Never Say Never

Richard Edison wakes up the same way he always awakens after dreaming about his ex-girlfriend Juliet Zeboskey—frustrated. It's the same basic dream every time. He and Juliet meet up somewhere, then begin to make-out. Things get hot and heavy, reach a certain point, then it all comes crashing down when something intrudes or, as in this last dream, Juliet simply walks away. "We can't do this," she says. "I'm married and so are you."

Yes, both of them are married and have been for a long time, Juliet since Ford was president, Richard since during the final years of Reagan's presidency. What's unique about these dreams is that they take place in the present but he and Juliet don't look a day older than they did when they met at a college mixer on a snowy, blustery night in January 1969. This latest dream was the most vivid yet. Juliet wore the wool, charcoal dress he remembers so well and some commercial scent he never knew but loved—so deliciously fragrant he could smell it in his sleep.

Now it's a little after six in the morning. He looks over at Robyn, still sleeping, blissfully unaware of her husband's somnolent adventures, including this last one. Both are in their late sixties, both retired. Richard knows he's a lucky guy. He's got good health, a loving wife, kids, grown and prospering, and sound finances. And yet he sometimes longs for those innocent yesterdays with Juliet. His dreams, however vivid and wonderful, haven't given him any illusions of what she looks like today. He's seen her on Facebook, seen aging's normal handiwork, the sags and wrinkles and extra pounds. Of course, he's no young Adonis himself, with his own weight gain, his aches and pains, enlarged prostate and balding pate. At least Juliet still has her hair.

So now what? Another night gone, another dream dreamed and another debate whether he should attempt to contact his first love, the once "cute as a button," Juliet Zeboskey, now Juliet Laghari, married with kids and grandkids and who, if the images and scribblings on her Facebook page are to be believed, happy as punch, giving Richard nary a thought. To her, he's probably no more than a footnote in her life. At best.

He knows what he should do: put the dreams behind him and drop these silly ideas of connecting with Juliet. If he did contact her and Robyn ever found out, look out! Robyn gets cranky if he even mentions the name of a past girlfriend. And yet, Paul Simon's words ring in his head like a clarion call:

A time it was, and what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

What a time it is indeed when you're young and in love for the first time, your emotions soaring above the clouds. Those trips, those incredible trips they took to New York and Colorado and those beach resorts from New Jersey to Nag's Head, tanning their young, nubile bodies during the day and making love at night. There was that great rock concert, three wonderful days of peace and music. No, not the iconic Woodstock, but the one at the Atlantic City Race Track two weeks before those half-million descended on Max Yasgur's farm. He still recalls a few of the acts—Iron Butterfly, Jefferson Airplane, The Mothers of Invention, Canned Heat, Paul Butterfield Blues Band, The Byrds.

They stayed together into their last year of college, talked of future plans, then stopped talking about them. Neither were ready for serious commitment. And so, they drifted apart, went their own way, met other people.

Sporadic contact followed, a few phone calls and then email—only one exchange to be exact—initiated by Richard. They updated each other on the present, leaving the past alone. But it had been awhile—they had traded that lone email at the turn of the millennium. Since then, when some special anniversary of their relationship rolls around, Richard contends himself with reading Juliet's old letters and cards, turning to her Facebook page or, if he's lucky, dreaming.

But this last dream gives Richard a sense of urgency he never had before. He feels the time is right—if the time can ever be right to contact an old flame when you're both married. He and Juliet are empty-nesters, each with grown kids, and each facing the gateway to their seventies, what could be the last decade of their lives. Cheating on Robyn is out of the question. But would it be cheating to message Juliet through Facebook? He thinks not. Robyn wouldn't like it, but then Robyn wouldn't have to know. He gives himself a couple days to think about it, then goes ahead:

Hi Juliet. Hope all is well. To be honest, I've peeked into your Facebook page and it looks as if all is indeed well. Same here. Like you, I'm retired and my kids are out of the house. Robyn and I are empty nesters, just like you and Bradley. Can't believe that two decades have passed since that last email. Would love to hear from you if you are so inclined.

