Let It Be Me

You didn't expect that either. But what could you do? Confronting Lyle wasn't an option--Amy didn't appear as if she wanted you to anyway. Heroism only went so far. You had her phone number and she had encouraged you to call. There was nothing else to say. Well, there was, but you didn't want any trouble, didn't want to piss off Amy and thereby reduce your chances of ever seeing her again. Not to mention the risk of Lyle going physical on you. The guy seemed to have a warped sense of chivalry, but that was his problem, not yours. Nevertheless, you couldn't resist asking, "What happened to let it be me?"

Amy's dour expression told you that she could have done without your comment. "Neil...please. Let me handle this."

You knew it was game over, at least for the time being. Elbow resting atop the car door, you flashed her a fake smile and said, "Sorry, no problem. Take care."

'If something seems too good to be true, it probably is,' you thought on the way home. You had this aching, sinking feeling in the pit of your gut, the kind of feeling that comes with letdown. Your once euphoric mood had been smashed to smithereens. She HAD to have a fucking boyfriend. There was always a glitch, always a catch, always a hurdle when it came to women. Amy had a boyfriend, and it didn't appear as if she was about to drop him. Maybe she really liked possessive guys, despite what she said. Or, more likely, the way you interpreted what she said. You thought of tearing up the paper she wrote her number on. Love triangles weren't for you. On the other hand, being honest with yourself, you'd regret doing that. This girl had too many qualities you were looking for.

So, not knowing what to expect, you called, and from the word go, from the flat, insouciant tone of her voice, you knew you'd never see this girl again.

"Hi Neil, what's up?"

"Um, nothing much. You said to give you a call."

After a long pause, she said, "Yeah, I did. Look, I think you're a really nice guy. And I had a nice time with you last week. But...I'm still seeing Lyle and don't want to complicate my life by seeing someone else at this time. I hope you can understand."

"Yeah, I guess so. But why did you lead me on the way you did?"

"Neil, I don't think I led you on. We had just met."

"Amy, you led me to believe that we'd see each other again. I mean, you even gave me your phone number. Not to mention that we necked like crazy, made-out like I was your boyfriend, or at least your future boyfriend. Anybody in my position would have expected to see you again."

You could hear her sigh before she said this: "Neil, I enjoyed your company, both in Yesteryear and especially what we did in the car. And I gave you my number in good faith. But--"

"Always the damn but."

"But, it's like I said, I can't complicate my life by seeing two people at once. I'm really sorry. Don't mean to hurt you."

Of course, she did, though you weren't about to whine. "Okay, have a good life," you said, and drove off.

"I shouldn't be so depressed," you said out loud, driving home. You'd been with her just one time. Not even a date. Sure, you were smitten but you weren't in love with the girl. You were rational enough to see that.

You felt "heartbroken," you told Eric the next day.

He tried to put things in perspective. "She didn't break your heart, she broke your spirit," he said. "Knocked the wind out of you. But you'll get over it. There's lots of chicks out there, and they don't all have boyfriends. Apparently, it wasn't meant to be. Don't let it get you down."

What Eric said made sense. Still, it did get you down, and you felt the wind that Amy knocked out of you wouldn't return so easily. You moped, moped at your internship and around your apartment. Got down on yourself for feeling sorry for yourself.

Then, the following Friday night, you answered your doorbell, and there stood Amy Coren, wearing jeans and a pink halter top, standing at your door, tears flowing down her adorable cheeks. You were speechless. An aberration, you thought. Amy Coren, who 'broke your spirit,' standing before you, crying and reaching out to you.

"Okay, I was wrong," she said between sobs. "I screwed up. But more than that, I missed you."

"How did you know where I--"

"I looked it up. Saw your name in the book. Got your apartment number from the mailbox in the hall." She began crying again. "Can I come in? Please?"

You hugged her when she stepped into the living room. You were awash in mixed feelings. She hurt you, and you were pissed about that. But you found her too hot to throw her out. Yes, you were still smitten. You noticed that her retro hairstyle was gone, morphed into a more modern look--straight down to just below her shoulders, parted in the middle.

