One Hundred Ninety Eight Kilometers and Back

Monsoon Midmornings
By M.A. Martin

The Matt and Ivy Show
One Hundred Ninety Eight Kilometers and Back

A shadow flickers at my partly open car door as I listened to The Low Millions. Their lead singer was calmly singing about his love being every single song on the radio and being everypretty face on video. The shadow fully opens the door, and the woman who owns it makes the song something I can relate to. Incidentally, the song was titled “Here She Comes”. It was quite apt.

My universe opens up to endless possibilities as her face enters my field of vision. She has this smile I rarely see, maybe because she has become more than a bit jaded when you compare her to the rest of the swarm we affectionately call mankind. It was good to see it pasted on her face that much I am sure of. I strive to do it consistently, but the klutz that I amusually fails in the endeavor. “Hey” she goes, her smile staying with my fluttering heartbeats. “What brings you here?” Something flashed in her eyes, like a moment of inspiration or decision, and I find her in my lap. I am stunned; somehow, after all these years, she still has the power to surprise me. I saw she got her amusement out of my reaction too, as there was a mischievous glint in her eyes which now made her smile so downright disturbing. Then assuddenly as she was there, she was gone. The passenger door opens and shuts andthere she was, beaming. My goddess. Ivy.

She repeats her question and I realize I have not answered her yet. I get so horribly mangled around her it’s a wonder I remember anything afterward. If you’d see us, you’d find it hard tobelieve the cosmically retarded fellow she was with could actually write, much less speak. So out with the truth then, “I missed you bad enough it made me drive here”. Her face softens. “You’re not even supposed to be here. Will you be staying the weekend?” I shrug. “Nah, I’ll be heading back as soon as you go upstairs.” I feel pressure on my cheek and find her hand there. For the first time, I do not pull away. I accept it. I tilt my head to sent the pressure backand reply with my acquiescence. The touch turns into a gentle caress. She knows. I look up and meet her eyes. There is joy there. Is it because someone wants and loves her that much? Maybe. There is a heartbreaking sadness as well. Because? I do not even want to commit that to active thought. Yes, as with everyone around me, it is my fault yet again. That countenance is as familiar to me as my waking moments. Will it always be this way?

I talk about a conversation I had with a faceless stranger in this dream I had. He indulged me while I ranted, then made me think. It sort of went this way:
Me:There’s this woman I am madly in love with. She said she loves me too.

Stranger: So what’s the problem? Isn’t it a good thing?

Me: I do not deserve her. I do not have anything to offer. See, she’s this intelligent, sensitive,kindhearted and opinionated woman. She takes on life on her own terms. And, she’sthe most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of the earth.

Stranger: I see. And she said she loves you?

Me: Yes.

Stranger: So you feel that you do not deserve to be loved by someone like her?

Me: Yes! Aren’t you listening? How could she even begin to love someone like me?

Stranger: She said she loves you? Do you believe her?

Me: Yes. Yes! What has that have to do with anything?

Stranger: Well you’re lucky. You’ve dreamed and the dream loves you back. How about you make sure you do not hurt her, instead of all this rot. Maybe then you’ll hear it from her, and it puts your heart at peace.

I pause, the story ended. I raise my eyes and find myself wrapped in her arms. Our lips meet and time stands still. The world is silent, except for the sound and feel of her breath. The taste of her lips. The softness of her limbs as they envelop me and I return the intimacy. The warmth of her as she is pressed against me. The beating of our hearts; in tune with the movement of our lips. It lasts an eternity of moments, and I drown in it, unwilling to let it end. Finally we part and open our eyes. Breathless, she speaks three words that I repeat with four.Our lips meet again while the moon peeks from the overcast sky, and becomes a glare on my windshield. The eighth word is spoken wordlessly. Eight to infinity? Maybe. And may God help us both.