Dreaming in Parallel

He does not believe in love at first sight…

But when he sees her, he becomes trapped in time, like a fly in amber resin.

And he feels exactly as low as an insect.

He is a millipede, baking in the sunlight, when he belongs under a rock.

But even as he curls and withers before her, he feels buoyed, he feels uplifted, he feels called by a strange, irresistible magnetism.

He stares in awe, he can not look away.

And he feels— or rather he knows-- that he is supposed to be with her.

Her perfection and his inadequacy swirl a vortex in his mind: he is not good enough for her, but she is perfect for him.

So he fantasizes about giving her his all. No amount of sacrifice could ever be too much!

He tells himself he is a silly, love-struck fool.

He tells himself that there is no such thing as soulmates— hell, he is not even convinced that the soul itself is a thing.

But when she looks back at him, he feels a comfort so deep and a yearning so loud it has to have come from something realer than his body.

It’s as though God has tapped him on the shoulder and told him to open his eyes to her.

He blurts out some greeting and after the words leave his mouth he realizes that he is afraid.

She says hello back.

His mouth is dry.

And he is too taken to smile.

Yes, he is more afraid than he has ever been, because she is the very threat of happiness.

He can feel it, radiating off her like a promise.

And wanting now, for happiness-- or for her-- is dangerous.

After having spent so long resigned to unhappiness, to even dream of fulfillment is to shock his system.

She is a shock to his system.

And the hope he feels when he looks at her is as immense and overwhelming as a mountain….

Or as a sea, into which he wholeheartedly wishes to sink.

She smiles on him, and her smile is the peace for which he has hungered.

But he braces himself and pulls back from that ledge, for fear that he’ll lose anchor, drift into her, and be swept utterly and completely away.

***

When she leaves, his body continues the work on autopilot-- his fingers ring customers through, his hands cash them out, his mouth wishes them well.

But his mind is gone out of his body.

He replays the moment in his head, over and over and over, as though he is still standing before her, listening to her name, over and over again like the whisper of a summer breeze.

And he wishes he could have a do-over.

It's not that he wishes he had said anything different-- he can't remember what he's said anyway. No words could ever carry enough weight.

A battalion of poets could have written him a greeting and still, words would have been insufficient.

No it’s not that he wishes to change anything.... It's just that he wants to rewind the moment and live it again.

He simply wants to be near her, to see her and to be seen by her.

He prays, it is an inarticulate, silent longing.

And in the midst of his rapture he hears his own internal voice, telling him that this isn't normal…. He’s never felt this way about anyone before.

And his voice wavers, between admonition and encouragement.

I've never felt this way about anyone before-- I have no right. I do not know her. This is only a perfect storm of impulse and want— an accidental love potion, of my own making: my neurons going haywire.

And

I've never felt this way about anyone before. I'm not the type to take to romantic fancy and I am not crazy. The fact I'm so inexplicably drawn to this woman means she must be special.

***

Later, that night, he tries to find her on facebook-- he feels weird about it.

He tries not to feel creepy.

But he just needs to see her, he just wants to stare into her eyes-- that would be his relief from his loneliness and from the dark.

He tries every spelling he can figure of her first name.

But he cannot find her.

Finally, hours past his second wind, he turns the phone off and sighs.

He listens to his wife snoring beside him, and he listens to the wind in the trees outside their window.

And there is no relief from his loneliness or from the dark, so he turns on his side and wishes she'd stop snoring.

Then his heart softens.

He feels obligated to love her because he promised he would.

That promise wasn’t the right choice.

But he'd made it anyway.

He had never been excited about his wife-- and he didn’t realize the lack until now, until his true excitement for another woman.

He thinks on their vows.

He thinks on their wedding and on their marriage.

And for first time in his adult life he realizes forget the lack of excitement, he has never even liked her.

Be had stumbled into relationship with her. She'd wanted him, and he'd said why not.

She'd been through lots of relationships and said he was the best one for her. But she was his first and only, so he had nothing to compare her to.

No she was never what he’d wanted. But he stayed, and tried to do right.

And he'd explained away his apprehension, made excuses for her...

He told himself that her clinginess came from insecurity, and that she'd get better in time.

He told himself that her name calling and insults came from her depression and that her mental health could improve.

He told himself to have patience.

He told himself to look past the things he disliked about her, to see her worth as a human being.

And now the realization hits him with a wave of guilt:

He should have left her years ago-- it would have been the honest thing to do.

Staying didn’t help her, it enabled her.

