gaeln (gaeln) wrote,

Caught in the Light of His Eyes

While not a small dining room, it certainly isn’t a large one either even if the distance between where I stand fidgeting, half-dancing in the doorway, and where he sits, his back to me at a table for 6, yawns extreme, a seemingly vast Grand Canyon of a distance that divides us only because I’m scared. So, I shift and hover, turning in tight circles first from my four others, who cluster behind me (encourage me! encourage me!) and then to him. All the while knowing myself to be the embodiment of a physical kind of stammering as I try to find my way across the abyss. To him. To him.

But time (and the fates?) intervene, taking care of my fear for me as I watch when the sweet-faced man across from my quarry, my prey, my Jaxon, not only notices me (seriously, how could he not?) but then leaning across toward him, quietly informs Jaxon of both my very existence and of my approximate location behind him. With only a few whispered words, with one constrained sweep of his arm, with one gentle gesture of his hand, I am found. I know that I am because that’s when Jaxon turns slowly yet inevitably toward me and I shiver as I am quite predictably, yet still breathtakingly, caught in the light of his eyes.

He bends an index finger toward me, beckoning me and I obey. I make my way, hands shoved into jean pockets, head slightly bowed, across the distance that separates us that is no longer so much a yawn as a sigh, no longer so much the Grand Canyon as an relatively painless-to-leap ditch. Watching as he shifts his chair back from the table and sideways to my approach, opening a place before him where I can be, his action one of welcome, of possibility, I am a little less scared (but not much).

The eyes of the five others at Jaxon’s table are on me as I stroll (for dignity’s sake, I do not leap) my way to him and the eyes of most of the other restaurant goers are on both of us. I kneel before him, slightly bowing my head as a sign of respect, and then, looking up into his hazel eyes, which are just as I remember them, more brown speckled with green than not, as he leans, elbows propped on his thighs, toward me, I ask, “Do you remember me? I’m--”

“Jameson. Jameson Gwynedd-Alden. I remember once long ago having to find out the spelling so, yes, I know. I know who you are. I remember.”

“It’s just that it has been so long that I couldn’t help but wonder if--”

“If I’d forgotten you? How could I forget, no matter how long it’s been?”

“It’s just that our time…” and I hesitate, not sure how to proceed, not without saying too much, not without his approval.

And he smiles, my Jaxon does, fingertip touching me under my chin, saying, “It’s alright, say what you want how you want. We’ve grown older, both of us but especially me and the time for discretion, for illusion is long gone.” Then, throwing a gentle smile toward my others still clustered in the doorway, which they naturally return, he turns his attention again to me and I’m pleased.

The other restaurant goers, from what I can see, from what I can sense, have gone back to themselves with only surreptitious glances occasionally thrown our way, but those at Jaxon’s table avert only their eyes, not their attention. I must speak carefully, but that will be easier now that he has given me his approval.

Still, I hesitate because even though I’ve rehearsed the words I need to say so many times in my mind, in front of a mirror, to the approval of my others, over the past several years, months, weeks, but most especially over the last several days, that they’ve become rote within me, have taken on the status of a rite, of a kind of ritual, a fete accompli with only the actually saying of them left to be done, I can’t help but be wary at the least and terrified at the most. Jaxon is the unknown, his response calculated for, but only to an exactness of possibility not probability and so, I am where I am, somewhere along a sliding scale between wary and terrified. I hesitate.

But finally, slowly reaching into my coat pocket finding, gathering up, hiding in my hand, my small treasure for him, I hold my closed fist out toward him and after only a second’s hesitation, with just a slight crinkling of confusion around his eyes, he reaches also, meeting me halfway. Stroking his only slightly uncurled fingers, opening them with my other hand, I lay my treasure in his palm and he clutches it, not looking. He knows to wait for me. How I can’t say and for one moment I reflect, reflecting on times gone, on past possibilities both taken and missed. I reflect for, apparently, a little too long because....

“Are you alright? He asks, “Jamey? What?” (oh my god, he called me Jamey!!)

“Only that one time,” I remind. “We only had that one time, 20 years ago now, when you clung to me in that bathroom stall and…and--”

“Had my way with you,” he sighs. When such a tender smile plays out over his lips and around his eyes, I allow myself to breathe a little easier (but not much).

