[Style Mantra]

Part 1: The beginning

He came into my life twice.

The first time was when I was a topless dancer at a strip joint. I was 21 years old, he was 29 and married. Not exactly the beginning of a breathless romance novel, but it's my real story.

He tells me years later he remembers that I was wearing a red dress and I had the finest ass in the club. I only remember him tipping me on stage & asking me to come to his table later. I did one table dance for him and he bought me a drink. He started tipping me regularly and became a familiar face. He made me laugh.

He still does, seventeen years later.

He also broke my heart.

Alma, I am sure, was never a topless dancer. And when she met Demos, I am certain he was not married. He was handsome and intelligent. His eyes twinkled when he smiled at her. Her face would glow back. He made her laugh. Their laughter carried them through many tough times over the years, to be sure.

Demos never broke Alma's heart, either.

[Style Mantra]

Part 2: We meet for coffee

Letting go in pieces. Holding on in pieces.

A week ago I was in his bed.

A month ago, he was in mine.

Four months ago, I was crying in his arms.

Six months ago, I found out about her.

Eleven months ago, I was moving to another city to begin my new life with him.

Seventeen months ago, he told me he had never stopped loving me.

Eighteen months ago, we reunited in a hotel room.

Seventeen years ago we met. Had I known then the significance of our first encounter, I often wonder what I might have done differently. He loved me when I was hurting, and remained a true and faithful friend. I always saw something so beautiful and gentle in him, and yet so torn. I see now that I saw only myself.

Today he text messaged me, asking me if I'd like to meet for coffee. I got there before he did, and while I was browsing through books, I saw him walk in, look around, and leave. I followed him outside, watching him search for his cell phone in his car to call me. And when he saw me across the parking lot, he smiled.

The coffee was good. He still makes me laugh.

Rain clouds were gathering as I drove home from Starbucks today. His warm kiss still lingering on my lips. I began thinking about Alma & Demos, wondering how they met. What were their stolen moments like? Did Alma reflect on intimate memories of her husband, after he died? Did his presence linger in her soul, like this damn kiss on my lips?

[Style Mantra]

Part 3: The letter

March 1990

Dear L_,

I hope this letter doesn't bore you. I'm afraid I don't have a gift for words such as you. First of all, don't panic, this is not a love letter. These are just a few thoughts that I had in my head, that I wanted to give some substance to. And besides, since you don't have a phone, I might need to get used to doing this more.

I found Saturday very pleasing, thanks to you and A_. Your son is as beautiful and enchanting as his mother. I have to admit, I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't sure if I would be spending the evening with L_ or Candi , the fantasy. I know that sounds strange, but I'll fumble through an explanation.

You see, I don't really see what goes on at [the club] as being reality. Now mind you, this is strictly a patron's point of view. As a man, I'll be the first to admit that my perception is limited, but it would seem that reality begins and ends at [the club's] door. There is companionship, conversation, alcohol, and ***ual fantasies. Hell, if you were to pour all this into a big mixing bowl, you'd have all the ingredients for male bonding. Not always a pretty sight, but necessary for true masculinity. You'll notice it in A_ as he gets older. It usually starts very subtle, with little things like belching or scratching your butt in public, but that's another story in itself.

Now, male bonding is something I know about, because I have on occasion attempted to seal the bonds between my brothers and myself through drunken womanizing. But strictly in the spirit of brotherhood. I guess you may be able to appreciate it, if you were to imagine partying with a bunch of men who had Baryshnikov's butt. But nonetheless, these things aren't tangible or lasting, just like [the club].

Well, enough philosophy, back to Saturday. A_ is adorable, and I feel I have a better appreciation of Kermit & Miss Piggy. I also feel that Fozz E. Bear is misunderstood by society. I have to admit that I found you much more beautiful in this setting.

Okay, I'm going to get somewhat serious here for a second. I promise not to make it a habit. I admire you. And I am attracted to you both mentally & physically. But the reality of the situation is that you know very little about me, just as I know little about you. I just feel that when things can move at a slow, natural pace, you not only can take time to observe it, you can enjoy it.

