[Author's note: Well, Gentle Reader, my OCD got the best of me again. My son's wedding led me into the "Wedding Day" series, and my OCD led me to other pursuits. That is surprising since, of all of the things I've written, Margie is the most autobiographical. Yes, she existed and yes, she was the center of my life for almost six years. So let's get back to her, shall we, and see how things a going between her and David.]
I didn't sleep that time. I just lay there, beside her, watching her sleep.
Her makeup was a smeared mess by then. Her hair stood up in little spikes. There was a little crust of dried snot around her nose and she had drooled a little as she slept. She looked oddly innocent right then.
And I was trying, desperately, to process.
"I am yours," she had said. I made her say it but she said it and, in the end, she was meaning it. She had given herself to me. She had given herself to me with no strings attached. It felt like one of those soapy songs from the 50s or 60s. It felt like she had given herself to me, "heart and soul."
So I was processing.
On one level I was flattered and excited and, hell, okay, at least a little bit in love myself.
But on another level I was terrified. I recognized, back when I gave my virginity to my mother and she insisted that I punish her for breaking such a terrible taboo, that I had a wide and deep sadistic streak in me. And here was this woman, twice my age, looking so innocent beside me, who had given herself to me.
My lips wanted to kiss her, tenderly. I wanted to cover her face with little dry butterfly kisses.
But my hand almost literally itched with a desire to slap and pinch and make her cry and scream.
Oh yeah, I was conflicted.
So I watched her sleep. Smiling as she blew a little snot bubble that grew and retreated and grew and retreated and grew and popped.
And it hit me, as I watched her sleep, that on a deep level, way down where I didn't understand, I was hers too.
"Oh fuck," I thought to myself, "Are you in love with her?"
I thought about that for a few minutes, watching a little trickle of drool run out the corner of her mouth, and concluded that my answer was,
"Yes."
I resisted the urge to run my palm over the soft round swell of her belly, and watched her sleep.
I resisted the urge to latch on to her nipple, and watched her sleep.
I resisted the urge to wake her and say, "I love you," and watched her sleep.
I have no idea how long I lay there, watching her sleep and processing, before I rolled out of bed, moving very slowly, wanting to let her sleep.
I went to the other bathroom, not wanting to wake her, and then to the kitchen where I made coffee.
Then I went into the front room, turned on the TV although I didn't really hear what the talking heads were saying, sat, and processed some more.
"She's LITERALLY old enough to be your mother," I said to myself.
"She gave herself to you," I replied to myself.
"David," I said to myself, "you're a 24-year-old wannabe college student, she's a, well, a 40-something widow with a job,"
"I think I love her," I said to myself.
"Oh FUCK!" I replied to myself.
"Where are you?" her voice startled me, making me jump and spill a little coffee on my bare leg.
She was standing in the doorway, looking at me. She hadn't washed her face and still looked like, well, like a 40-something, very well-fucked woman.
I got up, went to her, laid my palms flat on her cheeks, and met her eyes with mine. I held her like that, gathering my courage.
She met my eyes with hers, unflinching.
"I love you," I said.
To say that her reaction was not what I expected ranks up there with calling what happened in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina a leak.
She slapped me and then hit me on the chest about five times, bap bap bap bap bap.
"NO!" she yelled, "Don't ruin it, David."
I wrapped her in my arms, not a hug but a clinch like I was taught in a long-ago boxing gym when my step-father had decided, when I was 14, that I would be the next welterweight champion of the world.
"Don't ruin it," she was saying, over and over, sobbing, wailing, hitting at me ineffectually, "Please, David, don't ruin it."
As she started to run down I eased up on the clinch and started caressing her back, gentling her like you might a frightened dog or a fawn that happened into your backyard. I was saying all that stupid bullshit you say in those situations. "It's okay," "I'm here," "Dave's got you," you know, shit like that.
Finally, she pushed me away and I let her. It was a push, not more hitting.
"Don't ruin it," she said for about the hundredth time, her voice carrying soul-crushing sadness, her shoulders slumping like she had been beaten into submission.
"What," I asked, my fingers under her chin, holding her so she had to meet my eyes, "are you talking about?"
"David," she said, then sniffled, coughed, and wiped at her nose in an angry gesture, "What you gave me the last couple of days is wonderful. Thank you. And yes, I meant it when I said those words. But let's not ruin it."
"Do you love me?" I asked, holding her eyes and genuinely concerned with the answer.
