Melody at Seaport Village .”
Our eyes met. A sad smile played with his lips. I turned my head and looked again at the views surrounding us. A formation of Brown Pelicans winged their way overhead, south, towards San Diego .
“Me, too.”
We finished our round in under four hours. I would have gladly traded that time for four seconds with Melody.
Chapter 27
What are the symptoms of love?
The fluttering you get in your core when you think about that special person? That flush of excitement you have when you see them, every time so much like the first? When they move about in three dimensions, and the grace and realness of it all makes you almost want to collapse… is that a sign? What about the forever imprinting of their sights and sounds on the celluloid of your mind, so that you can play it in an endless loop, over and over, again, like a favorite movie… should that be considered?
When just the slightest touch of their skin will send a jolt deep into hidden recesses… a jolt that makes internal organs contract and quiver while your soul sings out an inaudible song of gratitude… a song of thanks to the universe for providing such an opportunity to connect… does that contribute to the diagnosis?
I don’t know what the symptoms are, for sure, but I would bet that all of these things are leading indicators. Indicators that you’re in love.
Some say it’s all just hormones. Chemical pheromones in the air that help attract one person to another. I was in a coma, and miles away from her every time except for the first time, so I don’t think molecules really had much to do with it… although, I could smell her essence, over there, so I guess it can’t be totally ruled out. Whatever the reason, when I would go for a visit, I would get virtually all of the above feelings, and, if anything, they got stronger over time. The more I observed her and learned about her, the deeper I ‘fell’.
__________
I would sit for hours just watching her paint; sometimes, she sketched out detailed beauty using only charcoals. Landscapes, people and animals. Whether in shades of grey or rainbows of color, her renditions of the world were reflections of her inner vision, lovely and unadulterated… they covered my heart as completely as the canvasses.
I would look over her shoulder as she wrote in her journal… I know you’re not supposed to do that, but, how else could I get to know her? I was a ghost, for all practical purposes. Giddeon didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and since I figured there was a strong possibility he was an angel, or, at the very least, my conscience, I assumed he would have at least clucked his tongue if it was truly inappropriate.
The things she wrote on that bound paper were fundamentally exquisite. I would sometimes go home with her words swirling in my head and floating in my heart. I would run my favorite lines over and over to myself like an actor preparing for a debut; her words were perfectly placed stepping stones in a stream of consciousness… they helped me cross over into her mind and love her all the more.
Maybe one day I can share them with you.
The first few weeks, she sometimes wrote about me. That’s how I know she felt a lot of what I was feeling. I don’t know why it happens, I’m just glad that it can… love, that is. I wanted so badly to be able to pick up the pen and write her a note… to tell her that I was there. I wanted to relay that I wished to hold her, and talk to her, and really get to know her the way a guy’s supposed to get to know a girl. I yearned to communicate across the divide and tell her that I wanted to be with her. That I would like so much to go to movies and to restaurants… to the beach and to the mountains… with her.
Simple things.
I wanted to stroke her arm and kiss her lips. I wanted to invite her and her cat over to the boat where they could both meet Boris. I
Our eyes met. A sad smile played with his lips. I turned my head and looked again at the views surrounding us. A formation of Brown Pelicans winged their way overhead, south, towards San Diego .
“Me, too.”
We finished our round in under four hours. I would have gladly traded that time for four seconds with Melody.
Chapter 27
What are the symptoms of love?
The fluttering you get in your core when you think about that special person? That flush of excitement you have when you see them, every time so much like the first? When they move about in three dimensions, and the grace and realness of it all makes you almost want to collapse… is that a sign? What about the forever imprinting of their sights and sounds on the celluloid of your mind, so that you can play it in an endless loop, over and over, again, like a favorite movie… should that be considered?
When just the slightest touch of their skin will send a jolt deep into hidden recesses… a jolt that makes internal organs contract and quiver while your soul sings out an inaudible song of gratitude… a song of thanks to the universe for providing such an opportunity to connect… does that contribute to the diagnosis?
I don’t know what the symptoms are, for sure, but I would bet that all of these things are leading indicators. Indicators that you’re in love.
Some say it’s all just hormones. Chemical pheromones in the air that help attract one person to another. I was in a coma, and miles away from her every time except for the first time, so I don’t think molecules really had much to do with it… although, I could smell her essence, over there, so I guess it can’t be totally ruled out. Whatever the reason, when I would go for a visit, I would get virtually all of the above feelings, and, if anything, they got stronger over time. The more I observed her and learned about her, the deeper I ‘fell’.
__________
I would sit for hours just watching her paint; sometimes, she sketched out detailed beauty using only charcoals. Landscapes, people and animals. Whether in shades of grey or rainbows of color, her renditions of the world were reflections of her inner vision, lovely and unadulterated… they covered my heart as completely as the canvasses.
I would look over her shoulder as she wrote in her journal… I know you’re not supposed to do that, but, how else could I get to know her? I was a ghost, for all practical purposes. Giddeon didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and since I figured there was a strong possibility he was an angel, or, at the very least, my conscience, I assumed he would have at least clucked his tongue if it was truly inappropriate.
The things she wrote on that bound paper were fundamentally exquisite. I would sometimes go home with her words swirling in my head and floating in my heart. I would run my favorite lines over and over to myself like an actor preparing for a debut; her words were perfectly placed stepping stones in a stream of consciousness… they helped me cross over into her mind and love her all the more.
Maybe one day I can share them with you.
The first few weeks, she sometimes wrote about me. That’s how I know she felt a lot of what I was feeling. I don’t know why it happens, I’m just glad that it can… love, that is. I wanted so badly to be able to pick up the pen and write her a note… to tell her that I was there. I wanted to relay that I wished to hold her, and talk to her, and really get to know her the way a guy’s supposed to get to know a girl. I yearned to communicate across the divide and tell her that I wanted to be with her. That I would like so much to go to movies and to restaurants… to the beach and to the mountains… with her.
Simple things.
I wanted to stroke her arm and kiss her lips. I wanted to invite her and her cat over to the boat where they could both meet Boris. I
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