What I am offering you is friendship, that I promise to nurture and care for, companionship, some laughs to ease the tension, an ear to bend, a shoulder to cry on, and a few words that I hope will make the day a little brighter. Don't get me wrong, I have desires for you, but things you enter fast usually end faster and with more regrets.

So I really want us to get together again real soon. Besides, you gotta admit, I am kind of cute.

-R

[Style Mantra]

Part 4: Peeling beer labels and folding napkins

He grew on me.

I don't have many distinct memories of our first encounters. He was just another customer, though I rarely made money sitting at his table. He would buy me drinks, and we would talk. I mostly remember him making me laugh, and that conversation came easy. His voice was sincere and honest, with a hint of a boyish smile always on his lips. He had a sweet and gentle way that invited my trust.

After a few drinks with him, he often would urge me to leave and go make some money. Working clubs and hustling table dances never came naturally to me, and I had to work up a good buzz before walking up to some lonely, mildly creepy guy and make him feel that I was completely hot for him. As I would work the evening, I would periodically glance over at him from across the room, and he would be grinning back at me. I began to feel that he somehow felt protective of me, and that endeared me to him. It never bothered me that he was married, there were plenty of married customers, and I had heard every story. Mostly, I found that men go to strip clubs for the attention of a pretty girl. Few, I believed, seek overt ***ual favors. I now think I might have been very wrong about that. For a stripper, I was pretty naive.

Our conversations became more intimate as time progressed. I smile now, when I think of how as I chatted away, he would carefully peel the labels off of his beer bottles. And I had this habit (still do) of fidgeting with a napkin, folding it, and folding it again, and again, until it's a tiny, thick square. Open it up, lay it flat & do it all over again. He had a way of noticing things. One night while I was sitting at his table, he handed me a napkin. Without thinking, I began folding. A few beers and a limp napkin later, he handed me another. He just smiled that knowing smile of his & I took the napkin and began my ritual again.

He never said a word.

Yet, whenever I sat with him, he would always hand me a napkin, his eyes smiling.

[Style Mantra]

Part 5: The lemon thingy

Today I visited Alma's & Demos' garden for lunch. Here lately, I prefer being left alone, declining lunch invitations from co-workers. My mother thinks I'm clinically depressed. I'm not, just sad. There is a difference. My therapist says I'm vulnerable, and that I have been severely traumatized emotionally and spiritually.

I have to agree with my shrink.

He has professionally advised me to have no romantic relationships for twelve months. I've been assigned a mission to discover myself, set boundaries, and learn to trust my inner voice. Month one begins when I can let go of the man I am in love with, the man who has nearly destroyed me. I'm not there, yet. Especially considering that our encounter at Starbucks the other day led to a two-night sleepover. It started when he began text-messaging me later that evening. I had teased him earlier over coffee about not sharing his lemon pastry with me. At the time, he seemed sincerely and adorably apologetic, and it made me laugh.

I got the text at 9:16 p.m.: "Drinking coffee in the afternoon, bad idea."

Me: "Are you having trouble winding down?"

Him: "Yes, went 2 work 2 surf the net but cleaning crew there."

Me: "Poor baby:)"

Him: "What r u doing?"

Me: "Surfing. Jealous?"

Him: "yes"

Me: "Good. I was jealous of your lemon thingy. So there."

Him: "Karma's a bitch!"

I laughed out loud at his last message, and laid the phone down. I think often how it should be different. He is still my best friend and my soul mate, despite everything. Or so I keep telling myself. About 30 minutes later, I got another text message:

"Look on ur porch."

I looked. A brown Starbucks bag was sitting on my patio chair. I already knew what what inside.

I imagine he knew I would call him back and ask him out for a beer to wind down. The same way I didn't have to open the Starbucks bag to know what was inside. He stayed the night. And the next. Today he is out of town on business, and with her. Today I had lunch with Alma and Demos. When I came back from lunch, I Googled the name of Alma's & Demos' only son, who must be in his 70's by now.

Surprisingly, he lives only about five miles from where I work.

[Style Mantra]

Part 6: Sunday after church

After church Sunday, I drove to the son's house. I am not sure what I was expecting, except that Sunday, I felt restless.

