Maya
One summer, when he was 10 years old, he'd fallen for a tomboy his own age, who would regularly chase him through the bushes, roll down the green hills with him, put bugs down his shorts, pin him to the ground, sit on top of him and spit in his face. It was the closest he'd come to love, he often joked.
He told Maya that story on their first date. He had bumped into her at a bike-ride, coming around a blind curve, as she was trying to fix her flat. Their courtship had been long and gradual. Not cautious. Just gradual. They had been going out for a month before they held hands, another week before they kissed, and another month before they made love. He remembered feeling genuine affection for her, a routine failing of his, early in the relationship.
She didn't have too many friends, even though she was quite sociable. She worked, rode her bike, socialized a bit, but gave most of her time to him, and she seemed, for the most part, very happy. She did not understand his lust for photography. She read, but did not enjoy his essays. She was impressed that he was published in so many magazines she'd heard of, but she didn't understand his need to write and his need to get published. She mixed well with his friends. His friends liked her. He didn't like his friends all that much anyway.
She talked about her parents a lot. They were both medical-professionals of some sort on the east-coast. She asked about his parents, his siblings, his family, his growing-up, his undergraduate days, even his love-life before they'd met. He liked to talk about these things, and she seemed to take a genuine interest. But he could never get around to asking her those things in return. He was truly not interested, and didn't want to make the effort.
But over 5 years, he had changed, just as she had. He was completely absorbed in her. He hadn't published anything in months. He had forgotten to put his films in the refrigerator, and didn't care anyway. He had stopped running all together, even though they did continue to bike every weekend. He felt he was stagnating – again. She sensed his unhappiness, and couldn't figure it out. He was reminded of a story of a young kid who was dying of AIDS, but had nothing to ask for. He didn't need anything; he didn't want anything. Sometimes he felt like that boy. He had taken his unhappiness for granted. He had nothing to ask for.
And she had been less unquestioningly-his, lately. One Saturday, at a power-bar stop in Sausalito just before the big hill, she'd popped the question: “How about kids?” He wanted kids. He thought he wanted kids. “Sure”, he'd said. “Let's have kids. Race you to the top. Let's get home quickly, so we can start ASAP.” She hadn't been amused.
She did not get pregnant, but instead, got cancer. The doctors said chances were good. 50-50. They'd have to operate. She told him about her cancer quite matter-of-factly. He'd said it was probably a mistake. That was when she got really angry.
“Everything is not a mistake! Age is not a mistake. My cancer is real.” She had never quite understood what he meant when he said that age was a mistake. They'd had many arguments, and he'd lost every time.
“What do you mean? Is it a mistake that you're 35?”
“Absolutely”, he'd reply.
“So if you'd done it right, how old would you be?”
“I wouldn't be 35. Younger, for sure.”
“Yeah, we all want to be younger. But it's not a mistake.”
“Well, for some, it isn't. For me, it's a mistake. Look, all I'm saying is,
you know how you look back on a certain year of your life, and you come up with a blank for what you did that year?”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Well, that's a mistake, isn't it? I mean, if you got nothing to show, you did something wrong, didn't you?”
“All your publications, your photography, your biking, your – living. Me. You have nothing to show?!”
“Well, yeah, kind of. None of that counts. Except the 'you' part, of course.”
“What does count?”, she was crying now.
“Nothing counts. It's just one big mistake.”
He had meant to add that he loved her.
They got married in the hospital. Just a simple civil ceremony. He had insisted on a ceremony before the operation. Some paperwork, some signatures, a quick kiss, even a little champagne, and they were married. The nurses had been amused; it was a break from their routine. The doctors had been impatient as usual.
One summer, when he was 10 years old, he'd fallen for a tomboy his own age, who would regularly chase him through the bushes, roll down the green hills with him, put bugs down his shorts, pin him to the ground, sit on top of him and spit in his face. It was the closest he'd come to love, he often joked.
He told Maya that story on their first date. He had bumped into her at a bike-ride, coming around a blind curve, as she was trying to fix her flat. Their courtship had been long and gradual. Not cautious. Just gradual. They had been going out for a month before they held hands, another week before they kissed, and another month before they made love. He remembered feeling genuine affection for her, a routine failing of his, early in the relationship.
She didn't have too many friends, even though she was quite sociable. She worked, rode her bike, socialized a bit, but gave most of her time to him, and she seemed, for the most part, very happy. She did not understand his lust for photography. She read, but did not enjoy his essays. She was impressed that he was published in so many magazines she'd heard of, but she didn't understand his need to write and his need to get published. She mixed well with his friends. His friends liked her. He didn't like his friends all that much anyway.
She talked about her parents a lot. They were both medical-professionals of some sort on the east-coast. She asked about his parents, his siblings, his family, his growing-up, his undergraduate days, even his love-life before they'd met. He liked to talk about these things, and she seemed to take a genuine interest. But he could never get around to asking her those things in return. He was truly not interested, and didn't want to make the effort.
But over 5 years, he had changed, just as she had. He was completely absorbed in her. He hadn't published anything in months. He had forgotten to put his films in the refrigerator, and didn't care anyway. He had stopped running all together, even though they did continue to bike every weekend. He felt he was stagnating – again. She sensed his unhappiness, and couldn't figure it out. He was reminded of a story of a young kid who was dying of AIDS, but had nothing to ask for. He didn't need anything; he didn't want anything. Sometimes he felt like that boy. He had taken his unhappiness for granted. He had nothing to ask for.
And she had been less unquestioningly-his, lately. One Saturday, at a power-bar stop in Sausalito just before the big hill, she'd popped the question: “How about kids?” He wanted kids. He thought he wanted kids. “Sure”, he'd said. “Let's have kids. Race you to the top. Let's get home quickly, so we can start ASAP.” She hadn't been amused.
She did not get pregnant, but instead, got cancer. The doctors said chances were good. 50-50. They'd have to operate. She told him about her cancer quite matter-of-factly. He'd said it was probably a mistake. That was when she got really angry.
“Everything is not a mistake! Age is not a mistake. My cancer is real.” She had never quite understood what he meant when he said that age was a mistake. They'd had many arguments, and he'd lost every time.
“What do you mean? Is it a mistake that you're 35?”
“Absolutely”, he'd reply.
“So if you'd done it right, how old would you be?”
“I wouldn't be 35. Younger, for sure.”
“Yeah, we all want to be younger. But it's not a mistake.”
“Well, for some, it isn't. For me, it's a mistake. Look, all I'm saying is,
you know how you look back on a certain year of your life, and you come up with a blank for what you did that year?”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Well, that's a mistake, isn't it? I mean, if you got nothing to show, you did something wrong, didn't you?”
“All your publications, your photography, your biking, your – living. Me. You have nothing to show?!”
“Well, yeah, kind of. None of that counts. Except the 'you' part, of course.”
“What does count?”, she was crying now.
“Nothing counts. It's just one big mistake.”
He had meant to add that he loved her.
They got married in the hospital. Just a simple civil ceremony. He had insisted on a ceremony before the operation. Some paperwork, some signatures, a quick kiss, even a little champagne, and they were married. The nurses had been amused; it was a break from their routine. The doctors had been impatient as usual.
posted at 11:25 AM
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