Richard doesn't rate his chances of her responding too high. Why would she? She seems quite content with her life as it is. More important, she doesn't seem to dwell on the past like he does. He keeps his expectations low, a surefire way to avoid major disappointment. But then, hours later, he gets this:

Hi Richard. Great hearing from you. Yes, I'm retired and enjoying life. If you've been following me on Facebook, you already know that we've got four grandkids, two from Shawna and two from Samantha. Our son Vic hasn't yet married and Laura, our other daughter, is still trying. I'm curious—what made you decide to contact me at this time? Is it because next month will mark the fiftieth anniversary of that rock concert at Atlantic City? What a fabulous trip that was! And I don't mean just the concert. Feel free to respond. By the way, since you were honest enough to tell me about seeing my Facebook page, it's only right that I confess to seeing yours, even before you messaged me.

Juliet's "confession" comes as a pleasant surprise. Richard once thought there was no way in hell she cared enough to bother. Should he tell her that it was his dream that prompted him to message her and not the concert? It might scare her away. On the other hand, what's he got to lose? He's curious what her reaction might be.

Juliet - Thanks for that quick reply. I've been thinking about that concert but a recent dream about you is the real catalyst for my message. We were making out somewhere—can't place the venue—and you were wearing that wool charcoal dress, the same dress you wore the night we met. I've dreamed about you before, but this one was particularly vivid. Even in my sleep, I could smell the perfume you always wore. I hope this doesn't scare you off.

Richard - I don't scare that easy. Okay, another confession. You've been in my dreams also through the years. Their theme is similar to the one you describe in that we're together for a brief moment and then we're not. It's like those rock songs that fade at the end. There's no abrupt ending, just a fade-out. A peculiar thing about these dreams is that we're forever young, twenty-year old college kids, but the dreams take place in recent times. Does that mean I long for my long-lost youth? Anyway, if you'd like to get together sometime for a chat over coffee, I'm game. But we need to be discreet. I don't know about your spouse, but mine wouldn't like the idea of me meeting up with an old boyfriend, however innocent. He'd no doubt call it a form of cheating. As you know, he's from India where women can be severely restricted, reduced to near servitude in some Indian cultures. That's hardly the case with me (I wouldn't have stayed married all these years if it was). That said, I can see his point of view. However, I'd be okay with it if the roles were reversed, if Bradley wanted to connect with an old flame, provided, of course, if I thought there was nothing more to it than two people meeting as old friends and nothing more.

Juliet - Robyn wouldn't take it too well either. If I was upfront about it, I'd get no Brownie points for honesty, just a mouthful of accusations. You're right—discretion's the word.

*****

Juliet's married life to Bradley Laghari has hardly been one of servitude. Before her retirement, she worked as an IT specialist for the State earning good money. In addition to raising four kids, she wrote novels on the side, even had one published in e-form by a small Canadian press. She's also published short stories on Amazon and other sites under a nom de plume. Retirement allows her to write even more these days. She's reasonably happy, reasonably fulfilled—reasonably being the key word. She still loves her husband. She also resents him at times. He's shed some of the cultural folkways and ideas of his Indian upbringing, but not all of them. He can be possessive, at times too possessive. He sometimes draws his tight reign a little TOO tight. He wants to know where she's going, who she's meeting and when she'll return. "You want a damn itinerary?" she once snapped.

On this early Tuesday afternoon, she tells him she's going shopping. She wants to tell him the truth but knows the argument that would surely follow. Actually, it's partly true. She buys a pair of shoes at DSW, then heads over to Long Green Creamery, known for their delicious coffee and homemade ice cream. It's located on rural Wilford Road, about a dozen miles from her home. Richard had suggested it because it's one of their old stomping grounds. Hot summer nights would often find them at Long Green, sitting inside Richard's '67 Dodge Dart convertible, sharing a cone or malted shake.

Pulling into the parking lot in her white Honda CR-V, she notices that the building hasn't changed much. It's got the same red, steep slanted roof, with the three gables in front and the French vanilla stucco walls. She pulls down her visor mirror and primps, the same as she did as a young woman. Richard already knows that her shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair is streaked with silver and that she's put on a few pounds. She hopes the yellow and blue, knee-length dress she wears doesn't make her look fat in his eyes. She was once so petite, standing five-foot two, with the "cutest butt," Richard used to say. Her butt has thickened with the years, along with her hips and once slender legs. From her Facebook pics, Richard must have noticed that her overbite is gone, thanks to braces which she got in her early thirties. "My only physical improvement," she chuckles to herself.