“Yeah, yeah,” I also sigh. “Had your most incredible way with me, yeah?!” I grin with him, with his others surrounding us, but not with mine who remain in the doorway, the distance apparently still the Grand Canyon for them, still too wide for them to cross and not with the surrounding diners who remain returned to themselves. For a moment, we reminisce.

“I think of our brief time together often. I’m glad for it.” Ducking his eyes, finding mine, Jaxon adds, “Very glad. No matter what else has gone right or wrong in my life, I have that happy moment with you to think about and I find I am very glad for it.”

“Just that one time though, only that one time,” I whisper, suddenly sad.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, running his fingers through my hair before lifting my face to his.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure.” I nod that I am even if I know that I’m not. It hurts remembering our abbreviated past and it hurts knowing that I have to let go of the treasure I have given him and why. It has become a part of me, of who I am, over these past 10 years. Still, it must be done because beyond this simply being the right thing to do, I promised Matthew I would.

I begin my ritual by placing my fingertips carefully, caressing up along his closed fist, up along the inside of his arm to the inside of his elbow where I linger, feeling for, finding his pulse so near, so very near, just under his skin. “How could I…how could we have known when I first felt your pulse like this that so much of life lived would have to pass before I felt it again? Opportunities grabbed, held onto and opportunities...lost. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if the right decision was made, if the right path was taken, if that maybe--”

“Don’t. Don’t. Thinking like that will only drive you…us…will only drive us crazy with second guessing. Things played out they way they were supposed to, it would seem. You were good for Matthew, you were what he needed, a safe harbor in what had been, up until he met you, a pretty stormy life. Not that you wouldn’t have been good for me, but given one way or the other, if that is what you’re implying?”

“I absolutely am.”

Then, if it was either him or me, the right decision was made. Now, please allow me to see what you’ve given me, Jamey. I’m…curious.”

Drawing my fingertips away from his pulse, away from the rush of his blood, I almost dance them back down his arm toward his wrist where my fingers then flutter gently just above his still closed fist so that I’m able to touch each of my fingertips to each of his fingers pulling them open. Not possibly knowing what his reaction will be to what I’m giving him, I drift my fingertips along his long elegantly opening fingers to the very tips, maintaining our contact for just as long as I can. Since I am still kneeling in front of him, resting on bended knees, I lay my hands folded in front of me and I wait.

Only then does he look to find his treasure nestled secure in his palm and for just some moments, as he gazes, as he recognizes what it is, time slows, extends, becomes fuller somehow, the only sound a whispered, “No,” of disbelief from him. I make no move nor does anyone else, the room around his table suddenly sheened in a pastel veil of unreality. Except for a small clear place at the doorway where my others wait for me. Closing his treasured hand, bringing it, pressing it to his chest, to his heart, he covers it with his other hand and bowing his head, he whispers, “Oh my God.” And nothing more. Time almost stands still then. I’m becoming concerned when suddenly his head lifts, his tear-filled eyes flick to mine and he asks, “How? How, Jameson? How?”

“Kind of a longish story, but not too long,” I say, glancing at his others who to a person, and each in their own way, tell me that they apparently have all the time in the world and are more than happy to share any or all of that with us. With Jaxon and me. A chair is found and brought for me and placed next to his. A glass of white wine is poured and placed in front of me as my others, led by Caillen, at last able to traverse the distance between there and here, come cluster nearer by, wall-leaning, wine glasses in hand, where I can now happily more easily see them.

A deep sigh and then, continuing the rite of it, the ritual inside me, I say, “Actually, it’s two relatively short chapters, nothing overblown or overwrought, but both necessary to the completion of my story.” For confirmation of what I think I know, for the knowledge it will bring his others, and to place Jaxon back to that pivotal time some 45 years ago, I ask, “When was this necklace first given to you?”

“Matthew gave me the chain and one of the pendants in 1965. He added the second pendant a year later.”

“And do the pendants have any meaning beyond--”

“Yes. Yes. They do. They…do.” Fingering them, stroking his thumb over them, turning each again and again from one side to the other, he takes a shallow stuttering breath, saying, “The first--”

“Which?” and he holds one, the smaller one, out to me.

‘This one was meant to show that we were as if…as if promised to each other, as if engaged, I suppose, while this second one meant that in our hearts, our minds we were joined for life, as if…married. Yes, as if married.”

“How old--”

“I was 23 and Matthew was 28 when he first gave me the necklace. Valentine’s Day ‘65. The second pendant was also given on Valentine’s Day, in ‘66”

“And you had known each other how long?”

