over, warm and happy, and it comes back to me. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.
Which is why I date and why I want to fall in love again. But Keith will be a tough love to replace.
He was beautiful— a blond Graeco-Roman soldier— and smart, so incredibly smart. I loved looking at Keith while he worked.
I loved looking at Keith when we were sitting having coffee and reading through a dozen papers every morning. I loved watching
him sleep, whether it was in bed or in his chair, where he wrote and edited. He was warm and self-deprecating, funny, heroic.
The only thing he feared was not getting the story right. Not getting the truth.
He taught me more than anyone else and in the shortest amount of time. After that meeting on the side of the highway, I didn’t
see him again for months, until we were seated across from each other at an industry awards dinner. We were both attending
the dinner with different people, and yet there we were, directly across from each other, and every time I looked up I somehow
caught his eye, and every time I did, I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.
There was something in his face, something gentle and intelligent, kind and loving, and the best way I can describe it is
think of the actor Greg Kinnear. He had that kind of face. Open and curious and yet most of all kind.
Kind. So very kind to me. So full of love, and God knows how much I needed it. How little I’ve had of it. How much I still
want it.
And here I am, in my beautiful little historic Mediterranean bungalow, alone. I’m so sick of alone. Which is why I’ve continued
dating Trevor. Even though he’s far away, and even though we’ll never be soul mates, he makes me feel that I matter. He fills
the time, if not the space. But he doesn’t challenge the memory of Keith. No one does, and I suppose I’ve liked it that way.
Keith’s memory is safe. No man who enters my life can compete.
But it does limit the personal life. It means that my home is quiet. It means that I live with ghosts instead of people. Makes
it tough to have a family. Or kids. Which I do want.
If only Keith had made me pregnant. If only he’d left me with a piece of him before he died.
Because I want a life that begins when I open the front door. I want voices here in my house. I want conversation and lights
and activity. Hugs. Talk. Laughter.
I want.
Catching myself, I turn around and head for the kitchen, where I open the stainless steel fridge door and take a look inside.
Two prepackaged meals delivered by In the Zone delivery, a Tupperware of trimmed radishes, celery, broccoli, and carrots,
a bottle of pomegranate juice, and an opened bottle of white wine.
I reach for the white wine and pour myself a tiny glass. Wandering out of the kitchen, I grab my phone and dial Trevor’s number.
It rings five times before kicking into voice mail.
“Trevor, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed.”
I want to hear someone’s voice before bed. I want someone to say good night to me, someone to say “I love you” to me.
But that’s not the relationship Trevor and I have. Ours isn’t love. It’s sex and passing time and keeping company. But that
has to count for something.
More brightly, I add to my message, “I’ll be up another half hour to an hour, so call me if you can. Otherwise I’ll talk to
you tomorrow. Night.”
I hang up, sip my wine, and look out the living room’s open doors to the sparkle of lights on the valley floor. I take a last
sip, finishing the minuscule amount I poured myself. I never drink too much because I don’t need the calories, but tonight
I want the taste. I want the warmth.
And there it is again. I want. Ah, the evils of wanting. I shouldn’t want.
I have more than most.
Except for love and family, I have everything.
The morning comes too early. I wake up and look at the clock. Six-fifty a.m. And then I remember it’s Saturday and I have
nothing
Which is why I date and why I want to fall in love again. But Keith will be a tough love to replace.
He was beautiful— a blond Graeco-Roman soldier— and smart, so incredibly smart. I loved looking at Keith while he worked.
I loved looking at Keith when we were sitting having coffee and reading through a dozen papers every morning. I loved watching
him sleep, whether it was in bed or in his chair, where he wrote and edited. He was warm and self-deprecating, funny, heroic.
The only thing he feared was not getting the story right. Not getting the truth.
He taught me more than anyone else and in the shortest amount of time. After that meeting on the side of the highway, I didn’t
see him again for months, until we were seated across from each other at an industry awards dinner. We were both attending
the dinner with different people, and yet there we were, directly across from each other, and every time I looked up I somehow
caught his eye, and every time I did, I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.
There was something in his face, something gentle and intelligent, kind and loving, and the best way I can describe it is
think of the actor Greg Kinnear. He had that kind of face. Open and curious and yet most of all kind.
Kind. So very kind to me. So full of love, and God knows how much I needed it. How little I’ve had of it. How much I still
want it.
And here I am, in my beautiful little historic Mediterranean bungalow, alone. I’m so sick of alone. Which is why I’ve continued
dating Trevor. Even though he’s far away, and even though we’ll never be soul mates, he makes me feel that I matter. He fills
the time, if not the space. But he doesn’t challenge the memory of Keith. No one does, and I suppose I’ve liked it that way.
Keith’s memory is safe. No man who enters my life can compete.
But it does limit the personal life. It means that my home is quiet. It means that I live with ghosts instead of people. Makes
it tough to have a family. Or kids. Which I do want.
If only Keith had made me pregnant. If only he’d left me with a piece of him before he died.
Because I want a life that begins when I open the front door. I want voices here in my house. I want conversation and lights
and activity. Hugs. Talk. Laughter.
I want.
Catching myself, I turn around and head for the kitchen, where I open the stainless steel fridge door and take a look inside.
Two prepackaged meals delivered by In the Zone delivery, a Tupperware of trimmed radishes, celery, broccoli, and carrots,
a bottle of pomegranate juice, and an opened bottle of white wine.
I reach for the white wine and pour myself a tiny glass. Wandering out of the kitchen, I grab my phone and dial Trevor’s number.
It rings five times before kicking into voice mail.
“Trevor, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed.”
I want to hear someone’s voice before bed. I want someone to say good night to me, someone to say “I love you” to me.
But that’s not the relationship Trevor and I have. Ours isn’t love. It’s sex and passing time and keeping company. But that
has to count for something.
More brightly, I add to my message, “I’ll be up another half hour to an hour, so call me if you can. Otherwise I’ll talk to
you tomorrow. Night.”
I hang up, sip my wine, and look out the living room’s open doors to the sparkle of lights on the valley floor. I take a last
sip, finishing the minuscule amount I poured myself. I never drink too much because I don’t need the calories, but tonight
I want the taste. I want the warmth.
And there it is again. I want. Ah, the evils of wanting. I shouldn’t want.
I have more than most.
Except for love and family, I have everything.
The morning comes too early. I wake up and look at the clock. Six-fifty a.m. And then I remember it’s Saturday and I have
nothing
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