You set me to sail, beyond the banks of the usual challenges, daily demands, and paltry appreciations. I prefer terra firma but lately I’ve been dreaming of sailing—gliding effortlessly out from the safety of my ordinary harbor. Trouble is, I don’t know if my provisions match the demands of a rigorous sea. Calm waters could swiftly turn ugly and I’m not an experienced mariner. I don’t even know the fore from the aft, nor how to navigate with only the sun and stars. Instead, I will steer toward you as my only point of reference. How I yearn to reach you, and thus I hoist the sails and foolishly declare, “Full speed ahead!”

— 2 —

So far I’ve taken you in in gulps, a desperate quenching of thirst, a gobbling act right at the banquet table, not even bothering to have a seat or to hold knife and fork. We’ve consumed each other like starving refugees.

To have our day, and oh, for a week! But compared with an hour, a day is a feast of time...to linger over you, to learn what you love. I want to take your hand and have you explore all my distant lands. Then, to see you fall asleep. We are all innocent in sleep.

But too soon it will end, and we will rise to take ourselves home, to the places we cherish but do not have as one.

Autumn’s breath is upon us. Life goes underground, holding out until spring. We shall be like the trees of winter, pushing down deep, living quietly with no witnesses on the surface of the pulsating beat within. Only we shall know the life that exists there. The life that is ours.

— 3 —

When I lost the dog I thought to look at my watch, believing it might be useful to mark the time in order to gauge how far a dog could go in five minutes, fifteen, thirty. That time I was lucky. She was crouched in the underbrush, close to my feet.

I’m twenty-seven hours past the last moment we talked, hanging up cell phones with the words, “Love you, bye.” The longer time goes the more distance I feel you are putting between us. It is my base fear to be left—standing—waiting—while you drive off into the sunset forever, only I don’t know it’s forever so I just keep standing there, occasionally glancing down at my watch, marking time.

— 4 —

Every day I set out a clean bowl of water for my dog and every day she drinks from the puddles that collect along the gutters in the street. Surely God must wonder equally at me, having a perfectly lovely life.

I have a man who loves me, and a man who wants me. That they have different faces happens to be a problem. The one who wants me will not leave his wife. But I would not leave my husband. So where’s the problem?

When I was a smoker, I smoked. When I was a drinker, I drank. When I was a runner, I ran. It’s hard to do things halfway. It should it be no surprise, then, that I am diving into a relationship with a new, more interesting face.

I observe the neighborhood dog noticing my dog as we walk along the sidewalk. We are across the street, but the distance is closed by the stare between that dog and my dog. Tails rise, on alert, and noses point toward one another. The stare continues. Someone will make a move. He does—he comes down from his hill and across the street. My dog starts toward him, prancing. They meet in the middle.

First they sniff noses, then bottoms, circling, circling. When they are satisfied with their answers, he leaves, going back up the hill. My dog watches until he is gone, and then she starts back toward me to resume our walk. She thinks of this as nothing sordid or unseemly.

I think in the next life, I’d like to come back as a dog.

— 5 —

To your house I drove through dark and rain. In the afternoon on the phone we had said No more of this. And then I asked, “If I were to call you later and say I was five minutes from your house, would you open the door for me?” You answered, “What time will you be here?”

At the door on the way out I told you I need a smaller heart and a larger liver. You asked why a larger liver?

“The liver is what purifies the system,” I said. I’m all heart with a measly little liver.

When I asked what you wanted most to know about me, you asked, “How can you do this, your being a minister?”

It was not the question I was expecting, but it was the right one to ask.

I answered that I had no excuse for myself, that if this were a test from God, surely it was one I was failing. I was helpless, fallen, addicted, I could have said.

I did not mention that lately when I said the words of the Lord’s Prayer I skipped over “and lead us not into temptation...,” which I never tried to leave out. They simply left my mind.

Only once since our affair began have I stood before a congregation in my priestly role. I was glad it was settled long ago that the spiritual condition of the priest does not interfere with the elements of bread and wine he presumes to bless. But this should never be an excuse for wild abandon. St. Paul may have said “sin boldly,” but he meant in the Lord—trying to extend the goodness of the Lord.