You asked her about Lyle. "I'm no longer seeing him," she claimed. "After you left, we talked things out. We made plans for this weekend, for tonight and tomorrow night. But, by midweek, I was an emotional mess. I missed you terribly and kicked myself for ruining a potentially good thing between you and me. You made quite an impression on me, Neil, more than you probably know."

You didn't trust her. You didn't think she was playing games, you just thought she was fickle. But here she was, in your apartment, red-eyed and upset because you made 'quite an impression,' because she ruined a 'potentially good thing.' You offered her a beer. "Would love one," she said, "and it doesn't matter what brand."

You brought two Coors from the fridge, then sat with her on the sofa. Then you asked how she broke up with Lyle. "I called him," she revealed. "It wasn't easy. In fact, he stormed over to the house. He stood on the porch, pleading with me to reconsider. Sweet-talked me. Told me he loved me. When that didn't work, he got nasty. Called me a prick teaser, among other lovely names. He even threatened my dad when he wouldn't let him in. He's one of these guys who can be so sweet one minute and then turn around and be this scary person you want to get away from. Very possessive, like I said."

You took a couple swigs, pondering all this, wondering if she was for real. Then you said, "Amy, I'm still not sure why you came over here. I mean, if it's to see me, how can I trust you not to waylay me like you did last week? Either by going back with Lyle or someone else."

She nodded. "You can't. I, I mean you can't right away. Trust is earned, I know, and I must earn your trust. Listen, I have no ulterior motive for being here. It took all the courage I had to come. For all I knew, you'd slam the door in my face. You might not believe this, but I dreamt about you last night. You were running away from me, and I couldn't catch up. Every time I got close, you sprinted away. That dream told me something."

"And what's that?"

"That saying goodbye to you on the phone was a big mistake. And that...that I belong with you. For how long, I have no idea. I just..." She fanned her face, blinking back tears, struggling not to break down again. "I just want you to give me another chance. It's a lot to ask, I know. But can you try?"

Try? You didn't have to try. There was no way you were going to tell her to get lost. Maybe you should, you thought, if for no other reason than to avoid getting hurt again. You felt this way before calling her after dropping her off last week. You took a chance and look what happened. Her words still echoed in your head: 'I can't complicate my life by seeing two people at once...' You were the odd man out, the guy who complicated things. You didn't want to go into a relationship looking over your shoulder, always on guard against being dropped again. On the other hand, she was practically begging you to give her another chance. She seemed sincere. But the only way to know for sure was to give her that chance. You thought, 'we all make mistakes in life, don't we?'

You took another swig, then quoted a well-known line of poetry: "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' That's Shakespeare, I believe."

She took another swig, then said, "Actually, it's Tennyson, although people often associate it with Shakespeare. It's from a long poem. I read it once but can't remember a single line from it but that one."

"You like poetry?"

"I do. Well, some of it. You?"

"I haven't given it much of a chance," you admitted.

"Well, maybe that's one thing we can do together. I bet I can turn you on to some of that stuff. Lyle made this bitter pill face when I told him I read poetry."

"Okay, I'll keep an open mind," you said.

She began to rub your shoulder. "I figured you would, figured you were that kind of guy. Now, would it be too much trouble for you to kiss me? I hope you're not so pissed at me that you can't kiss me."

Like she had to ask. Because when it came to Amy Coren, resistance wasn't an option. And so, you placed your bottle on the coffee table, then she did the same, and then you got into it. You closed your eyes, opened them only to peak, to see if hers were closed also. They were. Then you closed your eyes again and began to relax, began to enjoy this wonderful human being, one that had hurt you, yes, but one you couldn't resist, not with her obvious charms, her lovely, compact body, her soft lips and her wonderful scent, intoxicating in all its fruity glory.

"You kiss me like you mean it," you said, when you came up for air.

"I'm glad you noticed," she said in faux annoyance. "Because I sure as hell do mean it!"

