I could always tell when I was getting too lonely. I would make dates on the spur of the moment and then regret them when the time came. I called old girlfriends and read personal ads. I watched women walk their dogs through my kitchen window. Normally, I preferred being single. It’s better to be missing someone than wishing they were gone. But sometimes it was as if my soul involuntarily searched for its counterpart.

The grocery store was its favorite place, amidst the shelves of life-giving provisions. It was my soul’s suburban jungle hunting ground. Every aisle held potential. Every likely match aroused the question: Could this be her? If my soul was in search mode I was drawn to the Kroger up the street. I would make a special trip for a roll of paper towels or a frozen burrito. Perhaps there was something about our common need for food, which exaggerated our basic human connection? Women shopped for food. Men shopped for women.

I would dream instantly about being with every acceptable woman I saw. I was amazed by the diversity and scope of my hungry imagination. The longer I focused on one particular woman the more detailed the fantasy would become. They weren’t necessarily sexual. These were practical fantasies of compatibility, co-existence, and acceptance. These illusions worked. I was old enough to know that sexual fantasies could come true. It’s the other stuff that becomes more alluring. The ability to sit together in quiet, contented contemplation on a Sunday morning was more attractive than high-heels, stockings, and runaway passion. But despite the imaginary quality of this strange exercise, there was a price to pay. I felt as if I lost a tiny piece of myself to every vision. I usually left feeling depleted and a bit depressed.

I might, for instance, be standing in the checkout line behind a beautiful, shapely, young woman with long black hair shimmering in the fluorescent lights. Her tight white top secures two firm, young breasts, ready to nurse my beautiful, talented, well-behaved children. Her spotless skin has a pearly radiance and seems to glow with health. Her lips are full and the perfect shape for speaking my name. Her exquisite smile reveals twin rows of strong, white teeth, which gently curve outward in the centers like they are plump with calcium. She has an accent I can’t quite place and her hand-basket is filled with odd exotic foods. Every feature leads to another and my mind is watering as it vacillates quickly between the overall picture and the particulars. I see the forest and the trees. She has ‘close-up’ beauty.

Many women are beautiful from a distance, but as details are added their attraction diminishes. Others, however, get better with detail. I can’t get too close to her. I’m like an orbiting moon being drawn to her mysterious captivating core.

In her basket I notice green onions, sugar snaps, wine, coffee beans, peas, meat, and a myriad of spices. Nothing is ready-made or frozen. She wants to do it herself. Then, in less time than it takes to steal a grape or read a label, which I never do, my mind provides a context for us as if I were opening a large, cloth-bound coffee table book on the jungles of Africa. It is triggered by her intriguing voice.

We are together. She is shopping for me. She’s going to cook her favorite Iranian meal for us. She has four strong, handsome brothers who hate American men, but, for some reason, all seem to like me. They are well dressed, but admire me for dressing like I do. They mistake my carelessness for individuality or bravery of some sort. Her parents treat me better than my own. I imagine her floating through our small but interesting kitchen with the stainless steel trashcan, teak wine rack, and ornate espresso machine. Her hair unfolds, a graceful stream of liquid onyx. The range is churning and simmering filling the housing with delicious aromas. Her accent is like a frame around her words, giving each one a special quality. I hang each one on the walls of my heart. Her difficulty with the language keeps her from talking too much. She chooses her words carefully. I tell her my intentions.

“I think I’ll clean my car today.”

“Why?”

“It’s a mess.”

“I like it like that.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I like to look at all the cups and wrappers and imagine what you were doing. Don’t clean it.”

“Maybe I’ll just wash it.”

“Don’t be silly. Why don’t you go sit on the toilet and read for a while instead?”

“I suppose I should.”

I go to the bathroom, which doubles as a library. She’s put up shelves to hold all my favorite books. When we wake up together, she has my heart. I am not tempted to go anywhere else. I smile a genuine smile of contentment and kiss her thankfully. She feels the same and we both sense the intercourse of mutual desire through the slightest touch. She wants me for the rest of her life. She is energetic and amazing to watch as she moves around the bedroom unaware of her overwhelming earthiness and sensuality. In fact, I am mesmerized by her so much that my coffee, which she made with great humility, has turned cold on my chest. I don’t notice.

