Carol Ch. 04

He smiled. That picture had once been the most precious thing he owned. Now it was only a reminder of what he had lost.

He took it from its frame, closed his eyes, and after many seconds, he took a breath and tore it in half. And then again, and then again. He tore the smaller picture up without looking at it.

He looked through all the other things that the box held: the calendar where he had marked their first meetings with little hearts; a journal he had written for her, but which she had never read; a sheaf of love poems he had written, which she had. Her fishnet body stocking. A card she gave him, ticket stubs from every movie they had seen together, even a paperclipped bundle of "Love Is..." cartoons that he had cut out from the paper for her.

And at the bottom, her letter. The one that she had written back to him, so long before, the letter that had changed his life and made him whole again. He put it all back in the box and wiped his eyes. It was time to let it go.

While he was strong and resolute, he took the box and carried it downstairs. He took it to the dumpster behind his apartment and threw it in before he could stop and think, then turned and went upstairs again without looking back.

He called her office then and left another message, apologizing for his last, and told her that she had nothing to fear. He had torn that picture up and thrown it away--along with her other picture, and everything else that he had kept. And he promised, once again, to leave her alone. And then he did. Almost.

----

A year passed, then two, then three.

There was no more pain. He had finally put it behind him, and was content to leave it where it was.

He lived alone, still, and didn't date. He was approaching 60, anyway; he preferred to be alone, and though he still found pictures of naked women on the Net that looked like Carol, he rarely thought of her consciously.

He was, at last, at peace. He still sent her an email now and then; on her birthday, sometimes just on impulse. You can't call it harassment if it's only once or twice a year, he thought.

He understood. She wanted to forget him, as if he never was. She had cheated on her husband with him, and regretted it, and wanted to forget that that had ever happened. He understood.

He didn't want her back--or that's what he told himself, and it worked. He looked back on it now--the friendship, the passion, the sex, everything--with pleasure and a quiet gratitude. There was no more ache, no darkness. He was lucky to have had her while he did.

They could never have been married. That marriage could not have lasted a year. They were made to be lovers, and they were--at her first blossoming, and her last.

He wondered what she looked like now. Sometimes he looked her up on the Net, just from curiosity, and one day he found a recent picture.

She had gained a lot of weight, and looked the almost-60 matron and grandmother that she was. She smiled out from the picture, plump and happy. The sparkle in her sea-green eyes was still there.

Would he go to her again, if she called him? He smiled. In a New York minute, he thought.

He hoped she was as happy as she looked. He didn't download the picture.

Peace to her, he thought. And that means leave her alone.

----

One day--another year had passed, or two--he found she had changed jobs again. Curious, he looked up her new company.

A chill ran down his spine. Her office was less than two short blocks from where he lived and worked.

He felt dizzy. Two minutes' walk and he could see her, face to face.

Out of the question, of course. He would not be welcome. Still, though--things happen for a reason, don't they? He would let her know, and see what happened then.

He knew she probably deleted his emails unread. He decided to send her a card, at her office that was so near. He found one, a silly gag card, and prepared to write a note in it.

He wanted a response, and then remembered; she had lent him some money once. He would enclose a $100 bill and pay her back.

He grinned. That should get her attention, he thought.

"Dear Carol,

"You lent me this a long time ago, and I just remembered it. I feel bad that I never paid you back, so here it is.

"I just discovered that your office is only a few blocks from where I live and work. If you'd ever like to have a cup of coffee with an old friend sometime, just let me know."

He wrote down his email and signed it simply, "Charlie."

He was surprised to see a reply in his inbox the very next day. The mail didn't take long to deliver a block and a half away, he thought. He clicked on it, hopeful.

The entire message consisted of eight words:

"Do not contact me again under any circumstances."

There was no signature.

He was saddened, but not shocked. He nodded. "I always told you I'd do anything you asked me, Carol," he said aloud, to no one. "And you never asked me this before, not straight out like that."

He smiled sadly. "If that's what you want from me, love of my life, then it is yours. No question.

"Goodbye, Carol. Be well."

And he deleted her message.

----

And so this story ends. He thinks of her from time to time, and always fondly, but he has not emailed her since nor tried to get in touch in any other way.

When it occurs to him, he smiles and thinks, Peace to her. Let her forget.

I won't.

--------

And now, perhaps, neither will you.

So was this a happy ending? I can't say. It ended as it ended. It is not, at least, a tragedy, I think, at least for me. I have known love unimaginable, and pain unbearable--twice, each--and now I have my own, peculiar, peace. I am content.

I will admit that there has been more agony than joy woven into this fabric of my life. But that joy was--

Well. You have read of it.

I will tell you this:

Even today, this minute, even knowing all I know, and having been through all I have--

I would do it all again.

Yes.

Yes, I would.

She was that special.

Thank you for reading.