I confirmed through a public data source that he was in his mid 70's, and possibly living with one of his three daughters. My thoughts raced during my drive to his house. What would I tell him? That I hung out at his parent's grave during lunch? That I was fixated on these two dead people? That I was looking for answers? What made me think that his story would enlighten me? And what on Earth would he say back to me? Would my intrusion even be welcomed? Was he too old? Sick? What about his daughter?

Breathe...

It'll come. And what happens, happens. My heart stilled, reflecting on this.

He lives in a sweet neighborhood, an older neighborhood, lined with big, thick trees. The branches formed canopies over the streets, and I thought of my grandmother. She lives in a neighborhood like this. When I pulled onto his street, I saw the house. The numbers were on his mailbox and easy to recognize. I pulled up to the side of the road. My chest fluttered hard. Grabbing my purse, I carefully got out of my car and walked up towards the door. Steady.

It was a bit of a sad house, somewhat neglected, with chipped paint over the garage doors and trim. Dated. The grass - several weeks past due a good mowing. An old blue Chevy Malibu parked in front, not driven in some time, judging by the dried leaves stuck in the wiper blades, and debris wedged underneath the car's tires. But something made me smile. Amidst this old house, I saw the remnants of a garden. A rose bush, nearly camouflaged entirely by weeds, was in full, pink bloom. There was a bird bath and several wind chimes. Rusting, but still...

It seemed reminiscent of a happier time. Perhaps of when someone was around to care for the garden. I wondered who. I walked to the door and rang the doorbell. A dried up wasp nest hung overhead, and I faintly smelled urine. A cat? I waited, and rang again. The door mat was still soggy from the rain the night before. A small garden shovel plunged deeply in a flower pot to the right of the door. A pile of sticks? I thought of small children. Still, I waited. Dark green curtains hung from behind the window directly next to the door. How many faces peered through those curtains with discerning eyes? Finally, I walked back to my car to write a note. I found a pink index card, and wrote a quick message. I assured him (and the family) that I was researching love and relationships and had a special interest in his parents and would love to hear some of his childhood stories. I ended the note with "please call me..."

I walked back to the house and tucked the note in the glass screened door. Perhaps it was my imagination. Or perhaps it was the gentle suction of the door. The curtains moved softly.

Driving home, I knew I would never hear from Alma's & Demo' son. And maybe it's best.

[Style Mantra]

Part 7: Rage

Today I struggle with love.

My heart is burning with sheer rage. You are winning this battle today, but not the war. I am sick and once agan, need to vomit you from my mind. You worthless piece of shit.

I wish I had never met you.

Not a year and a half ago. Not eighteen years ago.

What did I ever do to you? What!? I did not deserve this, and you certainly did not deserve me. You shred me to pieces, chewed me up, and spit me out. You deserve the whore that exists only in your mind. The gaping hole that has no face, no heart, no soul, but who will spiritually suck your addiction to your hearts content, draining you of any real substance.

A parasite, you leech on to my heart because you don't have one to call your own. You tried to turn my soul as black as yours. You very nearly succeeded the day I took the pills. But I am better than that. I will survive this, and I will still hold love in my heart for all that is good and glorious in the world. You will not take that away from me!

You worthless piece of shit.

No, you did not deserve me. Not one tiny bit.

[Style Mantra]

Part 8: Peace

The storm has subsided.

Last night I dreamt sweet dreams of love, his warm, strong arms, his sweet promises in my ear.

"You are so precious to me."

"I will protect your heart."

"I am home with you."

"I will kiss your wrinkles when you are 80."

"I will love you always."

"You are my soul mate."

"I will never hurt you, baby."

"I love you...I love you...I love you..."

I woke up, still glowing from the warmth of his touch. My dream so real, I could feel his breath still on my neck, his words and caresses still burning my skin. We made love in a hazy, sensual fog, and he looked down at me, kissing me tenderly on my mouth. His weight heavy against my thighs, his hands cupped my face as if to draw me in, as I drew him intimately into me. His hushed voice still echoed against my ear as I opened my eyes.

Then it hit me.

All over again. Like a punch in my stomach, sending me reeling, clutching stomach and ******, aching for reprieve. Mornings are hardest for me.

"Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heal that has crushed it." - Mark Twain

My war is not against him, or even his demons. My armor mirrors back to me only what I present before it.

Today I will choose love and forgiveness.