I have extended myself, but not so well unto the Lord. I have extended myself unto you.

Today at services I stood before the cross to lift the Communion cup to my lips. Someone had given me a piece of bread. I took it and ate. Someone handed me a chalice. I took it and drank.

I had given you my body and also my blood. It was never meant as a substitute for the holy elements. How could it be? Such a ghastly misrepresentation of Jesus' gift. And yet I could not help but feel the passion, albeit a very different one, of giving and receiving, body and blood, and in it having our eyes opened.

— 6 —

“I don’t know how to broach the subject,” I say to the therapist. “Maybe you knew this was coming.” I smile a sardonic smile to hook him then reel him in.

“I’m having an affair,” I say.

And then I realize, I’m not having an affair. The affair is over. That is why I am here.

I break down and cry.

My head is a thousand lights all gone dim, except perhaps one that shines on the possibility that you still love me.

— 7 —

Did we simply pass a pleasant season? Were our two and a half months just a long draw on a tall beer after an impossibly hot day, after which you slam down the bottle and say, “Mighty tasty!” Then you turn to your wife and ask, “What’s for dinner, Mom?”

— 8 —

This is the time for which I will pine, later, when there are no more lengthy dog walks in warm weather, or later when I look back on the time when I had both husband and lover and felt not enough remorse to feel ashamed, when I was still hinged, glued, and sane.

— 9 —

We resumed seeing each other. Again you said, “This has to end.” I was naked, in your lap, in a chair, at the Hampton Inn. I could only wrap myself more closely around you to feel your flesh and to inhale your scent. You asked why was I doing this. I answered, “The rest of my life is a long time. I need to remember this.”

I wrote and asked you not to be done with us. You said, “We’ll see.”

— 10 —

I’m elated. We’ve made plans, romantic plans, to meet at a cabin in late January. I look forward to this more than next week’s trip to Europe.

But I need to re-dress myself where you are concerned. Whereas I’d recently been inquiring about short skirts, stockings and filmy things, I’m better off wrapped in raw wool, the kind that itches, repels. You have taken over too much of me, gone down deep like a virus, working inside to corrupt me. I’ve allowed it because it looked harmless, like fun even.

But now I can see the consequences more clearly than before. Because of you I am diseased, figuratively and literally. I’ve explained the herpes as an outcome of working with children and failing to keep good hygiene. I’ve always been lax about drinking after others, but I know the source was you. Lucky for me it was herpes Type I—how could I ever have explained Type II?

You have filled me with ideas, not because you hammered them home like the carpenter you are, but because you left gaps that I willfully filled with my own ideas, insulating myself against the cold idea that without you I am alone.

It is not true. I am not without company on a Saturday night. Or any night. My husband comes home and we bed together. Why would I risk this to be in your arms for a fraudulent representation of housekeeping? When I sign the tax forms it’s my husband’s name and mine together. You are not even close.

So your wife is sick and you are worn down from her disease. Is everyone in your world without comfort? Is that what I am to you? Comfort in your desolate marriage?

I ask you why you do this. You do not know. I do not know.

— 11 —

We could never play house. We're too much alike. We'd both want to do the cooking—sirloin for you, tofu for me. Maybe it's better to see this relationship as food, which doesn't linger in the body. But I suppose I will always crave you since each helping seems never to be enough.

— 12 —

Your son and his wife have separated and now you want us to separate, too. No rendezvous at the cabin. "We’re keeping our bodies apart," you say. “What about our hearts?” I ask...“Where are they?” “Right where they’re supposed to be. Go look in the mirror,” you reply. I fail to see this for what it is, your message that you no longer want to hold my heart.

In a moment we decide to keep the date. I will pick up the key. It will be easy.

We meet at the cabin and share a walk to the water. It is all very calm and even nicer inside. Before bedtime we pile on jackets and go look at the stars. You’d never think we were lovers, until the loving begins. Hungry. Mutual. Rapturous.

The next morning I can see it’s hard for you to stay. You talk about the spawning habits of salmon while I wonder about us.

— 13 —

It appears to be over. You will not talk to me.

