That Falls Drop by Drop Upon the Heart

A man does not show his greatness by being at one extremity, but rather by touching both at once

 

They called me ‘Mrs’ and I did not bother to correct them. I sat in the waiting room on those cushion covered plastic chairs, sat there the entire time. Occasionally I put my hand on my stomach straining to feel any stirring of a life within me but I did not, could not. It was too early anyway. I did not even know if it was for sure.

 

The same way I did not even know if the father of the child would make it through the night. This is what happened when you chained an angel to your bed, I thought, watching the doctors and nurses go by.

 

This is what happened when you told a man so good-intentioned and kind that you did not want to marry him, least of all have his child and it was terrible, terrible of him to try to trap you into something he knew you did not want by swapping your birth control pills for mints so that every time you took one thinking you were saving yourself from a lifetime of heartbreak, you were actually freshening your breath.

 

This is exactly what happened when you fight so hard to keep a distance, to build a wall �" you wound up sitting in a waiting room in a busy hospital, feeling your heart hammering in your chest, hoping and praying with each agonizing passing minute that he would survive just so you could tell him yes, I want the white picket fence, the children, the wedding, everything and anything he wants.

 

“You are hope.” I whispered to him one night as he moved inside of me and he smiled that honey sweet smile of his. He had a slow deliberate way of letting his lips curve up into a smile, first one end and as you waited expectantly for the full smile, the other end.

 

If any other man did it, you would naturally associate it with said man trying to be a charming poser of sorts. Not with him though, not with that boyish face, dark soulful eyes and neatly trimmed black hair. There was such an air of innocence about him that sometimes one was bound to think it was a mere façade and there was a ruthless menacing man beneath.

 

But he was all softness and sweet smiles. I would catch myself staring at him and thinking that was simply not possible, not with a life like his, not with a man raised and bred in today’s social climate.

 

There was not an ill intentioned bone in him and even if he was agitated with something or someone you could see it all over his face. He was so transparent and so generous hearted, sometimes just watching him around other people, how kind he was to them, made me want to weep, tears of relief that all was not lost, there was hope - for me, for us, for the whole damn world.

 

It was difficult to believe such goodness could exist in a person. It was not to say he was perfect. Far from it. He was a sloth, always late, left his things all over my flat and refused to get out of bed on the weekends unless he was paged for work. Unlike myself and most of the men who fascinated me, he was neither a voracious reader nor an intellect. He would listen interestedly as I went on and on about Cravaggio or Emerson and ask all the right questions but he would never pick up any one of my books shelved neatly in my study or piled up on the beside table.

 

Then there were times I wanted to wring his neck for having so much faith in himself, the world, the powers that be and even me, so much so he seemed convinced that if he stuck around long enough, I would give in and tell him I wanted to be more than just lovers.

 

Those times I would tell him contritely that he really did not know me but he would stubbornly insist he did, his eyes shining with mirth and I could not decide whether to hit him for not taking me seriously or kiss him for wanting to be with someone as irreversibly screwed up as myself.

 

But then again, he knew irrevocably screwed up. He witnessed it on a daily basis in the murderers, rapists, drug addicts he tried to arrest and put away.

 

But apparently everyone’s demons inevitably caught up with them - hence the bad guys he chased so as to avoid the darkness within himself wound up nabbing him and now he lay in the operating theater with multiple stab wounds.

 

It reminded me of something my best friend told me once a long time ago. Life is a circle and everything is relevant.

 

‘Dirty cop’ I had heard the whispers the moment I walked into the waiting room and saw all the policemen milling around, saw his partner standing to one side talking to their supervisor. They looked at me and then looked away and I knew, even they, who used to worship the ground their colleague walked on, rave about what a thorough, intelligent, straight-laced detective he was, even they were convinced he had been stabbed because, like all crooked cops, he had gotten greedy and started asking for too much.

 

All of them left after a while and it was just me. Nobody else for him or me but us.

 

My parents, they’re dead. Died when I was a kid, he said to me during our very first conversation.

 

I’ve never told anyone this before, he confessed, but they were arguing, they always argued, my father especially always yelled at my mother, so I said something rude and mean to grab their attention, to make them stop…my father…he turned around to yell at me…that was when he lost control of the car…I mean I know I was just a kid and I didn’t know any better…but still…

 

I asked him why he was telling me this.

 

He told me then, about a religious group he had heard that existed in Texas where the leader, a priest, made all the followers who just recently joined his group vomit out their demons, literally make retching noises and throw them up.

 

And so something about me, about talking to me made him want to take out his demons and lay it out for me to see.

 

Of course, I, who was often fond of using self-deprecating humor to downplay emotional attachment, thanked him sardonically for implying that I reminded him of a crazy Southern preacher.

