Lessons in The Mansion of my Heart-3

Preface: I have been trying to revisit this for the last week, but it did not return until last night. I stopped thinking about the dream and just slept, doing a little breathing exercise to relax and fall deeply asleep.

However, Marcie did pop into a dream I was having about a hike in Humboldt County.

I was wandering around the forest above Humboldt State with some long-lost Zendik pals and my old dog Spot, which was weird but comforting, and I essentially knew I was dreaming.

Nom said, "Fen, redhead alert!" and I followed his finger, seeing a flash of red hair and some blue disappearing over a hill in a clearing.

We hiked out of the redwoods and over the little rise and Marcie was there, picking a little white gardenia from what looked like a hedge of them.

"Hi, hon," she said. "Try to come home. I am going to put some of these gardenias in bowls of water and put them around the house, then I want to work on the fence."

I nodded and she hugged me, a cool, almost cold kiss on my neck no less nice for the fell of her against me, and she was gone."

"Dude, that was your wife?" Dawna asked.

"Yep, that was her," I said, beaming with pride.

"Well, we're heading up the mountain, maybe you should head home?" she said, and she winked and wiggled a bit.

I blushed in the ears. "Yes, maybe I should."

Spot barked and ran down the hill ahead of me. I chased him then jumped, and soon was floating down towards Arcata.

And I awoke.

Almost Home..

So tonight on the way back from my friend Vince's in Phoenix, I nearly died. I hit a big rock in a pile of rubble and went a little on two wheels, steered and fishtailed, then oversteered and did a donut on highway 8, stopping barely in time.

But what happened in my head as it all was going on really is why this is here.

I just remember thinking as the car spun toward the edge of the Tecate Divide, "Oh, man... and I am almost home." One hour left on the road and I was going to fly off and down.

I was calm and everything was in slow motion. I accepted it, even as I tried every trick in the driving book to recover.

"I was almost home, this cannot be happening," I thought.

Then time caught up with perception and the world stopped with my car. I thought maybe I wasn't here any longer for a second, out of my body and looking at the great ravine outside my car window. Then I heard the crickets and the radio.

I was facing the wrong way and had lightly smacked my front driver's side fender against a boulder a bit as I had come to a stop. I looked for lights and slowly pulled around to face the right way.

I felt an urge and parked, then puked into the chasm almost as soon as I rounded my back fender. I stopped retching, the radio in my car static-babbling and the crickets chirping away in the high mountains.

I felt exhilarated and pondered the great mountains I loved all around me. The same mountains Marcie only loved when there was rain and greenness or snow to see. The ones she went to with me, "just because" when there wasn't any of those things to enjoy.

The exhilaration faded. I gulped and gathered my senses and thought of Seamus waiting for his meal. I washed my mouth with some mouthwash and lots of water, then drove down the mountain.

And even though I was thinking on an entirely different level in the rush of the near-accident, all I could think coming down the hill was that I was calm in the face of my assumed sure death not because I wanted to die, or because I was ready.

It was just that whatever happened, I was, at that moment, going to make it home.

Old friends and plans to put in place

Marcie knew my friend Chris Cerutti pretty well and was able to help him out with a ride home once when we worked together. I've known him since the old Gashaus days. It was good to hear from you, man!

He lives in Portland now, and contacted me on Facebook. Interestingly enough, this is a place I am considering moving, along with San Francisco, Hong Kong and Canada. Maybe I will pop in for a visit. I have an offer of a spare room on the table. Sweet!

Then again, things can get sticky here in San Diego. We'll see what's what as some new and interesting opportunities continue to develop. Television work? Heh. We'll see for sure. Anyways, more this week as I try and wrap up a big project for a client.

A quiet time at a loud place

So, yesterday I went to a birthday party at Dean's for Braxton, a freshly minted Devilish Deuce of a boy. It made me reflect on Marcie and I and how we saw the question of kids. Well, I won't cover that here, but soon in another post.

Yesterday, as I sat with a friend and watched a small army of toddlers bounce, eat cake and generally enjoy life, I noticed on thing lacking: a redhead child. There was not one in the over a dozen present.

Well, it was still an interesting time.

At any rate, Marcie was not one to spend time with our friends or do kids' birthday parties unless they were for her close friends, like Chrissy's. But she may have enjoyed this one in the cool winds of autumn on Mt. Helix.

Thanks, Dean-O and Joey, for a great time and a nice, life-affirming event. These weeks, I need those. And happy birthday, Braxton :)

Marcie's first resting place

So, I went on a long pilgrimage this morning, walking to the opposite side of the island with Marcie's cremains. I found the spot I wanted and felt he would have her breath stolen by in life, and let her go.