You got back into it, feeling more confident, feeling the anger you once felt dissipating with every heavy breath and moan. In the car, you thought of ripping her clothes off like some stud in a cheesy romance novel. Now you could--or at least you had the room to as opposed to the tight confines of your Caprice. She beat you to the punch, sliding her hands under your T-shirt and then lifting it off. She didn't wait for you to do the same. No, she threw off her blouse, then unsnapped her bra and said, "In case you're wondering, I want you to make love to me. Don't worry, I'm protected."

"Follow me," you said, and she did, into your carpeted bedroom where you both wasted little time in getting naked. Apologetically, you said, "I'm not built like Lyle. Hope you like what you see."

You watched her eyes dance over your bare form, from your size nine feet to your six-pack abs. "Hey, there's lots to be said for lean and mean," she said. "And you are, you certainly are. Mmm." Her eyes paused at a certain level. "Also, as if it needed to be said, you have a nice piece of equipment down there."

Your 'nice piece of equipment' was rising as you did your own eye-dancing. Seeing her this way took you back to Yesteryear and that cute outfit she wore. You could see then what a beautiful athletic body she had underneath her clothing, firm and compact, a typical gymnast's body which included, as you now got to feel as well as see, a firm and adorable booty to match. And now that body stood before you, ready and willing to meld with your 'lean and mean' self in a most intimate way.

You held and kissed her, and then slid under the thin covers of your twin-sized bed. You played with her hair as you kissed her again, first on her lips and then in other places, including her breasts, small but oh so firm, and then onto her tummy, pancake flat yet soft to the touch. You had always wondered what a female gymnast's body felt like and here you were, on top of one, stroking and licking her sensitive places, including her thighs, muscular in the deliciously feminine way that strong female thighs tend to be. "I bet you're quite a good tumbler," you said.

She giggled. "I'm okay. But you should see my vaulting."

'You're fast vaulting yourself into my heart,' you thought, as you slipped between her sexy gymnast's legs. Looking up, you asked, "Are you cool with me doing this?"

She sat up and said, "I don't know a girl who wouldn't be."

It was all systems go and go you did, determined to give her the best oral you knew how to give. From the sounds she was making, the moans and groans, she was indeed cool with what you were doing. "Ohmygod, yes, yes! You're so incredibly good at this!"

Any doubts you might have harbored about pleasing her sexually got shredded in that incendiary moment. You had the "right" equipment--she had said so herself--and now the confidence to please her in the manner that she obviously wanted to be pleased. "Oh my, Neil, I can't get enough of you!" she cried the moment you slipped inside her. "What a terrific lover you are."

"And what a terrific girl you are," you said, looking down at her pretty face, the beads of sweat on her forehead, her warm smile, her blue eyes opening and closing, her loins thrusting in sync with yours. You knew you could climax any second if you chose to do so. But you didn't, because you somehow found the discipline to hold off, hoping she'd climax with you--or at least climax, never mind the timing. You couldn't bring an ex-girlfriend of yours to orgasm no matter how hard you tried. Would there be a repeat of that frustrating experience here? Amy soon disabused you of that notion, much to your gratification, if not relief.

Afterward, you lay snuggled in each other's arms, trading light kisses and words of affection. If you weren't yet in love, you were at least hopelessly enamored, especially after hearing things like this: "Neil, I have a feeling that this is just the beginning of something wonderful between us. And maybe it's too early to tell, but it damn well feels like it. Now it's my turn to say, let it be me."

And you did. Instead of kicking her out, thoughts that once crossed your mind, you gave her the chance she practically begged you to give. She wanted to stay the night, and that was fine with you. You thought it was cute the way she called her parents to tell them. "They'd worry about me if I didn't," she told you. "If it was spending the night with Lyle after the way he acted, they'd worry about me more. They trust you."

She'd been right. That amazing night was indeed just the beginning of something wonderful between you and her. Sure, the sex was great, but so were the other things, the things you did and saw, dining out, watching movies, going to rock concerts or just hanging out. She made good on the poetry. Not totally your thing but some of those lines from Emily Dickenson and Robert Frost moved you in ways you never thought that sort of literature could.

You thought seriously of marrying this girl. When you're young and in love, the idea of spending the rest of your life with someone crosses your mind. You and she talked about it, even talked about the house you'd buy and how many kids you might want. Serious talk for a guy not yet established in a career and a girl still in school. But, as you knew even then, the most well-intentioned plans can get derailed as this one did.

