By Michael Lindsey lindsey@negia.net
Date: 29 July 1997

Entr'acte

I know not why she paid me any heed or continued to talk to me that day at
the bus stop after English.  We discussed movies and our jobs and her going
home that week-end. 
We exchange furtive glances in French class, and I would rush out of English
to see her again.
A week-end of misguided e-mail brought on tangled nerves, and a rainy
morning in the art shop led to discovery over mango tea.  Her reflexion from
behind me in the glass door as I opened it showed me she was happy.
Stretched out under a tree we skipped biology and Hebrew, and threw caution
to the wind.  "I did it all for you," she said, and I thought I could not
possibly be happier.
She proves me wrong that Saturday when we meet in the cool of the evening
and look at her new car before walking down to the theatre.  Strawberry hair
and glasses and all the grace and humour of the feminine gender:  she is all
I ever hoped I might know and more.
We bond fast, too speedily for outsiders to understand, for we walk by faith
and not by stereotype.  So it must remain somewhat of a secret.
There are nights of studying late, of walks downtown, of grocery trips.  At
10p.m. she lies on my floor reading while I try to cook a meal.  We spend
two hours in the coffee house in the morning, struggling to stay awake and
studying some more, and I smile as she doodles on my arm.  A drive on Friday
for a picnic and a walk in the forest; shared Mentos and wildflowers; a
visit with her family, and we talk of family, of religion, of life.  And I
wish I could give her a bigger love, a wiser love, a perfect love.
We have a final night out before the dreaded day.  On the midnight ride home
she sleeps and I watch the silent lightning far, far ahead, already missing
what I still have, hating this imminent separation, but knowing it will not
last forever and that we will recoup all the lost time.
Now I sit alone and count the days.  She is everything to me and I worry.  I
wonder if my demands on her soul are unfair and if I use her for a crutch.
Misguided e-mail brings on more tangled nerves.  Then, suddenly, it is
overwhelmingly, undoubtedly clear:  she loves me.  And soon we will be
together in the coffee house studying over mango tea as she doodles on my
arm.