“We met when I was 20 so, in late ‘62, October as I recall so about two years.”

“Then seven years after giving you the necklace, you caught him cheating on you, betraying you with someone you had always believed to be a friend.”

“Yes,” a broken, a torn whisper. “Yes, I walked in on…on them. He…he and--”

“Don’t. Don’t, Jaxon, okay? I just wanted to make sure we understand things in the same way. You don’t need to--”

“I couldn’t stay, I had to leave him, I had to leave New York, to get away. I had never trusted any man before him and…and--”

“And you have never trusted any man since, have you? Tell me true.”

“No. No one.”

“Have loved no one since. In over forty years?”

“No. No one.” I believe him.

“And you thought this symbol of his love for you, by your own actions, lost many years ago? Lost in ’72.”

“Yes. Yes. And why wasn’t it? How do you have it, Jameson? How?”

“Your first question, why wasn’t it lost, is the first chapter of my story, your second, how I came to have it, is the second. Shall I begin?” Receiving affirmation from all around, I do, but not before taking his hand in mine, opening his still clutching fingers once more and taking back from him the silver chain with its two dangling charms. I circle my arms around his neck fastening the necklace back where it should always have been. “Why wasn’t it lost? I have only Matthew’s recollections, told to me one fine late summer afternoon 10 years ago when he gave the necklace to me, in answer to that question.

“First things first, though, yeah? A little exposition. During your time together, you and Matthew shared in four lower Manhattan buildings, each just a little more derelict and abandoned then what had come before and despite both of your rising fortunes in the New York art world. Each building housed wide-open, high ceilinged and window-framed studios that were exceedingly well suited to two young artists who wanted to share in private, and communal, living stacked as the studios were one floor above the other. And who also both held to the belief that painters painting in the 2nd half of the 20th Century should paint freakin’ BIG. Am I right?”


“And so, after your time together had ended, when any one of those four buildings was about to be torn down or renovated or whatever, before work began, Matthew would take a day and he would visit the spaces you had shared, first his own, then yours.

“Arriving early in the morning, he would ignore any ‘Do Not Enter’ or “Condemned: Violators Will Be Prosecuted’ signs or yellow crime-scene tape or sitting-idle bulldozers or whatever and he would go up to his old studio where he would remain just a little while before venturing one floor down to yours where he would remain until dark. And the ritual was always the same. First he would sit for some time in whatever corner that had held your bed, remembering you both there. Ummmmmm. Oh sorry, I got lost in thought there for just a second. Forgive me.

“Anyway, then he would perform the reverential act of what he called ‘retrieving the memories of the walls’ whereby he would begin in one corner and reaching as high as he could, as low as he could, he would touch his way to the opposite corner, dragging his fingers along window sills, along floor boards, along where ever there was to touch. Remembering. Then he would sit and consolidate what he’d retrieved before doing it all over again with the next wall and the next and finally the last. Until all four walls were done, which was usually by nightfall when he would leave. He was gathering memories, memories of you, of you and him and your life together. To cherish.” Jaxon’s head is again bowed; he holds tight to my hand, his is trembling slightly.

“Building to next building until time came for Pearl Street, the last building you had shared. Following his routine… corner…wall,…next corner…next wall, it wasn’t until the third wall that he noticed something alien, something shiny, something caught just so in the slant of a sunbeam and he reached for it, finding, as we all now know, your necklace just where you had left it a few years before. Nailed by its clasp within the broken window sill, you had left it there in protest, as testament to the harm Matthew had done to you, believing you would never see it again, right?”

“I went back for it, just days before they tore down Pearl Street, but it was gone. I was devastated. I just assumed that someone who had lived there after me or some kids playing around had found it,” Jaxon says. “I just assumed that--”

“It couldn’t have been him, right? Since he didn’t even know you’d left it, but apparently it had been dragged out of the safety of the broken window sill by some passing rat, as you can see by the teethy scratch marks left behind. Dragged out just enough so that he could find it and when once freed, when he really understood what it was, Matthew fell to his knees, he rolled into himself and he cried.

“Beyond everything else, despite what had happened between you, all the accusations and recriminations made very public, the separation, the pain and guilt that for a time caused both of you to flee New York, him back to rural Texas, you back to even more rural Georgia, he never ever considered that you’d left his necklace…your necklace behind. It was nightfall before he standing up again, putting the necklace around his own neck, he vowed that one day he would give it back to you.” He looks up at me then, my Jaxon does, his hazel eyes still tear-filled and taking his hands from mine, he hides his face, his eyes, with them.