 

He simply looked at me and said with that smile of his, you incite the same kind of ardor he does.

 

I responded by spending the rest of our conversation teasing him about probably being the only detective in the world who knew words like ‘ardor’.

 

Now I murmur the word as if it was a mantra of sorts, the first word that comes to mind when I remember our first conversation as well as our first night together.

 

I close my eyes and see his face when I told him I might possibly be pregnant, see him turn towards me when I tell him casually over breakfast that he can make a copy of the key to my flat, followed by a curt remark not to make a big deal out of it which he interrupted with a passionate and grateful kiss.

 

The longer I sit there, the more time passes, the more perfect my memories of him are rendered, the more they are sweetened, like jars filled with preserved fruit left up in the shelves for months only be taken down and spread as sweet jam on toast.

 

I cannot help but wonder if I will be there, in that chair for months before someone comes out to tell me how he is and by then I would have fallen in love all over again with a man I was already in love with, as ridiculous as that is.

 

I drift off to sleep for a while and I dream that he is beside me, sitting in the chair, his face so close to mine and for an instant I am unable to make out my own lover’s features. I feel his warm breathe even though I do not see his face, feel the rise of desire in my stomach whenever he is near, feel his whisper in my ear, Do not ever hate yourself for loving me.

 

He knows me, even in my dreams, he knows me.

 

Then he is gone and there is nothing left but air, antiseptic scented stale air typical of a hospital waiting room.

 

And then I am awake and I see the doctor approaching me. I instantly know something is wrong. It is in his eyes, a wary flicker, the way he looks at me.

 

Do all doctors look at the loved ones of their dead patients that way? Do they even know it? I wonder inwardly.

 

Don’t do this, I want to say to him, as I take a step back.

 

He is saying the words but I am not hearing them, not listening. This could not be, I think, even though I understood that it could.

 

I do not react and why should I? Everything seemed like a dream now; the way he kissed me, the way I fell in love with him while trying not to allow myself to. How could I have possibly believed there was going to be a happily ever after? When I thought it about it, it seemed as if my entire time with him was spent trying to protect myself from an outcome like this, knowing full well nothing this good, this untainted lasted forever.

 

I ask to see him, just once, and when they bring me to the room, I look at him and think, he really did have a face of an angel, even more in death than alive. Or maybe as a saving grace, angels who have fallen from blinding heights are given a chance to look like one at the end.

 

 

 FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Constance]

This is a heart-wrenching, beautiful write. I don't see anything that I would change. Your grammar is impeccable, your style and tone easy to follow, and uniquely you. If you keep writing like this, and keep submitting to publishers, I have no doubt that you will be picked up eventually. Very nice work. Exceptional.

[bluessadmood]

A strange man to love,you could never see such kindness ,such beautiful nature in today world..
very nice character you draw here..its like a dreamy guy fell to you from nowhere ,like too good to be true
And you will not find so much alike him in this world ,so strong so sure of himself full of faith
brings warmth and smiles to everyone..yes quite a guy..a pity that he passed away on duty
while she carrying his son..a bit sad,a bit strange what you tell here
lovely write..

[London Calling]

Fantastic! Yet another incredible work of art produced from a mind that few possess!
I am truly impresses, as I said before...morose adoration.
Outstanding, thank you for the FYI! I'm adding this to the Fave's =D

[Ice Queen of the Vampir..]

Wow, this story is sad, beautiful, and simply amazing. I couldn't stop reading once I started. You did a marvelous job with this piece and I truly enjoyed it. Awesome work!!!

Heather

[Arthur Henn]

I'm speechless, you my little lady are very talented. I'm not one that really likes to read stories. I get side tracked too much and mu attention span is too short. I read this and wanted to read more. This is a plus A+ Great Job! I will be one of the first to buy a book when you are a published author, you are there. Hands down.

Arthur Henn

[Annie]

The first sentence drew me in and I read the whole thing uninterruptedly after that, simply out of sheer curiosity about how it would end. Obviously this is what makes good writing, and you really succeeded in that. The thought process and contemplation of the protagonist is easy to follow, and seems natural. It is incredibly well written!

The only little detail I wonder about is this: If he was so sweet and well-meaning, why did he swap the birth control pills? And wouldn't she notice they tasted minty all of a sudden?

Otherwise: I salute your unique and amazing style of writing here! Well done!

[Tyler James]

I have tears literally rolling down my face, you had me from the first sentence.

[Face In A Crowd]

That was amazing. Of course the spelling bugged me at a few parts and I had no clue what one word meant but hey! That's okay!

[Gandré]

This was a very good story, I enjoyed very much. Well written, I easily read it... and hmm u can write!