It was one of the hardest days ever, but I feel I did her the honor I should. The film is below. Good night, folks.

Temple of the Sea God

Here is the little temple that sits at the entrance to Pak Kok village. Pak Tai is the Taoist sea god, and one of his power symbols is the turtle. Appropriate, no? There are many little temples to him like this on the island, likely because of all the fishing that is done here. Enjoy!

Waking up...

There was a quiet in my heart.
I gazed out on the sea.
I was surrounded but apart
as people jostled me.
The din about me hammered on
with life and toil and smoke.
A million people yammered on
though muted as they spoke.
By senses neither lost nor dulled.
My mind was not adrift.
But when the world sighed they lulled
and I felt an eldritch shift.
A hint of you blew past my nose,
A woman with your scent
A happy laugh and flash of rose
appeared, then off she went.
A pair of lovers, fixed, held hands
an island in the flow.
A solid point in the shifting sands
like us, just months ago.
I met his eye and nodded, waved
and smiled as they then bowed.
Then off they went, the moment saved,
before they joined the crowd.
And at the pier a woman stared
out on the choppy sea
Her skirt and blouse were nicely paired
and so like you, to me.
I know I've gone so far away
among the crowd, to roam.
But you were there with me today
my heart your quiet home.

What a trip

There will be no photos shared publicly about my trip, save a few generic skyline shots and, perhaps, an approved shot of the hostesses (once they okay one). I will also not share much about this one here, except the Slow Food Nation event, as Marcie would have been in heaven there.

Suffice it to say that this was the first trip that I went on really more for myself and my future than for her and my past. This is not the place for such things.

Pictures of it all later. For now, we're going back to my memories of moments of my Marcie. I have some thoughts to share about Marcie and how I felt looking out on my next home city, one she almost joined me in. That will be all that one finds here.

Friends, of course, can ask in person or email. I will have some private albums to view...

F.

San Francisco Trip Part 2

Ah, vacation(s). On August 29th, I will be in San Francisco, visiting Jane and Christina and perhaps scouting. This is something I have been forced to put off time and time again as the school district and other items have thrown me curve balls.

Just know that there will be many images and possibly some films. Unfortunately, the long trip along Big Sur from last time will not be repeated. I am a flying fool.

There will be a visit to Izakaya for sure. I wonder if everything is still "gorgeouth."

Muahaha. I plan to wreck the place. Hell, I need to. In a Marcie-approved way, of course.

When booking my little room in Japantown, I noted all rooms are for two adults (assumed) when reserved. Sure I am happy to be going, but those little things really sober you up.

Our One-Time Sod Anniversary

I made mention of a brief visit to the Ould Sod here. Last night was the anniverary of that little visit, and also corresponded to friend's invitation to go listen to some music. I have come to spend a couple nights a week, an hour or two at a time, in the Sod.

I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.

I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?

Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.

On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.

Where I run

Running has become my balm, my healing motion, my security blanket. I run like a fool, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I can start a run in a thoroughly depressed state and will finish it in a tired but elevated mood every time.

I have been running in my little neighborhood since before Marcie passed on and have built my distance from 2-3 miles all the way up to about 8, pushing to 13.1 every two weeks and dropping back down (to build speed) until I peak up again, adding a tenth or two each cycle.

Usually, I just run a little loop through places that I have walked with her. I am going to make little tours of our neighborhood, adding places to visit and some sound files. My hope is to let people walk in our footsteps a little and give them things to discover on the way.

You'll know when it happens, of course.

For now, here is my running path, replete itself in Marcie's walking haunts and as-yet unlabeled kitty pal stops.

Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.1)

The Route 1 bus lurched to a squealing halt and the air in the hydraulics fired off as the door opened and the bus lowered. Marcie stared at the bus stop.

A laughing and rustling sound of paper bags slipped lazily into the cabin and the driver rolled her eyes, looking into the mirror bored.

"Oh my god, honey, don't look, don't look..." Marcie whisperes, grabbing my arm with one hand, hiding her face behind her ever-ready People magazine with the other and looking at me behind it wide-eyed, smiling and obviously keyed up.

Of course, this usually meant I had to look. Marcie would likely be asking me questions about the experience she told me to avoid. I looked and Marcie ducked her head completely into her lap, her magazine over the top and back.

"Heeee hee, ohmigod, stop, ohmigod," she squealed under her breath.