Their relationship had never been real love-- not the brutally real kind that brings comforts and peace.

He had given empathy, sacrifice, gentleness and care. But he’d never admired or wanted her.

All along, and even still, he was only a kid playing house.

Now there are resentments and they run deep.

Alone beside her in the dark, he swims a sea of regret.

He hears the memory of his wife’s voice calling him ugly, calling him stupid.

And though he wishes he had never tied himself to her, he cannot change the fact that he has.

But it's not all bad. Their unhappy marriage has created a life-- their perfect boy, sleeping in the next room over.

He looks at the shadowed lump on the bed beside him, his wife's blanketed silhouette....

She helped him create that precious life.

And she is a life of her own.

Whether he wants her or not, she deserves kindness and care.

She deserves love.

Even if the only love he can give her is the basic love of humanity.

And besides, doesn't she love him? When she's not yelling and hurling insults, doesn't she croon in his ear about how happy she is that they're together? How if he ever left, she'd be broken to her core?

He turns towards her and tries to spoon up, to cuddle his wife….

But he cannot bear to touch her.

He feels wretched to even think this way, but he feels, almost, as though he's being disloyal to the woman he just met at the grocery store.

She shines in his mind's eye.

Perfection.

He tells himself he’s being silly. He does not know her. So his whole-hearted belief that she'd be good for him is frankly idiotic.

But he cannot help closing his eyes and breathing deep and imagining her face.

He wonders where she is right now.

And he yearns to be there with her-- no matter where there is. He'd prefer cold concrete with her over a warm bed with his wife.

So he pulls away from his ball and chain, he turns and shuts his eyes and he imagines the peaceful, contented breathing of his dream girl.

***

The next shift his head is on a swivel. He has to see her.

And then he does-- she's glowing in denim overalls and gold hoop earrings, her hair wrapped in a Caribbean bandana.

She's browsing the produce section, she’s checking the mangoes.

He walks up to her and he spills his guts.

He tells her he wants to see her again, wants to take her somewhere.

What he really wants is to walk on the beach with her, to feel sand between his toes, and the wind on his face and her warmth beside him.

What he really wants is to find her some pretty seashells, beside the ocean, and just to listen to her talk.

But he's self-conscious about his softness towards her. So she suggests a stupid restaurant.

She smiles. "Maybe."

Then she asks why he’s so into her. She says: "Is it just an impulse of the flesh?"

He is stunned. Not only be the directness of her question, but by the awkward wording, 'of the flesh'.

He tries to grasp an answer.

He thinks it can’t be all flesh.

He thinks it might not be any flesh.

He doesn't want to fuck her. A vague, distant part of him knows he probably couldn't rise to the occasion, even if she offered.

She's too perfectc, too high, to imagine having in that way.

He just wants to make her feel good.

He wants to be hers more than he wants her to be his.

He says, "I don't know."

Then an intrusive thought flashes into his mind: her legs wrapped around his neck, her scent in his lungs, her face smiling down at him.

He stammers, "You're stunning. No denying that. But there's something more. Something I can't put into words. I don't believe in auras but you have one. You just feel right and good. Like an artist.”

She asks, "Well... what's your situation?"

His heart sinks.

This question is all too easy to understand. Of course he tells her the truth: "I'm trying to make it work. With my kid's mother."

She gives him a soft look, her eyes are charity. Somehow she understands all that he has left unsaid: "You'll stay with her, even though you're not happy?"

He shakes his head. "I dunno. I grew up in a split home, and that's not what I want for my son."

She furrows her brow, and her kindness overwhelms him. "Do you want him to grow up seeing you unhappy?"

Deep down he knows if he leaves his wife, she'll leave their son.

He's felt abandonment by a parent, and he can't let his baby feel the same pain. He swallows. "I just... I need him to have both parents."

And all his hopes are dashed to pieces.

He looks at her-- the perfect woman, his dream. But she's no longer possible, the threat of happiness has been withdrawn.

She is the moon and he is a moth and there had never been any hope of touching her.

In her eyes, he sees pity.

***

His bones feel hollow.

The rest of the day is vague, a blur of disinterest.

He has made a mistake, he knows it in his heart.

But he paints his insides with a desperate sense of nobility-- he has sacrificed his happiness for the sake of his son's peace.

He tells himself he has done the hard thing and that must make it the "right" thing.

But that night, again he wishes for a do-over. Though now he remembers exactly what he's said and done.

And he prays. What he wants is forgiveness.

