifts, pictures, everything that she gave me. Six months later, I saw her again. And in a John Cusack moment, I held up my boom box of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" by telling her that I still loved her. I didn't know what to expect from that when I decided to tell her only seconds before. It was a desperate, pathetic, romantic act and I knew it. But I sincerely didn't care. She wasn't hostile toward me. But she didn't fall into my arms, either. She said that she has moved on. Then I asked her if she loved me. She beamed her perfect smile at me and said yes. A thousand other questions leapt to my throat, but I knew it was pointless. So I asked her for one last hug. It wasn't the same. Then my closure came when I realized that the woman I fell in love with did not exist. I don't know what made Madam Jekyll turn into Mrs. Hyde. Maybe this is what some women complain about men; how they act so nice in the beginning of a relationship, then turn into assholes for no reason. Since then, I thought of her - frequently at first; less often as time went on. By now my thoughts were fleeting, short, inquisitive. Did she live in the same house? Where was she working? Did she get married? Is she happy and healthy? She didn't seem either today. She seemed thinner, older, sad. My flare of anger was quickly put out by concern. Maybe I caught her on a bad day. Maybe not. I'll never know. Later, she flashed a smile at a joke someone else made. Turning in my direction to acknowledge the joke's author, her eyes met mine again. I also was smiling at the joke, so both of us were, for a nano-second, looking at each other smiling. Like we used to. She has a big, beautiful smile. White teeth. Pink lips. Oh, those lips. Flash backs started coming fast of us together kissing. I love kissing women. The funny thing is that she was not a good kisser. Her rhythm never matched mine. But I didn't care as long as my lips were touching hers. We made love only a handful of times, but each one of those times was, for me anyway, a soulful exchange of pure emotion. Her skin, her scents, her voice, her expressions, her passion, her playfulness. I felt incredible when I pleased her, which never seemed difficult for me. I've never heard a woman orgasm like she did. She was unique in so many ways. She probably still is. As am I. Which is why we can never be together. Later I found myself talking to my friend and another friend when I realized that she was gone. I wasn't sad to know that she was gone. I had hoped that we would have a mature, How Are You, No Hard Feelings talk with each other. But she wanted nothing of me. And her body language told me so. They say that if you stop loving someone after they are gone, then you never loved them in the first place. I know this to be true because I left her alone as she wanted. She is still free. I certainly felt a spark today. But I know now, as I have for years, that the spark will remain just that, even though the memories and feelings keep me warm when I want them to. |
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