Falling in Love, 2001, by Andrew
From MemoryArchive
Who: Andrew & B What: Falling in love, just out of college, moving to a small town on the Washington coast. When: 2001 Where: Port Townsend, Washington
Contents |
A Good Place
I worked at the magazine. She served coffee at the little shop downtown by the water. Our apartment was giant and clean with lots of light.
Saturday was the day for dog running. In the mornings we drank coffee with too much sugar and milk, and read newspapers scrunched up on the sofa. Around noon we’d pull on jeans and sneakers and sun glasses, and put a blue Saturday handkerchief on the dog.
There was a short drive into town. Down the hill with the cliff and bay view on the right, past the lighthouse, past the produce co-op, then back out the other side of town into the country side. Brown pastures, ashy, run-down farm houses, we pass the old hippy communes with the painted Volkswagens and tomato gardens, down the gravel path to the north end of the beach.
We pull the Jeep off onto some lumpy grass, leash the dog, and step out. It’s windy here, everything very bright. The beach is rocky and cold, and stretches far to the left around the point. The waves are loud.
On the right there’s a tall-grass meadow with some hills that stretch to the horizon, and a thicket of pine trees and briars separates the beach and meadow. We walk away from the wind, across the meadow. The dog is always ahead, sniffing, tail up. She’s happy here.
There’s a thin path that winds up some low, rolling hills. It’s a long walk. Everything is very green here. Just over the last hilltop the scenery changes. There’s a valley below, and a lagoon opens up to the right. The dog runs for the water.
We walk to a low near the water and sit. There’s less wind here, and it’s very quiet. Still some morning dew, cool to the touch, but dry enough to sit.
I lay on my side and prop my head up on a fist and watch the dog and the girl. They are happy. I feel good about that, about bringing them here. Making them happy makes this place special. I never come here alone.
My ears are cold from the walk, and it feels good to cup my hands on them. I look around at the green slopes and tree line and water and poofy clouds in a perfectly blue sky. It’s a good place.
I can feel my chest, my breathing. There is no time here. I think, This is the image that will haunt me as an old man. The days of youth and sun and dog and grass and beach and the girl. We used to call it the field of dreams.
The Ballroom
I remember going to parties, the first grown-up ones. Me in the dark suit with a close fit, her in a clingy cocktail thing, strappy shoes, hair up. Straight chestnut hair, pulled up off the neck, Portugese complexion, tall and thin and square shoulders.
We're getting ready and she clicks out of the dressing room and I'm sitting on the couch fixing a tie or something. I look up and she's standing there putting a pin in her hair. I try to take this mental picture, trying to put words to this. She turns, and my mouth is open.
I tell her she's amazing. She over-smiles and laughs and does a goofy turn. And we go.
I remember walking in the door, her first, my hand on her back, standing very tall. Watching everyone's eyes go to her, up and down, and then to me, in that order. I'm smiling hugely, watching her impact move in waves through the room.
We split off to mingle, and catch each others' eyes across the room, both watching our own show. She's poised and elegant and easy. I'm standing very straight, watching her. Confidence coming off me like blue light. The thin wrists, the shadow on the collarbone, the suntanned freckeled skin, the perfect profile.
I'm distracted, not hearing the other guy's conversation. And then I suddenly realize, I don't know any of these people. Or this place, or the occasion. I remember how I used to avoid these things at all cost.
But somehow, tonight, things are different. All I can think of is what a great party this is, what good friends we all are, and how good it is to have arrived with the most beautiful woman in the ballroom.
At Home
Sometimes in the evening there would be dancing. It always started unexpectedly, in socks. Like a joke making fun of grown ups: “Us? Dancing? Of course!”
She takes my hand and settles up close. The radio is on, as usual. But this dancing has no rhythm. It’s more of a rite, rocking each other to contentment, shuffling in a circle.
My right hand has a special spot in the small of her back. Sometimes I catch a whiff of her hair, which is feminine beyond belief, and shocks me a little. When this happens I press against her, like squeezing fresh-from-the-dryer smell out of bath towels. It’s good. I remember it from last time.
Sometimes there are new moves. There might be a dip, followed by a spin, both goofy and nearly toppling the whole enterprise to the carpet. There is laughing, and a kiss. It makes a little “smack,” and then a short breath, and the eyes open and she’s looking at me.
How long was I out for? I feel much taller than her now. Another kiss, longer. The dancing fades out. That familiar sensation of getting completely lost is coming on.
Her hands -- the long thin fingers, the thin wrists, the hands of an artist -- under the back of my shirt now. How she moves is a mystery. I’m not in the room anymore, in this city, on this planet. I’m on the hip, around the waist, under the shirt back. Stomach hot. The neck, pulling the hair out of the way, a kiss behind the ear.
She's everywhere. I'm home. It's a beautiful place.
Secret Beach
"C’mon babe, let’s go."
It’s late on a Saturday night, and we’re in jeans and sweaters. We step out the front door into the moonlight. We’re far from the city. The stars are very bright.
We take off in the jeep, down past the outskirts of town, around the backside of the hill, and into the old fort near the water.
She sits straight in her seat, looking over at me and laughing sometimes. A beautiful smile, straight black hair and tan skin. The music is loud and the trees rush past us.
We drive down past the officers quarters, old colonial buildings with neat crown molding and fresh whitewash and straight porches. We come to edge of the row of houses and turn left, down past the general’s house.
We pull off the road onto the shoulder. We’re just above a giant cliff.
"There’s the stairs," she says.
I take a minute to listen to the song on the stereo. I feel good about her, about being here.
We step out and I pull on my pack. It’s cooler here. There’s a steady breeze. It smells like the ocean. It’s very quiet, and we’re all alone on the dark road. The stars are stunning here, brilliant and white.
I walk around the jeep to her. She looks me in the eye and takes my hand and we walk to the stairs at the cliff’s edge.
The stairs are winding and wooden, worn from the sea air and wind. They’re very old and creaky. They run far down to the beach below, turning all the way down.
We take careful steps, her ahead. I can hear the waves crashing below. The moon is very bright on the water. Way off to the left is the point and the lighthouse. To the right the beach stretches down, and curls back out to the sea.
At the bottom she steps out onto the squishy sand and heads left toward a pile of washed up logs. I step out behind her and look around. It’s very dark here.
We walk down to the water. The sand gets harder and we stop where the waves crest. The waves are small and crash at an angle here, producing a sharp left-to-right movement in the moonlight.
"Look at the crooked waves." "It’s beautiful," she says. "I’ve never seen it before." "Me neither," I say.
She laughs and pulls up close to hug me. I feel her slim waist and smell her hair. I can't remember being happier than this.
We walk to the log and sit. I open the pack and pull out a wine bottle and two glasses, carefully wrapped in a towel along with an opener. I hand her a glass and open the bottle. I pour us both and make a toast.
"To the secret beach," I say. She clinks my glass.
We drink our wine and sit close on the log watching the crooked waves break. I think of the feeling of holding her hand, the slim fingers and rings. I love this girl. She's the thing I want.
Later we drive home sleepy from the wine. We quietly walk to the apartment, listening to our footsteps and not talking.
The dog is excited to see us. We brush our teeth together. I pull on pajama pants and she pulls on one of my t-shirts. We climb into bed and click off the lights.
Another day without a seizure. One more victory.
I go to sleep thinking about the family we might have, if only I could make her healthy again.
I can probably do that. She’ll probably get better. You’ll see.