She folds the visor back up, alights from her car, then sees a black Mazda Miata pull into the lot, the car Richard had told her to look for. My 'adult toy,' he had said. She watches him park a few spaces away, walks over and greets him with a hug. "Nice to see you. You haven't changed a bit."

"No, and neither have you."

The both laugh, then agree that with age comes a degree of good-natured, self-deprecation that was missing in their youth, when image was indeed everything.

Richard, wearing lose fitting jeans, a green, short-sleeve sports shirt and Sperry Dockers sans socks, stands around five-foot eight and tips the scales at close to one-eighty, around twenty pounds more than he did during his track days in high school and college—not atypical for has-been jocks who let their once jacked bodies slide into a state of semi-disrepair. He asks, "So when were we last here? Together, I mean."

She shakes her head, then glances around at the surrounding farmland, the fields and barbed wire and the cows that graze nearby. "Seventy-one, maybe?"

"Sounds right. I still had the Dart."

She nods. "I remember that car very well. And we didn't just share ice cream in it." She shoots him a comic, naughty look.

He stands there and grins, slowly shakes his head. "Memories that dreams are made of."

She reaches for his hand. "Wonderful memories. Come on, let's go in."

They both like the way the interior's been spruced up with shiny hardwoods on the floor and counter, wallpaper in a wide-striped, white and turquoise pattern and chandelier bulbs shaped like old gas lamps. They decide to take their cups of coffee and cups filled with strawberry ice cream out to the patio, furnished with a few classic wicker metal tables and chairs. If there's ever a perfectly pleasant summer day, it's this one with temps around eighty and lower than normal humidity. Puffy clouds, propelled by a light wind, drift across an azure blue sky.

Juliet notices Richard staring at her mouth. "Yes, I got my teeth fixed."

"I kind of got that impression from your Facebook pics. Well, for what's it's worth, I thought you were cute, even with that overbite."

She scoops up a spoonful of ice cream from her cup. Then, holding the spoon aloft, she stabs her tongue into it as if it were too cold to take in at one time. Then: "And I think you're still cute, even without that thick helmet of hair you once possessed."

He takes a sip of dark brew. "It took me awhile to adjust to losing that helmet of hair. 'Getting old isn't a kid's game,' my mom used to say."

"Rich, we're not old, just old-er," she counters. "Do you feel old?"

"Yes and no. I feel old when I have to get up and pee three times every night. Young, when I see all those babes parading around in their skimpy, teasing outfits. But then old again when they shoot me a look of contempt for leering at them. To them, I'm a dirty old man, while, for a brief moment, my mind creates the illusion that I'm still their age."

She curls her beautifully shaped lips into a frown. "Gawd, I haven't been leered at in years."

"Do you miss it?"

"Yes, to be honest," she says, giggling. "Feel free to leer at me anytime you'd like."

"I am, right now as we speak. You still have those lovely high cheek bones and that adorable nose and mouth. Not to mention your pretty blue-gray eyes that still sparkle."

She looks away, blinks a few times, struggling not to get emotional. "Thanks."

"I'm not just trying to be nice, Julie, I really mean it."

"I know you do," she says, brushing back a tear. "That's why I'm getting misty." She sniffles and takes a few deep breaths. "Now, if only I could still fit into that charcoal dress you mentioned."

"Hey, you're not alone. My once thirty-two waistline is ancient history."

Their discussion of the perils of aging segue into what they're doing in retirement. Juliet talks about her writing, traveling and baby-sitting her grand-kids. Richard jokes about working out "harder than ever" but still eating "like I'm eighteen. Blame it on my wife's cooking."

"Speaking of your wife," she says, "did you have to tell her a white lie about where you were going? I told Bradley I went shopping, which I did, keeping the lid on the rest, of course."

He laughs. "Like you, I told a half-truth, said I was going to the library and might read while I'm there. All true. Went right after lunch."

"I feel at least a twinge of guilt, thanks to my darling hubby. Do you?"