Because he has heard God call, and he has refused.

So he prays his apologies to God and to self, and he begs for a chance to try again.

A chance to do it right.

***

A dreamless night, and he's at work again.

Each coworker who says hello gives him a vague sense of Déjà vu-- but he's too dissociated to investigate where this sensation is coming from.

His head is on a swivel once more, and when he sees her, he is floored: she's wearing the same exact clothing she was the day before-- she's in the same aisle, with the same basket of groceries, her hands on the same mangoes.

He walks up to her and spills guts all over again. It's his do-over.

And this time when she asks, "Well... what's your situation?"

His heart rises.

He was so incredibly stupid to shut the door on her the first time-- he cannot believe he has this second chance.

This time, he is ready.

He tells her "I've been trying to make it work with my son's mother. But I've decided to end things. I'm not happy with her-- and we both deserve a chance at something... real."

***

Ten year's later, he gives his baby-- now his boy-- a hug.

"I'm sorry buddy."

His son's face wrinkles, a pained grimace: "Why does she always cancel on me?"

There are tears in his son's precious eyes.

His dream woman places a hand on his son's-- on her stepson's. She squeezes his shoulder.

She says, "I know you were really looking forward to seeing your mom this weekend. I know... But your brother and sister will be really happy that you're staying home. They miss you when you go to her house. We all do. Whaddya say we make it a special day? We can go out for pizza."

The boy dries his eyes. "Or sushi?"

She casts her husband a soft glance.

His heart swells.

Sushi was their first date, almost a decade ago. He grins back. "Sushi sounds good to me, bud."

They give their boy a hug.

The moment passes. The boy musters his courage. He goes to play with his half and step (but really whole) siblings.

The man and the woman sigh.

Sounds of their children laughing drift in through the open windows, along with sunshine and a soft ocean breeze.

She says, "You can't control her."

"I know. But she treats him like my dad treated me. It hurts to see him hurt."

"Do you regret....?" She looks at her feet and trails off.

He lifts her chin.

Their life together seems to move behind her eyes-- he remembers the first time he heard her laugh and the first time they made love. He remembers their wedding, he remembers their shared tears, their shared hopes, and their shared joys.

He remembers finding pretty shells for her, and holding her tight each and every night-- and he remembers that even after all these years together he still longs for her whenever they're apart.

And he still admires her.

She is his peace.

He pulls her into a firm embrace. "Regret? You're my dream girl. And I know in my soul, if I'd stayed with her his life would have been all together worse. He's happier with you and I than he'd have been with her and I. And I'm happier too."

That night he spoons up to her, happy to have her in his arms.

But when he sleeps his dreams are a life gone sour, a nightmare:

***

He wakes with a kink in his neck and frown on his face.

He thinks he might have dreamt of happiness, but already the details have faded.

The past ten years have been hard--

He'd left his wife two years after the birth of their third child. The screaming and the abuse had become hellish.

But her rage is not what finally drove him to leave.

Their oldest saw the hate and began to say that it would have been better if he'd never been born.

The man blamed himself.

Then he'd discovered his wife's infidelity. And he forgave the act.

Their youngest was still his son, it didn't matter who the father was.

But he found he could not forgive her willful lies.

He looks at his phone and groans.

A wall of texts: insults, ridicule... demands. Her: refusing to take the kids for visitation unless he pays her. He throws the phone aside and hauls himself out of bed, into the stark and sterile morning.

His windows are all shut and his shades are drawn.

Part of him wants to fling them open and let the fresh air in-- but sunlight seems to fill him with an unbearable grief. Sunlight reveals and stings his own emptiness.

He gets his kids out of bed and feeds them breakfast.

The littlest says, "Is mommy going to get us this weekend?"

The oldest frowns, he knows not to put any hope on her.

But the boy is better than before the split.

Now there are days when he smiles.

The man shakes his head, and says, "That's okay guys. I'll make sure we have a good weekend. I'm thinking tomorrow we might hit the pumpkin farm-- and maybe grab some sushi for dinner."

He hugs them each off to school.

And when they are gone, he is in an empty house.

He thinks of the woman he wanted all those years ago, whom he has never stopped wanting.

And again, he wonders how different life might have been, if he had listened to the wisdom and his heart.

***

He heads to bed, tired to his core, hoping for a sweet dream-- for relief fron his nightmare of regret.

***

He wakes to her, and pulls her close.

He says he had an awful dream-- a life without her.

She touches his cheek.

He says, "It's okay. The details are already fading."

***