The Sweet Smell of Spring Dew

These two years and some unknown number of months later I still see her walking up those stairs. Quietly, each step measured, a final decision in the making. The end. The end of all that we had together. Little things you never forget. A gesture, a need, a way of behaving you’d never before seen.

In the beginning, like all beginning, she was sweet. And kind, I thought. In the rain, we would able down the soi, hand in hand. I would feel a rush of excitement and break from her hand to get a full arm around her and squeeze her, and I could feel her squeezing me back. Love I wanted to call what I did. And she did. Lust was a more accurate description.

It was like this, for weeks, I think. Did it last longer than this? I want our history to be ample, fuller than the facts would have it.

She would murmur little things to me in Thai, then giggle, knowing that I did not understand a word. I never asked her what she said. I didn’t want to know. I had my own stories. They mattered then, they have always mattered. They keep me sane, because they are my stories.

She liked the feel of my ring finger slowly inching up and down her thighs. A prelude to a surprise, I would whisper. I would try to be different than the last time. Once I switched to my middle finger. She grabbed my hand and pushed it away. Then she said, Like before. I wasn’t sure of the difference, but I obliged. I wanted for the briefest of moments to be her skin.

I would not see her for a couple of days, sometimes longer. She would ask me where I had been, what I had done. She never asked directly if I had been with someone else. That was implied.

I joked once when she got accusatory. I will get you a different kind of blood, I told her. She wanted me to explain what I meant. All I could say was, I forget what I meant. I had no illusions that I could change her.

Once I had scraped my arm on a wooden banister. I was alone at the time. She wanted to know how I’d gotten the scrape. She wanted a history, a long narrative, as if it would get her inside my soul. I told her the truth. I had scraped my arm on a wooden banister. I repeated the identical sentence when she frowned.

I have some understanding of jealousy.

I loved the sweet smell of her breath. I was always surprised that it never varied. Not late at night when we had been drinking. Not after we had made love. Not even when she woke in the morning, her lips inches away from my face. Some mornings as I held her close and the sun poked holes in the curtains, her breath reminded me of the sweet smell of spring dew. I sometimes think this is what I remember most about her.

She once asked me if I was married, or had been married. In my uncertainty over what to say, I smiled. I couldn’t bring myself to open my lips as I looked at her. I wanted to give her the answer she wanted. I think she wanted me to tell her I was married. A ripe and well seasoned fruit she really couldn’t have. That’s what made me desirable, I wanted to believe. Until near the end. When she asked again, and wanted another answer, I’m sure.

Her lack of modesty never ceased to amaze me. I would be standing over the toilet and she would come in, glance down, then give me a lingering kiss. It was purposeful, I would think later; and especially after it happened again. Once I was sitting with her at a table listening to live music and the thought of her doing this came to mind, and I cupped her head and moved it toward my face so I could kiss her. She asked why, just then. I will tell you later, I said. I said the same thing when she asked me later. I couldn’t tell her what had made me do what I did, kissing me like that when I stood over the toilet, a hand and my mind engaged.

Once after she asked me the marriage history question, I answered by asking her if she had other boyfriends. She didn’t hesitate to answer. Yes, of course, she said. But you know that, she added, laughing. Do you want to know how many? she then said. I said I didn’t, the number might scare me. She smiled and whispered in my ear, Only you. You are the only one.

You’re kind, I said. Will you give me the same answer tomorrow?

She slapped me. I wasn’t sure that she was being playful. I brought her close and hugged her and she moved a hand to the back of my neck and began rubbing, tenderly. We were on a busy soi when this happened, and it felt like we were alone, no one within miles. I didn’t want her to stop.

We had fought that day, over her arriving more than a hour late. We lost the table I had reserved. I should not have told her this, but I did. That is how we are different. I forced her to give me a story for her tardiness. She could not get a taxi, she said. Because it was raining and everyone wanted a taxi, she said.

It was not raining, I said. I don’t mind if you were with someone else, I also said.

Several days later, after a nice day together, we returned to the past. It had been raining that night, she said.

I really don’t care if you were with someone else, I could not resist saying.

She stared at me for long moments, there at the base of the stairs. It seemed like minutes. She shuffled her feet, like she was kicking dirt. And then she got on her toes and kissed me on a cheek and whispered, Bye, bye.

I could not miss the message.

I called her after that. I called her several times but she never answered her phone. I saw her once on the stage where I had first seen her. She looked right through me. I was a perfect stranger.

The author can be contacted at:  korski1@cox.net