There would definitely be a quiz later. I paid close attention.

An elderly and scruffy gentleman clambered onto the bus, each foot stopping on each step, side by side one step at a time. He stared down as if to watch closely for any danger at his feet, then stomped as he reached the top, nodding to the driver.

"Muhuh?" he laughed, gesturing around at the bus and scanning me and my fellow riders as if asking a question. "Muzzum Muzzum Muzzum."

He was dressed in a brown, pinstriped suit, a derby hat and tie, all somewhat grimy. Beneath his buttoned jacket one could discern several different shirts, all button up, all enclosed by a tie, their collars stacked and close on his throat.

"You have your fare, sir?" the driver asked, her impatient face obviously familiar to the point of some tired contempt. She bit her lip and glared in the mirror.

"Muzzum, Muzzum," he said, clearly affirmatively, then pulled two crumpled bills from his pocket and raising them high over his head, his free hand now sweeping toward the back of the bus as he glanced around again.

I understood the gesture and offered him applause. He bowed and then deosited the bills into the farebox. The bus driver glared at me now.

"You need to not encourage him or we are never getting out of here," she said.

Marcie grabbed my arm, still hiding her face, but obviously laughing under the magazine, and pulled me onto the bench.

"Eh heh shesh mechuzzum muh," the odd man said, smiling at the driver with his hand out, another cocked on his hip. He looked away smugly, waggling his head a bit.

"You want a transfer?" the driver asked, snatching one of her pad and slapping it into his hand.

He snapped it into his palm, crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket in a smooth and practiced way, then picked up his half dozen grocery bags. Their contents were a mystery, but I inspected him discreetly as he strutted past in his own little world.

He was a hodgepodge of accoutrement. In place of a handkerchief in his pocket, he had donned a fresh paper napkin and, quite carefully placed, a spoon, fork and knife set against it. He wore a watch on each wrist, and several bits of string, plastic binding and even a white plastic grocery bag on them as well. He bore a lapel pin. It was Underdog.

His personal hygiene was a mixed bag. When he passed by, a strange mix of Old Spice, stale water and roting feet wafted past. He had a gray and white beard that was not well-trimmed but appeared impeccably combed. His fingernails were clean but his hands were filthy. He was a walking contradiction.

He looked around at each person as he walked by, and Marcie stayed down, squeezing my arm as she saw his broken, stained white Keds shuffle past. He sat in the back of the bus and immediately set his face against the window, flattening his cheek as he arranged his bags without looking.

"Ohhh, that is one of our regulars," Marcie said as he passed. "He is a total character. He is like, my favorite CVS urchin ever, but I don't want him to see me when I am not in the store. He stares at me a lot."

I nodded, suddenly imagining something more sinister than eccentric. "Does he bother you? Do you want me to talk to him?"

She looked at me and gave me her, "Are you THAT stupid?" look.

"Honey, he doesn't do it because he's menacing, he's harmless," she said. "God."

She was quiet for a minute as we rolled through Banker's Hill. In a sudden moment of inspiration, she grabbed my hand again and turned to me, whispering. "Did you see his shirts? I think he just layers them on when they get dirty!"

I nodded, and added, "And I think he just ties things to his wrists or puts whatever he finds on like a bracelet. He was also wearing two watches."

"Oh, Oh my god," she said, slapping my thigh with her other hand excitedly as she bit her lip then whispered, extra quietly. "He looks at watches every time he comes into CVS. He has like three watches on chains, one for each vest."

I shook my head and as we hopped of the bus outside of "Gay Ralph's" in Hillcrest, Marcie was holding my hand, obviously pleased to have seen the CVS regular in our area.

She stopped me as the bus pulled off, and said, "Okay, let's wave to Otto!"

And so I did, as his faced, plastered to the bus window, rolled by. He waved back.

"Otto?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Otto Van Otterson. That is what I call him. I don't know his real name, actually. I can't ask him because I don't think he ever really talks."

There was much to know about Otto, as I would find out. But there was even more to enjoy in what Marcie filled in the gaps in her knowledge of him with.

The Down Side to Nostalgia

As much as I love the music I have collected, much of it carries the memory of Marcie and events in my life with her so strongly that I cannot bear to listen to it at times. In other moments, I am simply comforted. I am currently on a ten-minute break from work, wondering if there is "More Than This" than to be "Back on the Chain Gang" and remembering Marcie as one "Few and Far Between."

I miss our "Glory Days."