“Jaxon,” I say, moving even closer, “how could you have been expected to keep with you always something that would only be a continual reminder of his promises made lies, of his betrayal? He fucked you over, my dear man; no one would disagree with my analysis, including him. He shouldn’t have been so surprised.”

Now I fingertip touch his chin, lifting his face to mine. Dropping his hands, Jaxon focuses on me. “So, Chapter One is that through Matthew’s persistence in remembering everything he could about the two of you, he found your necklace and interestingly, this leads well enough into the second chapter of my story. If I may continue, I’m already feeling a little…drained?” And he smiles, so slight a smile, but a smile nonetheless, of empathy. Of acceptance. Of approval.

Taking a deep breath, I calm myself; I center myself, I move back a little and I say, “Chapter Two: On one very fine late summer afternoon 10 years ago, after telling me how he’d found it, Matthew gave the necklace to me. He put it on me and it has never left me until just now when outside that doorway15 minutes ago, Courtlan took it from around my neck and put it into my pocket. I had noticed Matthew always wearing it, never saw him without it, but had never asked him about it, maybe somehow knowing I shouldn’t. That it in some way had something do to with you and unless he started the conversation, he didn’t like it if I mentioned you so, in the main, for the sake of the peace and the tranquility of our little communal hearth, I didn’t.

“That is until one not so fine autumn evening 11 years ago when momentarily forgetting my need for peace and tranquility, I did. I wanted to talk about you so, I did. After some time of our going on about this and that, our words all looping around and scattering each others, I ended up telling…well, screaming at him really, that I thought the way he’d treated you was for shit. He, not unreasonably, told me to mine my own fucking business, but I didn’t. I carried on maybe fixing for a fight and after some additional amount of time, he told me to leave. His exact words, if you’re interested, were, ‘You may go. Now’, which I did since, after all, our communal hearth was in his little Manhattan pied a terre, not mine. Shall I tell you about my tantrum?”

“Nothing would delight me more,” Jaxon says, trying to smile and seriously, I doubt there is anything he could have said or done in that moment that could have endeared him to me more.
“Weeeell, if I’d been a cartoon, New Yorker-esque in black & white, of course, a little dark cloud threatening rain, but only flashing lightening, would have been hovering some small distance above my head as I stormed out of the living room to my bedroom. And yes, I did have a bedroom of my very own, someplace where I could retreat when his mood became unpleasant. I headed straight for the adjoining bathroom where upon opening the window, which I had never done before, I slammed it shut just as hard as I could…without breaking anything naturally. I opened and slammed every drawer, every door, even the medicine cabinet’s, just every everything I could open and then slam shut in that small innocent room before I then made my way back to the bedroom where I continued my little tirade. Open window…slam window.  Open other window, slam other window and so on.

“Finally exhausting myself, I grabbed my duffel, packed my 2 changes of t-shirts and my 1 change of jeans and I flounced (there really is no other word for it) down the hallway, right by the open doorway to the living room where I knew he still was and so, could see me passing by, and finally arriving at the front door, I flung it open and I waited. I waited for him to call me back, but when he didn’t…and he didn’t…and he didn’t, I whipped it closed behind me, slamming it, sure, but not too hard since we had prints of yours and a painting of his hanging on the front door’s wall and I sure as shit didn’t want to knock any of that stuff down. What a further disaster that would have been. I’m sure you would agree.”

“Completely,” he says, nodding his head.

“The tantrum may seem reasonable to you. I know it did to me, but why its severity? Well, because see, I knew what he meant by ‘you may go NOW’. I knew that he wouldn’t be calling me to meet at our next, or any other, regular six-week interval. That he wouldn’t be seeing me anymore. That just maybe our little companionable companionship was at its end. So, next morning, while I sulked, my others tidied up our east 80s townhouse and we flew home to San Francisco where we remained just a little less than a year. Until a time actually, when having given up all hope of him ever calling again, he did. It’s so weird how often that seems to happen, yeah? Very…very weird, but anywhoo, back to New York we flew so I could meet up with him for our regular three-day rendezvous at the end of which time, he gave me the necklace.