"No, because what we're doing, chatting over coffee and ice cream, isn't cheating. We shouldn't have to tell half-truths. But, if the roles were reversed...well, I'd like to think that I'd be okay with it."

She nods and steals another sip. "You know, it's interesting where some people draw the line. I mean, like you said, we're not cheating. Deceiving yes, cheating no. Now, if we were holed up in some seedy motel, getting it on, we'd be cheating. But let's say we kissed. Then what?"

He chuckles, grabs a napkin and wipes the corners of his mouth with both hands. "Okay, I'm going to get technical here. If we kissed informally like old friends sometimes do, then it might be okay. Passionate kisses, the kind that can lead to seedy motels, then, yeah, I'd call that cheating."

"Passionate kisses..." She shakes her head. "You mean the kind that me and Bradley no longer bother with." She rolls her eyes. "Come to think of it, the kind of passion we're talking about here, the kind I felt with you, didn't exist for me when it came to Bradley. Oh, I grew to love him and still do. But I could never reciprocate what he felt for me, and I think that's one of the reasons he's so possessive. It's his insecurity as well as being raised in a patriarchal society." She shakes her head in self-admonishment. "Geez, Richard, I didn't mean to open up about my private life like this. How goes it with you and Robyn?"

"A fair question after what you just told me. Actually, there was lots of passion for both of us during our dating life and for a few years into the marriage. But then, well, you know, things get in the way, small things like chores around the house and big things like arguments over money and the kids. When it reaches a certain point, you either get divorced or reach some sort of accommodation, which Robyn and I have. The expression, 'it doesn't get any better than this,' usually refers to something that reaches the height of pleasure. But it can also convey a kind of frustration where you wish things were better while knowing they can't be."

Juliet absorbs what he said while more of his appearance comes into focus—the clef in his chin and those lines that run from the end of his narrow nose to his upper lip. Those lines are deeper now than back in the day, but his forehead and eyes are close to wrinkle-free. Bald or not, Richard could pass for someone younger, she decides. "Okay, so suppose things had worked out for us and we had married? Ever think about that, think about whether or not we would have stayed married and been reasonably happy?"

Richard nods as he swallows a sip of his dark roast. "I have." He shrugs. "That's a big unknown but one thing's for sure, we would have been forced to deal with issues like the ones I just described."

"All except one, at least for me, and that's looking back and wondering what my life would have been like had I married the first guy I fell in love with. Not only the first guy, but the one I loved so intensely. Naively, innocently, perhaps, but without all the stuff that accumulates with age and experience, all those barnacles." She looks away and blinks. "Oh my, there I go again." She takes a few moments to compose herself. "Anyway, you were that guy, Richard, and I can't help but wonder about that in my weaker moments, in my less than pleasant moments with Bradley, in my 'it doesn't get any better than this' moments."

He reaches across the table and takes her hand. "All we can do is make the best of things, in the bed we made for ourselves. Look, we'll soon be seventy. There's not a whole lotta time left."

"You're right. So let's run away together. Mexico. South America. How about Tahiti?" She slides to the edge of her seat. "We could live in one of those straw huts and surf all day. Remember when we rented boards and surfed at Virginia Beach? The crazy, awesome fun we had that weekend?"

"Oh man, do I ever! Neither of us had ever been on a surfboard. Such klutzes we were. We spent more time in the water than on our boards. I called you my Gidget because you reminded me of Sally Field in the TV show. Petite and adorable and sexy. I couldn't get enough of you."

"Or me of you. I refer to the night in Ocean City when we almost got caught making love under the boardwalk."

"Under the boardwalk, down by the sea..." he sings.

"Right. 'On a blanket with my baby is where I'll be.' Only we didn't have a blanket, just sand beneath our half-naked bodies."

"You wore that sexy, flower-print jumper and no panties or bra."

"You had easy access. Which I was all too willing to grant." She laughs.

He takes a deep breath. "Yes, and I'm getting horny just thinking about it."

"Oh, what glorious humping was there, Richard. I can still hear our heavy breathing and moaning and the clip clop of feet on the boards above and your voice, telling me you loved me. You remember that?"

"Yes, it was the first time I said it. To be followed by many more I love yous." He flicks a thumb across his eye and shakes his head. "Oh boy, I didn't expect this."