Finally back at the Beach

So today it was hot, and I decided to try going back to the beach. I made a review of mission Beach for Yelp... I thought I would share it here, too.

I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.

Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.

Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.

Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!

Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.

In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.

I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.

I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.

We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.

You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.

Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.

And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.

Times Apart That Were Just In Time-Paris in Winter (End)

The week before she would have left, and in which I assumed she had canceled everything in a fit of pique, was hell. I tiptoed around her, feeling guilty and wondering what to do.

Every offer to help her set it all back up was met with "Don't worry about it, Frank," or, "Just drop it," or "Would you leave me alone?"

Two night before her original departure date, I asked her to let me buy her a ticket I had found on the web and offered to let he ruse my Discover card for anything else she needed.

"I said I didn't want your help, and you still gave me shit about how much it cost, why would I want your help now? So you can make me feel guilty? Forget it," she said. "You don't want me to go anyways."

We argued for a half an hour and I finally gave up. "If you don't go, this will be between us forever and I will to be able to handle it," I said. "You overreacted and you canceled the trip because we argued, and I have felt guilty ever since."

She glared and I continued.

"You have to go on your trip, because I think if you don't, we'll break up," I said. I felt deep sadness, but kept my tears in check.

Her face melted. "Oh, honey, no wonder you've been upset. I just canceled that hotel. I booked a new one at work the next day."

She took my hands as a lump grew in my throat, my relief washing over me with her hands' strokes of my shoulders and her hugs. "I didn't cancel the flight or anything. I'm sorry, I forgot I told you i was canceling the whole thing. Oh, baby."

She chuckled and kissed my neck. We retired to the bedroom and made for the evening. The next day, she packed and I went to the bank. When I got home, I gave her a card and $500 in AMEX traveler's checks.

"Because I want to," I said. "Not because you need me to, okay?"

She left the next day after a long morning of bonding and last-minute preparations. Within a week, she called. "I am coming home early," she said. "I miss you, I wish you'd have some with me."

Absence, as usual, made her heart grow fonder. That was fine by me.

Instead of a post here...

I have done a Yelp review of the neighborhood that covers Marcie and my relationship a little. It's right here. I will post on Mother's Day later tonight.

Getting back to Seamus

At first glance, the idea of Seamus and Marcie and my marriage being related might seem a little bit of a stretch. However, aside from Seamus sometimes being the fluffy glue of our relationship, there is a very direct connection to our first anniversary and Seamus.

When Marcie suggested we re-honeymoon in Vegas, staying at the Luxor, I was quick to agree. I wanted to make up for my illness and hopefully enjoy myself and my wife a bit more. Everything was set, and Barbara had volunteered to keep an eye on Seamus, as opposed to having him stay in a kitty kennel for our trip.

We arrived in Vegas and soon checked in at the Luxor. We had gotten a room in the Pyramid, which was a terrible mistake, as it would turn out. The space was cramped, the bedclothes were somewhat uncomfortable, and the place was just... subpar. We began agitating for a suite in one of the towers after a tryst in the scratchy sheets.

As Marcie hammered the front desk for better accomodations in which to get her satisfaction, I contacted my coworkers from Pavia-Volpe, including my buddy Ruben Gonzalez, and made arrangements to pop in for a minute at his party. But it was not to be.

The phone rang as Marcie worked on her war paint and I finished repacking us for our move to the suite we'd been offered. I grabbed it, assuming it was Ruben or the front desk.

"Hello, room 2417 here," I said. "Can we go someplace else and stain a new set of sheets now?

"Fraaaank? Helloooo?" Barbara said.

Uncomfortable? Yeah, and how. I recovered without missing a beat, though.

"Um, hello, Barbara," I said, recognizing the whine and near-panic she laced her non-routine calls with. "Are you okay? You sound upset."

"No, we're not okay," she said. "Seamus is sick and he's crying a lot."

Marcie had heard "Barbara" and "Upset" and came out, gorgeous and beautiful, dressed to the nines and maximally painted for effect. Even worried, she looked so hot. She took the phone.

"Oh, no," she said, holding her forehead and looking away from me as I gestured, "What is it?"

"Well, mom, you have to take him to the vet, and you have to get him into the cage, so just please try," she said. "Don't worry if he pees in it, in fact, that would be good if he did. Just call the vet number I left you."

Marcie hanged up the phone and looked at me.

"Honey, Seamus hasn't peed and he is howling at her," she said. "We have to go home as soon as possible because she's freaking out and she doesn't know what to do. Why don't you go downstairs and wait for me by the Chinese restaurant? I'll be down soon, I promise."