“Telling me that there were three reasons why he was doing so and that I was to guess what those reasons were. He liked fucking with me that way, all messing with my mind, always making me guess shit and figure stuff out. Annoying, but still, I did, guess at his three reasons that is.” I pause, taking a breath, finishing my wine, finding solace in the sweet faces of my others, before continuing.

“I should just plow on through?” Various heads nod around the table, Jaxon nods, my others nod (it’s unanimous!!) “It’s just that you’re all so quiet.”

“Listening, understanding, Jamey,” says a pretty woman whose name I don’t know. “I think some unclear things are becoming clearer for many of us, Jaxon has never been very…forthcoming about the past. We just don’t want to interrupt. Okay?”

“Well, sure. I just don’t want to bore anyone.”

“Not much chance of that,” says the pretty woman’s companion, grinning.

Returning his grin before turning back to Jaxon, I say, “Reason One of three whys had to do with me directly, was because during the year we were apart, he’d had no visual to attach to me, to tie me to him, nothing that was a part of me that he could think of and ‘find’ me as it were. Reasons #1 was because he wanted something attached to me that had belonged to him so that when we were apart, he could think of it and feel me safe knowing it was with me. And that the necklace was also a part of you only just added to the rightness of this being the next phase of its life. A little irrational perhaps, but terribly sweet, yeah? Yeah, I think so too.

“Reason Two of three whys had to do with you, Jaxon. He’d been with Keith for several years by then, had partnered longer with him than with anyone, other than you, and Matthew knew it was time, not to give up his love for you, that he could never have done, never did do…before you interrupt let me finish…but instead to let go of the idea of a possible future life with you. The rest of his life would be spent with Keith and so, by giving me your necklace, he was letting go of the idea of ever giving it back to you himself. Reason #2 was about being fair to Keith by letting go of you. Understand though, please, that he never stopped loving--”

“Jamey, he had to have way back in ‘72. His lies. His betrayal. He probably never really --”

“Don’t, dear Jaxon. He just seriously fucked up way back in ’72, fighting against, in his own astonishingly dysfunctional way, how much you had come to mean to him. With Keith, he found a way to hold on to his love for you and still love him. He did. He did. Yeah, no seriously, okay? People believe that such a thing can’t be done, but my life attests to the fallacy of such a belief. I love my others, desperately, and I loved him. See?” Still, I can tell by the nod of his head that he isn’t entirely convinced. One day, perhaps.

“Listen, you know what Keith told me? Keith told me that he truly believes that you were Matthew’s great love…no, no don’t try and deny it because I completely agree with him. Matthew floundered after you left, did some pretty stupid shit and sure, some of his best work, but still, he drank way too much, drugged way too mindlessly, partied way too hard and, as I understand it, drove that fucking Phantom Roadster of his like a maniac, in a desperate attempt to numb himself to the loss of what he had so carelessly thrown away. You. And, as you know, it took him a long long long time to find his way back again. He loved Keith, he cared a great deal about me, but his passion was always you. He just could never tell you out of…oh, I don’t know…fear maybe…guilt…the fact .that you wouldn’t speak to him from 1972 to 1985 maybe? I just don’t know.”

“He loved you--”

“No, never. I know because I let it slip a couple of times that I loved him and neither time did he answer me back in kind. He wrapped his arms around me, he held me tight, but he never said the words. Never. I have no sound of them in my mind, understand? It was enough for him to love both you and Keith. That was as far as his conventional upbringing, no matter how hard he fought against that, could take him. There wasn’t any way for him to love me as well, but he did care very much for me and that was enough, yeah? That was plenty.

“Also,” I say, scanning Jaxon’s others, “full disclosure. I’d been seeing Matthew about two years when he met Keith and it was after about another year that he told Keith about me. Not unreasonably, Keith’s initial reaction was to tell Matthew to let me go. Matthew declined, saying he was sorry, but that while he had hoped that their future lives would take the same path, he wasn’t willing to let me go. Again, not unreasonably, Keith walked, for about a month before he came back saying that he’d thought it through hard and long and was okay with it, not thrilled but okay. Just needed to clear that up.”

“Why,” the sweet-faced man chirped up, “would Keith compromise his--”

“He told me it was because the more he thought about it the more he realized that I was good for Matthew, that in some aspects of his life, Matthew needed to feel himself as a rebel, as a rule-breaker, as something of an outsider. Not conventional. The way he had always been in his art. And by having me he could, at least to some extent, still feel himself to be all those things. And I was safe. Very very safe because of my terribly sweet, terribly understanding, terribly compassionate others you see standing before you. Keith told me that he doesn’t believe that he and Matthew would have made it longer than six years, which up until then had been Matthew’s outside duration with any guy except you, Jaxon, if not for me. I kept him from wandering. I don’t say I believe him, I’m just telling you what Keith told me and what did in fact come to pass in real life. So, maybe not so much of a compromise, yeah?” Rhetorical, man.

