Everlasting

In the morning you find a farmers' market blossoming with flowers and fruit on the sidewalk. Chariots and tables point to the area with their elbows, advertising chard, sunflowers, and lots of crabs. The bridge above beats its unusual heartbeat as the cars run forward over the concrete planks.

In the afternoon, the market will return to its mid-week state, a colorful sandbox that blows through the shady passenger parking lot.

If they made a camera that would not disappoint the memory, I would take this morning as a complete, so that we can walk on it whenever we wish.

You press me with your hand, I smile because you feel it too.

We gather vegetables and our bread, and then we head out into the open. On the edge of the market is something new: one day a woman sells handmade buttons and soap. On a cool morning, there is a man with iris bulbs and peonies in pots.

If you glance at the outside of the stables, you will find jars filled with glossy liquid, heavy paper bags. They are fascinated by luck, building materials, and scents. They let us go, convinced that we did not need anything new in life.

"Let's go there," I pull your hand.

The new store this week is just a table. There is no banner in the background, not even a brochure. Just a row of old, inconspicuous jars and bottles, each with a label: Everlast.

I run my finger around the neck of the bottle, inserting the finger of the bulb connected to a small pipe with holes. The light pierces the glass of the bottle, illuminating the liquid inside.

"What is this?"

The salesman looks up at his paper and pulls his feet out of the table. She smiles. "Not 'what,' Darlin '. Ask,' What are you doing? '

Tired of him, I prepare to turn my back. He sees it in my eyes and rushes to the punchline. "Make things last forever."

"Of course," he said. He likes to check claims. "Prove it."

The man nods and asks for one of your shoes. She shook her head. But I am a game. These Keds are old, though. I give one and stand a flamingo, the bare heel touching the left calf.

He pulls a metal bucket down from the table, pulls things out of it. Then he sprays my gray Ked, drops it in a bucket, picks up a propylene torch, and lights it.

"Wait a minute--" I said. But it is too late. The flames licked my shoe. I will be jumping back into the car.

He alternates the torch with a glass of water, extinguishes the flames. My shoe stays in the box, clean. It's not hot, it's not wet.

I buy three bottles.

Away from the table, the first thing I do is spray another shoe. The market crowd is all around us.

"Should you read the label?" He asks.

I glance at it. "It is non-toxic. Not used internally. Satisfaction is not guaranteed."

He stepped back, thinking we were out for thirty dollars. But I list all the ways we could end up when our things last forever.

When I get home, after putting the vegetables in the crisper and petting the moving dog, I spray our bikes up and down.

I spray my jeans. They are equal, once. Now, they will probably never grow old.

A few days later, on a beautiful hair day, I spray my hair. Either it will just get wet, or the problem will be solved. A week later, when the humidity reaches the roof, and everything else drips and flattens, I'm happy.

After that, I try to be careful. Reasonable. But as the weeks went by, and the things we sprayed with Everlast survived all sorts of incidents and ran around with paint and car doors and — once — a kitchen knife, I started to get a little overwhelmed.

You smile, marking a few things with a spray, but keep your favorite shoes away.

"I like to feel weak," she said.

One day, I put a little in a bowl of fish. We continue to kill our fish, so it’s worth a try. Fish do not die once.

So, I put some in the dog food. Too bad for me, I know. But we love Moxie. She is beautiful and soft and loves to hug. The thought of losing her the way I lost Growl in high school, dragging my buttocks, peeing all over, and suddenly shaking in the living room, just - well, I don’t want to.

Well, I did. Two days later in the park, the Doberman's annoyance erupts as he runs past, turns around, and wraps his teeth around his soft neck. As we do, we nod our heads, move away from him, shake his head, and bark. We put him down and he breathed a sigh of relief and was not hurt at all.

"I will be condemned," he said in surprise.

The next evening, fresh tulips from the market fall flat on the edges of grandma’s crystal vase, and candlelight gives us our dinner with the sparkle of wine and the rich warmth of food. A table, your freshly pressed shirt, and trousers, those shoes are worn on the floor, each detail can make me smile. You smile too. We pick up our forks, to taste. I drank the wine, and confessed, gently, how Moxie survived the Doberman.

Stop chewing. A gentle breeze fills the window next to us. "What do you mean? How?" You swallow as you begin to get up from the table, your eyes tightly reluctant. I think our apartment without a lot of your books or your jersey is covered on the couch, where those sweep your denial. I wonder which furniture is yours, and mine.

Then smile. You lean on me and kiss me as your knees bend and you take your seat. You look at me as you always have.

Everlast is glorious.