I visit the spirit doctor. He speaks his prayers, shakes his rattles, places stones on my reclining body. He tells me to picture the pain. I am five years old. My class has filed out of kindergarten to the curb to be picked up by our parents. It is twelve noon. Cars pull up and leave as the collection of children diminishes. Soon I am left standing alone. Dad has not arrived.

I walk back to the school where my vacant classroom is just inside. I stand there knocking. My little hand is no match for this huge door, which absorbs the sound. The teacher, whom I can see, doesn’t hear. I am about to cry.

The image morphs into God or spirits instructing me that I’ve got it all wrong because I treat God like a parent. I am to understand that God isn’t a parent, to receive our endless requests or to do stuff for us. Instead, God is a co-creator, and more so, is detached from our wants and desires. I ask if this God knows love. Yes, but you don’t understand love. Oh?

“Give us your heart,” the spirit commands. Compliant me hands over my heart—my real, bloody, beating heart. I watch as it is whisked away, ascending higher and higher into an eternal sky. I think of the Aztecs who demanded a heart sacrifice. This is not settling.

The voice is silent. I am open and bare, holding only my questions.

Was I considered unworthy, so they've taken my heart away?

Or have they simply taken it in for repair?

— 14 —

The pain grew to such a pitch I thought I could not stand it. I had time today to see you. Could have arranged a meeting, even come your way. I was at an appointment, already halfway to you. But I did not dial your number. I had it set to ring your phone many times, then did not call. It is so intense. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

My appointment with the shaman was supposed to help this insatiable craving. I don’t think it has put a dent in my desire. Those rattles and incantations are not powerful enough to dispel this deep of an ache. I need an archeologist.

— 15 —

My dog’s definition of a good day is finding something she can bury. She is not discriminating in what she chooses—some piece of shoe or a chicken bone that she sniffs and paws and then proceeds to carry and scrape into some hole she has dug. Whatever she finds, she’ll put there.

I think next time I shall offer her my heart. I don’t seem to need it. I tried giving it to someone who didn’t want it and now I’m left looking foolish, this lump barely beating hanging from my chest. It’s doing me no good.

On the dog walk I often see a man. He is tall and I think he is missing a home. His name is Clarence or Lawrence—I can’t remember. Our conversations are brief, sometimes just ‘hello.’ The first time we had a real interaction I was pulling up to a stop sign with half a banana in my lap. I saw him coming. He looked hungry. I lowered my window and asked if he wanted it. He smiled and let me put it in his open hands. I smiled and drove on.

In the months since, we nod, speak, sometimes pause when I see him at the park. One time he was cooking sausages over the barbecue pit. He offered me something to eat. I said no. I should have said yes, as he had to me. His sentences were incoherent, as they often are, so I nodded a lot and pretended to understand. I always have the dog so I can walk away any time.

But last week he hugged me. We were crossing paths, he on his way to the park, the dog and I just returning. To have spring in the air lit us with joy, and when he got close he hugged and even kissed me on the cheek. I returned the gesture. And then he walked on. I glanced back to watch him go, feeling enormously grateful. And as I turned forward I saw that my heart was back in place.

— 16 —

I can see the finish line. It is one week from today. I will be in flight to New Mexico with my husband. It is not so hard to imagine not hearing from you before I go. You’ve said nothing for a week. Why would you start now? The last time we talked I lost out to a table. I’d asked to see you. You answered that you needed to work on your furniture. If you say nothing, I believe I will make it across the finish line, a reluctant winner whose only victory is to declare herself unloved.

— 17 —

Here you are. On the day before I am to leave, you pop up on my computer screen. A little crying face. I should have asked, What are you sorry for? Make you tell me. Instead, I ask, “Are you going to tell me what is going on?” “No,” you reply. I wait, speechless. A full minute ticks by and then you say, “Ah…,” as in I chose the tabletops instead of you. Yes. And then I pick up the telephone and dial. I know you are alone because weeks ago you told me your wife would be leaving for her mother’s. After six rings you pick up.

Can an hour evaporate faster than water on concrete in the midday sun?