“My brothers called. They want to take you deep sea fishing and get you drunk.”

“OK. When?”

“Whenever it’s...what is it? conveen...coven...What is that word?”

“Convenient?”

“Yes! Convenient. Look at this. I got some meat but I don’t think it has enough fat.” She shows it to me. “See. It looked good at the store, but now it looks too lean.”

“Why don’t you add some fat?”

“Ok.”

I get up and start writing some religious humor for “The Door.” The sound of sizzling fat provides the perfect atmosphere. She knows exactly how long it takes for me to complete a cup of coffee and, just as I am finishing, I hear the sound of fresh grinding. I share what I’ve written with her. She doesn ’t understand English that well, but she laughs heartily making all sorts of delightful sounds. Hours later, while she’s in the bathroom, she breaks out again in uncontrollable laughter repeating some of what I’d written.

“No French Baptists? Too much like taking bath!”

She comes out and puts her arms around me. I feel the weight of her soft, smooth hair on my hands. “I love when you make me laugh.”

I tell her a joke. She’s never heard any of them. When I’m working she treats the time as if it were sacred. I seem to meet all her needs just by being my self-involved self. My work gets better. Checks start coming in. I take a break and practice the guitar.

“That’s beautiful. What is it?”

“Something I’m writing.”

She steps out of the laundry room where she is carefully, delightfully, folding my shirts. There is nothing she would rather be doing. She speaks up. “I’m almost out. Why don’t you change shirts twice a day? That way I could do more.” She comes out folding my Paul McCartney tour shirt. “You wrote that? I sounds like it should be in a movie.”

I continue playing and she has moved to the sofa. In my peripheral vision, I can see that she is crying. I put down my guitar, light my pipe, and look around at the clutter. “I’m thinking about getting rid of some of this junk.”

“What...junk?”

“Some of this crap I never use like that entertainment center, those mirrors, that old bathroom vanity and my fire-extinguisher collection. The magazines.”

“No. You love your junk. It makes you happy. I want you to keep it,” she says peevishly.

“OK. I’ll keep it.”

“And I want you to get some more.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you see any junk on the side of the road, I want you to bring it home. The more useless, the better.”

“Don’t you want me to bring you something? Flowers? Chocolate? A card or jewelry?”

“That is junk! Weak American women need all that. I have what I want.”

She pulls me close and kisses me deeply. The caressing continues and we move to the bedroom. I’m drunk on her beauty. We spill into the bed. The afternoon sun is casting shadows like oriental prints on the walls. I get up quickly.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to brush my teeth.”

“Don’t you dare! Your breath smells like an Iranian sewer. It reminds me of when I was a child playing in the streets. Don’t brush. Please?”

“Oh, all right.”

“Come breathe on me.”

She is lying on the bed, gloriously naked now, her hair flowing out around her face like tributaries of dark mystery. I lie down, close my eyes, and reach around her. We are transported. I pull her to me. She echoes every movement. We are in a jungle or a garden of some sort. A clear river flows slowly before us. The air is cool and damp in the diffused light beneath the canopy of huge trees. We are naked and unashamed. A sound rolls out of the deep forest and the crystal river begins to darken. It then loses all natural contour and takes on a flat, one-dimensional quality as it continues to move. I am staring at an empty, black conveyor belt.

“Sir?”

Born to Polish immigrants in New Jersey, Ed makes his base in Atlanta as a professional musician, teacher, and a freelance writer with a BA in theology. He has written music for national television specials and film, and his articles and poetry appear in various journals and magazines, notably The Formalist, The Atlanta Review, The Lyric, and Troubadour.

His first illustrated children’s story is due out soon and he has won the Felix Stefanile Sonnet Award. His fiction has also appeared in Sideshow 1997.

"Self-expression is for babies and seals, where it can be charming. A writer's business is to affect the reader." Vincient