“And so, now for my run at the Finish Line with Reason Three of the three reasons why, which is all about now, which is all about just exactly what is happening now. But back then, at the time, the understanding of this came very slowly to me. When I finally did realize what this reason was, I didn’t want to say the words to him, but he made me, understanding that doing so would make it alright. So, I told him that Reason #3 was about me giving back the necklace to you after he had died, but even as I said it then, I also realized, told him, that that was only a part of it, that it was also about bringing me to you, in friendship, in companionship, maybe even a little bit in love.” Jaxon turned to my others then who, as one beautiful chorus, grinned at to him. They know, they understand. It’s who I am. Who we are.

“From that day to this, for 10 years, I have imagined it --once Matthew dies I give Jaxon the necklace, and I have lived it, every single day of it --once Matthew dies I give Jaxon the necklace, reliving it again and again --once Matthew dies I give Jaxon the necklace, so many times it had become like a thing already done. So, while this action I take hurts me deeply, costs me dearly, it hurts less, costs less than you might imagine, especially if you will accept my offer of friendship, of companionship. Still, it is an action I have already taken a thousand times with you, with your response the only unknown. I know it’s late, that I’ve intruded quite long enough, that we should go.” But I don’t. I go quiet instead. It is a thing done. An action at last really taken. What now remains? His acceptance? His rejection? Jaxon is also quiet so, after some time, I assume more talking is necessary.

“When I said he didn’t like talking about you that wasn’t quite true. He loved to reminisce, which means he talked whilst I sat, accolade-like, at his feet listening as he passed on to me all those memories he had collected while ‘retrieving the memories of the walls’. I have them in my mind, all filed away jukebox-like on CDs. And in chronological order. Just ask me anything. No, no don’t, I’m tired, as I am sure you are too, and am nearly all talked out. Bottom-line, he wanted me to care for you as he had so, he told all he could to endear you to me and now he’s sent me to you. Accept me as your friend; as possibly your sometimes companion. We’re all good with it, aren’t we?” And my others, Caillen, Jayden, Toby and Courtlan, raising their wine glasses, chime their Here!! Here!!.

“Maybe we could start slowly,” Jaxon says. Maybe have dinner tomorrow. You could tell me about your little Manhattan place--”

“Keith sold it to us, you know, for some ridiculously low price because, for propriety’s sake, Matthew couldn’t will it to me. Imagine having that read out in their lawyer’s office in front of all the relatives. Whoa. And, as you may recall, for propriety’s sake, I didn’t even attend his funeral.”

“I looked for you but when I didn’t find you, I remember wondering what--”

“We talked about it, Keith and I. He kind of wanted me there, but yeah, that would have just caused a scene or been a distraction or something else negative so, I said no. But still can you imagine how sweet about basically giving me our little place? Supreme generosity because he could’ve sold it for some serious big bucks but instead, knowing what it meant, Keith sold it to us, insisting on only a nominal amount. Supreme generosity.”

“I would like very much to see it sometime when, maybe, you could tell me about some of the memories Matthew gave to you. Maybe we could start there. I’m an old man, Jamey--”

“Not so old.”

“An old man set in my ways for a long time. I have lived my life if not as a recluse than as something quite close to it. I’ve never really let anyone in but Matthew. I tried. I failed. I can easily enough accept your offer of friendship, but to also accept you as a kind of companion will be much more difficult, something I haven’t even thought about doing in far too many years.”

“Then maybe it’s high time you do. But still, slow we will go, just as slow as you need. We have all the time in the world or, if not for ever, then for a couple of decades at least. Tomorrow night it is. I’ll pick you up around 8pm. Don’t worry, I know where you live. I’m so in the mood for Italian. Sound good?  I know, let’s toast to our new adventure, my dear Jaxon. Our future begins.” And this time, when Jaxon smiles to me, full on and stunningly gorgeous, I am quite predictably, yet still breathtakingly, not only caught in the light of his eyes, but I can see through them the way to a bright and very companionable future.

Tags: personal_story_caught in the light of hi
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