He had lived in the quaint apartment house, for over three months before he first saw her. It was early, very early and they were both exiting their adjacent apartments at the same time. He, dressed in suit and tie, while she was clad in nothing more than her bra and underpants. Her only real cover was the large plastic bag of trash, which she pressed to her bosom. She was in the lead and hadn’t noticed him, yet.
He, of course, said nothing, because what can you say at such a time? And she said nothing because she refused to acknowledge this horrible, embarrassing situation. If she had, she would have screamed and run away.
He wasn't stalking her either, not on purpose anyway. It was that they had a common destination, the hallway elevator. She had trash to dump, and he was late for a breakfast meeting with his agent.
Then it hit him, the woman was damn attractive.
She was petite. Not as petite as Tinker Bell might have been. But her snow-white complexion and short blond hair made her appear fairytale-like. And he would have pinched himself. Except he was afraid that he might wake up, ending this dreamy infatuation.
When they finally reached the elevator. He pushed the down button, and then turning to face her, said: “I’d be more than happy to dump that trash for you.”
“Oh, would you?” She replied, “I’m so embarrassed. Thank you.”
Then, as if playing Tinker Bell, herself; she flickered away, leaving behind a small trail of fairy dust.
The second time they met, which was later that evening, it was on purpose. There was a knock at his apartment door. And when he opened it, she was standing in front of him, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. She was wearing a short white dress. And she was so beautiful, that he was at a loss for words.
“Well,” she said, “are you going to invite me in? I promise I won’t bite.”
After that evening, they met often, but because of their mutual reclusive natures (she an artist and he a poet). Most of the time he would sit outside her apartment door and recite poetry. While she, between brush strokes, would vote Yea if she liked it and Nay if she didn’t.
“I’m crazy about you,” he told her.
“I’m crazy about you too. But I don't fall in love and I will never marry. God granted me this one shot at life and I don’t intend to screw it up.”
“Now I know why I’m crazy about you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hopelessly crazy.”
She always wore white, sometimes, a darker shade of pale. She never wore makeup, except for a lick of lipstick. She was always turning heads, and people tripped over themselves when in her presence.
Overnight, he became her escort. Her protector. Her lover. Always demanding that he held her hand, in case she’d got lost, or tried to run away.
When they were alone, she always dressed down. "Clothing," she said, "was a social thing. While privacy should be very personal."
Georgia O’Keeffe was her favorite artist. And when she asked who his favorite artist was, he said, “Jackson Pollock.”
She swooned, “Pollock is breathtaking. Breathtaking.”
They didn’t realize it at the moment, but they had stumbled upon something important. Very important. He liked something she liked, they had something in common.
They started going to art museums and the public library. They would sit for hours, while they devoured one artbook and poetry book after another. When they got home, they’d make love; he'd cook dinner, and they'd drink and laugh, and fall asleep, holding hands.
“You love my body, don’t you?”
“I do, it’s exquisite.”
“How nice of you.”
“Ask me what part of you I like most?”
“You like my pretty feet?”
“yes, but higher.”
“I know, you’re a leg man.”
“you’re hot, very hot.”
“Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.”
“No, listen. It’s your vulva. It's so beautiful that Rodin himself could have sculptured it.”
Her face reddened. Then he recited the beginning of a favorite poem:
In
Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A
stately pleasure doom decree:
Where
Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through
caverns measureless to man,
Down
to a sunless sea.
Less than a month later, she suffered a sudden seizure. Two weeks later she died her mother's arms,
Her loss devastated him.
When her mother visited, she handed him her daughter’s apartment key and told him that the Salvation Army was coming that afternoon. And that if there was anything he wanted, anything at all, he should help himself.
Adding, “Thank you for caring for her, and for calling me. Those last weeks were so important for both of them."
“But her paintings!”
“Everything.” She said, squeezing his hand.
"Oh, I’m sorry, I almost forgot. Did she own a car? In the end, when she was half out of her mind, she kept mentioning that you loved her Volvo?"
“Her Volvo?”
“Yes, it’s an automobile isn’t it?”
End.
KLS
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