Come summer, you both decided you needed a break from each other. She went to Europe for a few weeks and you to California for a month-long writing seminar. You both agreed that if it was meant to be, you'd stay together. However, upon returning, the flame, while not dead, had cooled. On some level, the love was still there but you both realized that you were too young to be tied down with one person. While away, you both met other people. Nothing serious, but it whet your appetite to explore. You met other women, she other men. In time, you lost touch.

'It's never over till it's over,' Yogi Berra famously said. In your case, it WAS over between you two. For decades it was over.

*****

So now, it's years later and you're out and about on a warm September afternoon in the parking lot of a suburban big box store. You're backing up, and so is another driver and then, BUMP. You back into each other, you in your Honda CRV, the other driver in a Subaru Forrester. You were going too slow to cause any damage beyond marks on the bumpers. Nevertheless, you step from your car and then over to the driver's window to see if she's okay, still not knowing who the hell you ran into. When she puts her window down, you both freeze. Then you say, "Holy crap, what are the odds?!"

Some people never change. Well, never change beyond recognition, and that's the case with Amy Coren. Same lovely cheek bones. A few more freckles and a few wrinkles around the eyes. Gray-brown hair that she hasn't bothered to cut. You've lost lots of hair but that doesn't keep her from recognizing you. "Neil Kirchner. I don't believe it. You're the first person I ever ran into that I literally ran into."

"Not like it was at Yesteryear, is it?"

She chuckles. "Um, no. Far from it. She steps from her car. "Any damage?"

You run your hands along both bumpers. "Not that I can see."

For a woman in her sixties, she looks damn good in that yellow strapless dress she wears with red sandals. Her legs are plumper and show veins that weren't visible years ago, but they still look good, firm and shapely. What must she be thinking of the way you look--if she's thinking about that at all--in your late middle age? Then you find out when she says, "You look like you're still swimming. Look at you, still slim and trim."

"Thanks, but no swimming," you say, tugging at the waistband of your white shorts. "If I never swim another lap again, it will be too soon. I've gone from the pool to the bike, riding metric centuries on weekends, weather willing."

Soon, you're trading brief summations of your lives. She's divorced and has three grown kids. You're divorced with two grown kids. You're both still working but see retirement just down the block. "And in case you're wondering," she says, "I didn't marry Lyle Whitaker. My last name's now Galante."

It's the first time you've heard Lyle's last name. Lyle Whitaker, the big, intimidating jock you had thought might get physical with you on that Friday night decades ago. You both have a good laugh over that whole thing. Then you say, "You know, I can still see you sitting with your parents, wearing that plaid dress and yellow sweater. I was smitten, you know."

She flashes her still beautiful blue eyes and sweeps back her hair. "I saw you checking me out, wondering when the hell you were going to approach me, hoping you would because I thought you were cute also. And the rest as they say..."

You nod. "And the rest as they say, was one hell of a ride. Until..."

"Until we returned from our summer adventures, got back together but couldn't get back on track. Not unusual for youthful romances, I suppose."

You lower your hazel eyes, feel a wave of sadness rush over you. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"But before that," she reminds you, "it was more intense than any relationship I had before or since. Youthful romances are like that also. White-hot and intense."

You catch her blinking and then brushing away a tear, and there's no way you're going to just stand there. Almost on impulse, you step forward and reach out for a hug and then, much to your delight, you get one. "I miss those days," you say, and she misses them as well, she admits, and then it's almost a fait accompli that closeness follows in the form of one long kiss. For an instant, you get this magical sensation, feeling like that young guy you once were, embracing that young woman she once was.

When you part, after sweeping away more tears, she says this: "You know, Neil, in those movies with sad endings, one or both the characters say, 'it was nice seeing you again. Take care.' Well, I don't know about you, but I don't want that to be us. Not to recapture something that can't be recaptured, not for old time's sake, but just to carry on, to see what happens. I mean, we're not totally different people just because we're older. You might be an old flame, but there's still a flicker burning inside me that never totally died. Are you with me?"