I tell you I’ve been very good. I have not overstepped my place. I’ve kept out of your life. But I am not happy with this arrangement.

You said you were sorry and yet you were glad for the respite. It was too hard to have me on your mind all the time. No, there’s nothing wrong with me, you said, and yes, you want to see me. You love me but have nothing to offer me. A pragmatist.

You go on to say it’s no good to see each other at home. The lake house was the right way. There you are not nervous. There we can be ourselves, walk around half naked, enjoy each other, relax. It will happen again, you say, promise in your voice. But you don’t want to plan for it.

This little lure does its job and I am hooked, hooked on a limp, flimsy little line. And yet I allow it, count on it and hang on it as I put down the phone once more declaring that I love you.

— 18 —

Plans are in place for you to come over tomorrow morning and fix the living room bookshelves. I have done what you asked by calling the contractor, acting like this is urgent. Now that the cover story is in place you say you will be here along the lines of 30 minutes. You say it should only take 12 minutes to fix the shelves, as if 30 minutes is doing me a favor. I hate you. Must I learn my lessons from Dear Abby web sites? She assured a jilted woman that someone who’s in love wants to spend time together. Thirty minutes is like being handed a handkerchief for cover in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Earlier, I had looked to my husband for confirmation and he failed to take my cue. I was hoping for affirmation in the beauty department. He said something like, “We all want to be beautiful but we have our own images to deal with, and besides, whether we really are depends on who’s looking.”

I was craving a compliment, not a treatise.

— 19 —

Thirty minutes ago your truck rolled down my street on its way home. You were out of your clothes easily and had me out of mine in an equal hurry. You were here ninety minutes. Sixty of those minutes were work. So it’s true. I got thirty minutes. But they were quality minutes, I tell myself. What made them quality besides having you here in the flesh? Your voice in my ear? You were all over me and brought me pleasure. Is it enough? No, but I don’t know what would be. I feel numb.

I am searching for a period to put at the end of this affair, not a comma, although that would be something. I do not have the vocabulary or the punctuation in my store of words. Wonder that, a writer, without language, and nothing to stop her.

— 20 —

Bone is five times stronger than steel. The sternum is a flat bone located in the center of the chest right in front of the heart, armor to protect this vital organ. I see now where the failure lies—with my sternum. Steel-like though it may be, its work is undone to protect my heart from you. I’d thought my brain was my best defense but I see now I should have put more emphasis on a stronger sternum. But you are Houdini, slipping past my locks and safeguards; now you are inside and I can no longer live or live well.

How things get lost in translation. The Spanish-speaking children at the end of my block must translate between their mother and me. I keep an ear out for obvious mis-representations such as, “My mother says it's okay for you to take us to your house,” when I've asked nothing of the kind. Today I puzzled over little Carlos' announcement when he handed me a Rice Krispy treat: “My mother says you can't have a baby with this.” I later learned I wasn’t supposed to give this to the baby.

You said you love me. I took this to mean that you love me. But what I think you really mean is you don’t want to let me down.

— 21 —

We are in a drought. No rain for more than a month. The last it rained was two drops on my birthday. And before that, a few showers on a Sunday. Same as your communications with me.

My husband has been watering the yard regularly and telling me he loves me. Yet all I can think of is you. Why is it that only the weeds seem to thrive?

My neighbor's zinnias wilt overnight from lack of water yet perk up with the first drops of drink, oblivious to how long they’ve been thirsting.

If you return I will be revived after this severe parching. And if you do, I will be taken off course from learning to live without you, which it seems is what I need to learn to do.

Yesterday you called me. I got excited because I thought it might mean something. And more so when you ended with “love.” But then you offered a postscript: “I mean love in the way of saying we’re friends and I care for you and like to talk to you.”

— 22 —

You may be this close to the solution, or you may be miles away.

I thought I was close, but a day can make a difference. For weeks I hadn’t had reason to drive in your direction, but today I did. By evening I was ravenous for you. I made contact, told you that with three simple words you had found the key to me. Three simple words. Not “I love you,” but “I want you.” Those three words sealed me to you.

You said it was the same for you.

We agreed it ran deeper even than words. I said “deeper than promises,” thinking of my marriage vows.