When she came down, about a half hour later, she had smeared makeup and was back in her sweats. "Honey, I am so sorry, but I had to spend every last dime on a flight home. My mom refuses to put Seamus in her car while he is howling and she is very upset."

Home we went, flying only two hours later. When we got there, Barbara picked us up and we packed Seamus into the car. A urinary tract infection meant not only a $1,000 veterinary bill filled with things we did not ask for, but a change of veterinarian, soft food forever, and a cat that lost weight rapidly for a few years afterward.

But our little family was intact, and Seamus was safe at home with us again, regardless our aborted Vegas debauch and bacchanalian. There would be other trips to Vegas, but there would only be one Seamus, and Marcie and I both agreed over more modest anniversary activities that our bed was better than the Luxor's by far.

A tough time to wed (Pt. 6)

We were on our way to the land of married respectability in the week before the wedding. Everything was arranged and we were set to travel. Our suite at the Monte Carlo was reserved, plans for entertainment firmed up and our flight was reserved. One last thing before we left was a late lunch the day before our departure.

We chose Indian. We'll call the restaurant "Bombay Barf," as its choice would turn out to be a bad one for me.

Marcie enjoyed a curry dish while I had chicken tandoori. Unfortunately, I took a big bite of the chicken before I realized that it was lmost wholly uncooked in its center. If you have ever had frozen chicken that is tossed into the oven unthawed, then you know the sensation. I tasted cooked goodness then squishy, almost gelatinous inner meat.

I spit it out and sent it back. I was served, some 15 minutes later, a fully cooked tandoori by a scowling and curt subcontinental who seemed to think I was putting him out by demanding properly prepared food. Never mind. I left it on the plate and Marcie accepted that.

The damage had been done.

In the morning, I woke feeling slightly woozy and a little tired. I also had an urgent need. I ended up spending a painful half hour  there. I will spare you the details. Nausea was not alone in keeping me company, though. I wanted to stay a bit longer, but was informed that might lead to some worse pain.

"Honey, I am sorry you feel so sick, but you'll feel better when it's all over with and we're married," Marcie said through the door.

"Great!" I thought. She believes I am faking illness or suffering from nerves.

As if to test me, Marcie proceeded to cook a hearty, massive breakfast for us, the last thing I wanted at that point. I poked at my eggs, ate my toast and drank my orange juice, and tried to avoid looking at the bacon, whose usual greasy, salty goodness was vaguely, nauseatingly repellent to me. She noticed.

"Frank," she said, clattering her fork. "Would you eat your goddamn food? I swear, you are being such a baby. This is what you wanted, too, right? Or were you just trying to appease me? No, tell me so I don't get my hopes up and end up left at the altar, because I swear that will be the end for us."

I looked up at her and I croaked, "Honey, I am just sick. I think the chicken did it. I don't want to cancel our wedding, I just don't feel well. I'll be fine, though."

"Yeah, the chicken did it," she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her fork angrily on the plate. "You only had one bite of that fucking chicken, I watched you, so don't tell me you were poisoned from that little bit

But my temperature climbed, reaching 102 that afternoon as I finished packing. I tried a cool shower, adding a good half hour to my considerable time in the facilities for the day. No dice. Later, I even had to invade and take over the kennel's bathroom when we dropped Seamus off, and spent a good 15 minutes there. Things were getting worse.

"Stop it," Marcie said under her breath, her ferocious glare and tight lips showing her at the end of her rope with me. "You need to buck up and be my man, not wimp out and play sick. And if you are sick, you need to try to get it under control."

So it went. Eventually, she realized this was not playing sick. But by that time, we were in the air. She was pleased to be on the way and overwhelmed with giddiness, and that change in her attitude opened her eyes. Maybe I was sick, after all.

As she looked over at me on the plane, she leaned in and whispered, "Oh, honey, you are sweating so much," she said. "Are you okay?"

I squeezed her hand and was more relieved that she realized I was not faking my illness than concerned with telling her I was sick again.

"I'll be okay, honey," I whispered. "I think the sweat is because my body is fighting it off."

The second we were in the terminal, I went into the bathroom. I took time to, after my more urgent need, wash my face and make myself presentable. I was very pale and remained so for the whole trip, as the wedding video shows. But when I came out, she took my hand and squeezed it, kissed me and leaned into my chest, and I knew she understood how sick I was.

We had a wonderful night despite my illness, and gambled a bit to boot. We came out $200 ahead, but I demurred on visiting the steak house we had planned to. She understood. But my illness would interfere with other activities, which her little notes remind me of. Those, I will post tomorrow.