You were telling me this in between tucking your wife in and wishing her happy anniversary. Today is your wedding anniversary—twenty-seven years. She said she hopes for twenty-seven more. You left her under the covers to come upstairs to talk to me.

You finish our conversation by saying, “We’ll talk.” This is code for It’s getting warmer. I am blushing and can hardly speak with my neighbors as I leave my house to walk the dog.

— 23 —

I scramble to get home so we can talk. I think if you are really interested you’ll be waiting.

You are not there.

Earlier today I saw a man without legs. Your silence cuts me off at the knees. The longer I know you the more disabled I become, yet it is impossible for me to turn away from you.

Since when did you become a giant in the cosmic order? Even the dullest scientist can see you are the shine I reflect, that everything in me revolves around you.

A friend tells me how, with surprising ease, she let go of an old unrequited love—that is, when the new man arrived on the scene. “One nail drives out another,” she mused.

Even if another lover comes for me, must someone always feel crucified?

— 24 —

I saw you today. Simple as that. I was walking along when I saw your truck parked by a building. Without thought or caution I strolled inside until I found you on your knees installing a bathroom cabinet. I stood there waiting for you to see me. You smiled and said, “Hello.” I almost stepped into the distance between us to touch you. You asked if you should get up. I said nothing. You talked, saying words I know I know, but don’t know them now.

Everything is present when I am with you. I soak you in: the shade of your white socks, the exact length of your hair, your glorious smell. You lit a cigarette and held them out asking if I wanted one. I nodded my head yes, but you withdrew the pack and said, “You don’t smoke.” I said, “Only with you.”

You offered me water, which you did fetch. Your son showed up and we all had a nice moment. He pulled his sandwich from a cooler and offered the cooler as a seat. I took it. Sat. Drinking, watching you.

You told me you missed my birthday

You said you meant your well wishes at Christmas.

You said it had been a year. It has been that and more, or less, depending on the counting.

You said you would be back tomorrow.

You walked me outside when it was time to leave. We traded news about injuries, me displaying my banged up thumb, you showing me where you nicked your finger with a power saw. I could have kissed your hand or opened my blouse to expose my deeper wound hoping you would kiss me. But instead I walked away.

On the sidewalk the blazing light reminded me to reach for my sunglasses. I couldn’t find them so I retreated to the building and located them on a ledge. I secretly laid them behind the cooler and slipped away.

I turned my empty face toward the sun. You will be here tomorrow.

Three days running I have seen you for an hour each day. A feast! We have never spent this much consecutive time together except to count our overnight at the lake.

You are making screens one after the other while I stand in my slacks in a baking heat which I do not feel. I take delight in your every move, your boyhood stories of peeing in the snow and making your grandmother mad. But as I look at you, you are no match for the intensity of this story. I have created something larger than you by writing about you. Perhaps you are as ordinary as you say. A person can’t be convinced of that when she is blinded by love. This day I see you as ordinary. It is a gift from God. Maybe now I can go on and live.

— 25 —

Today is your birthday. I think of you and do not call. I do not write. I do not move a muscle in your direction, except to leave the state and take myself away from the possibility that I might.

— 26 —

Yesterday my eight-year-old friend poured eighteen cents into my hand. “One penny for every day since I’ve seen you,” he announced. An accurate count would have been more like sixty-one days, but his sentiment more than made up the difference.

I would like to believe I am healed, but I am not. I would pour out my treasure to see you again, counting but forgetting the cost.

It is a new year. I wonder if I am turning over a new leaf as I kick up the old leaves of autumn. I think of you less now. You may be my third thought instead of my first and only thought of the day. Nothing has replaced you, although I have prayed for something to sweep you away.

Today, I curse the frigid air as I walk the dog around the block. Deep as the cold is, it is not enough to displace you. It's why I pinch myself to the point of pain when the nurse is drawing blood—it's easier when something else pulls me away. But I have nothing except the cold to distract me. Therefore, I am still subject to thoughts of you.

— 27 —

The dog strains on her leash. I wonder about the truth of her instinct, that the best things in life are always just beyond our reach.