F.

A tough time to wed (Pt. 4)

So, having relinquished my say in the venue, it soon became apparent that Marcie was not sure when and where she wanted to marry. She vacillated between Vegas and the chapel in Hillcrest until the last few days.

"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."

I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.

I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.

"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."

However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.

"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.

She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.

"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."

I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.

"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"

She glared.

"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."

"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."

I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.

"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.

I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.

I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.

Moments I miss more and more

I was standing in line at Lalo’s Tacos this afternoon when I was hit by a flood of memories regarding lunch and my Marcie. I have detailed how very in love we remained throughout our relationship and our marriage, and lunch was one of the things we tried to do together from time to time, usually treating them as “minidates.”

This habit, of course, was more often indulged after I developed a liking for seeing Marcie in her work clothes. But it had always been a feature of our life together. I remember days at Anthony’s on the bay, looking into her blue eyes and holding her hand on or under the table as we ate.

She sometimes complained that I was not talking much. I would sometimes just start complimenting her, which pleased her greatly, or playing “footsie” on her silky legs, which tickled. But I usually just told her what was in my heart.

“We don’t need to talk,” I would say. “I’m just happy to get to see you.”

One discussion of this kind that we had, at Lalo’s in particular, came to mind today. I had called her to meet me as I tended to their ad in San Diego CityBeat. I did not like my job, as much as I loved CityBeat, and was pining for a return to the writing career I’d had to abort for practical reasons.

“Honey, why are you being so quiet?” she asked, practically throwing her taco onto her plate. “I gave up lunch with a friend that I had planned for weeks to come be with you.”

She was not interested in my stock distractions, my stock (if very sincere) answer, or the kiss I gave when I leaned over, to quiet her. She pushed me away, back into the seat across from her.

“No, honey,” she said. “You ask me to come to lunch with you and then you don’t talk to me, you don’t say anything, we just eat. What’s the point? It’s like we’re going through the motions when we eat together. It’s crazy.”

I looked across the table at her and thought about it. I had my reasons, but generally I thought she understood and things like this could go unsaid. In truth, I was a little hurt, and maybe it showed.

“Well,” I said. “Mostly, I call you because I want to be with you, and I need to share some time with you during the week when I work. You just make me happy and proud to have you.”

I tried to touch her hand and she pulled it away, giving me her stern and impatient glare, as if I had not told her enough. I just folded my hands together and looked down, and sighed.

“Sometimes, though, I really just need to be with you, and it doesn’t matter that we don’t talk or we eat and smile and chitchat, or maybe we have a little rest on a park bench,” I said. “I just need to see you, so I know why I put up with it all and why I do things I don’t want to. It’s because I want you in my life and happy more than I want all the other little things I think are important to me.”

I was gulping a little and I waited a few seconds to continue. She took my hand and I blinked a little as I looked up in her eyes. I composed myself as she squeezed my hand and rubbed it, nodding in her very understanding way.

“Sometimes I don’t want to keep on doing what I do, or being here in San Diego, or trying to squeeze an extra buck out of my job,” I said. “But all it takes is to see you, and my hard day is a little easier and my heart’s a little lighter, because I know I only have to make it through a few more hours and I can be with you.”

She leaned across the table, kissed my cheek and then my lips, then slid out of the bench and walked to the restroom, purse in tow. I watched her go, and then wondered if she was going to leave with a plate of food on the table. Maybe I hadn’t said enough, or maybe I had hit the wrong nerve.

She slid into the seat next me and kissed my cheek, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it between us. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I understand completely. I’m glad I came.”

She never sat across from me again, but always sat next to me after that, and we didn’t speak much more at lunch, but we smiled a lot, and we acted a bit like teenagers while we waited for our food. I always felt revived, enlivened by her.

Today, as I sat in the bench table where we had that talk, I realized that I really don’t have that same big reason to deal with it all that used to. Still, I imagined she was there having her fish tacos and chattering about her workmates, flicking her long red hair back and playing footsie.

It didn’t work. There was no loaded silence we came to enjoy together. There was no sweet Marcie voice, just the chatter of a dozen people I did not know. There was only the taste of a stripped-down grilled chicken burrito, not her lips or her neck. There was the feel of my boot scratching an itch on my shin and then my hand rubbing and soothing away the soreness of last night’s run, not her little foot sliding up my calf or our socked feet playing footsie.

And in the context of her vast absence, it all just hurt.