Bricks and Mortar

My husband and I separated last September. At the time it was necessary, and most unfriendly. We had been renting a house in Uptown which neither of us would be able to afford on our own, so we found "separate corners" on opposite ends of town. He, who had moved here from Israel only a few years prior, had little in the way of possessions - only the few bags he originally arrived with, and a few things bought along the way. The bulk of what had "made our house a home" belonged to me - a shameful amassing of furniture, clothes, books, artwork, appliances, kitchenware, gardening tools, etc, etc. Paring down, as I knew I had to, was the most difficult part of the separation process. It was easy to let things go, but the weight of having so much to be responsible for, so much on my back, was overwhelming.

In those weeks of packing and moving, I was petrified, really. My life was in a tailspin and was spinning so fast I truly had no bearings about me. I was moving through the motions, with a lot of help from a whiskey bottle and some great hydroponic grass. I had amazing friends who helped me, watched over me, kept tabs on my progress. It wasn't until the move was over, and boxes had been unpacked, and a new home had taken shape that I began to really settle into my single life again.

It started with the home. A second-story duplex, large enough for me, my Chow Chow, my Siamese cat and dove. Of course, it took some getting used to, but almost immediately, I appreciated the sensation of a home filled with only my energy. No one else's shit laying around, no one's bad mood to contend with, no one to invade my privacy. My husband and I were still in a fragile state, finding it entirely difficult to communicate by phone (let alone in person), and after each fight, I was thrilled to be able to hang up the line and breathe and enjoy the safety and solitude of my space.

In our conversations, he made it evident that he was already out on the scene - in the way of women, of course. Men are so interesting in that way. As I had been focused on moving from one house to another, he was swinging. Well, I have no real judgement about that. It didn't bother me then, and it doesn't now. I understand how some people just need to get their rocks off, and can go bang any number of willing participants, and never look their direction again. I'm not this way. I was built differently. Indeed, in my newfound independence and single-hood, I had "built" not one, but two, new homes: the one I lived in with the pets and furniture and books and things, and the one I carefully constructed around my heart.

It felt good to begin to feel "single" again. Flirtatious by nature, I had tried my best in my marriage to curb my natural "come-hither-ness:" mindful of my words, my general affection towards people, my winks and ogles. Now, I was able to be that flirty Emily again - the Emily we all know and love. My immediate (and perhaps inappropriate) attentions turned towards a young co-worker, barely twenty years old. I had worked with him since he was eighteen, and always thought him a doll. I found him to be physically handsome, but it was his intelligence, his depth of thought, our long conversations over beers after work that I found most attractive. Of course, my other co-workers chided me for my advances - that I was trying to "rob the cradle," that I was a "cougar."

I resented this; I didn't really think the boy took me seriously, and was just trying to have some fun during the drudgery of the work days. Though I admit to crushing on him, it wasn't long before I, too, admonished my own behavior and cooled my hopeful intentions. He was good eye candy, but, I was resolved anyway that it would be a long time before I'd seriously entertain the idea of taking a new lover. The wall around my heart had been fortified. I began to construct a murky moat there as well, to ward off the other would-be suitors.

It was a few months later that the boy took me by great surprise: after closing down our restaurant bar, he suggested we go back to my house to have another drink and carry on with our (always thrilling) conversation. My ears perked up at the suggestion, and I agreed, although I checked myself immediately - surely, there was no hidden motive. That had already been long established. So, why not? I liked his company, and looked forward to hanging out with him in the comfort of my own pad.

Although the details are quite juicy, and would make for much better reading than what I've offered so far, I'll suffice to say that the boy came to my home and seduced me in such a way as I hadn't experienced since before I was wed. It was an all-nighter. I was pleasantly shocked and enthralled by the experience. His kisses were so divine, I could have fed on his lips alone, but he treated me to a grand feast of passion, which I won't soon forget. Only two nights later, he called again, this time inviting me over to his house. His young confidence and machismo lured me in like a she-wolf to the moon. Enchanted, and thrilled. I was simply thrilled.

But how did he do it? The walls were firmly in place. The moat had been filled. There was no boat. He had stormed my tower and reduced it to rubble. And I was glowing like the sun in Eilat. I couldn't even see beyond my own contentment. Didn't care to anticipate what would come next: his cool workplace demeanor, our less frequent after-shift beers, months passing with no word or exchange of our passionate nights together. Wtf? Was I so far removed from modern-day practices of casual sex? What was I expecting? Certainly not a twenty-year-old boyfriend, but could I at least get a refill on that soda pop???

Apparently not, at least not until a few months later, when he called and invited me to see a movie, which I did - curious to understand what the hell this boy was thinking?! By that time, I had been fired from the restaurant, and he had quit. I had already begun re-construction on my heart's wall, and though I considered just standing him up and letting sleeping dogs lie, my curiosity did get the better of me. It was strange reunion... we shared a bottle of wine, he chose a good film, we shared a much less passionate experience together. I think my walls were tougher to crumble this time around. I was less open and more leery of his advances. We agreed to stay in touch, and get together again for drinks sometime, but never did. The story ended there.

It's been months since, and my bricks and mortar have weathered the seasons well. There were periods of time - like my three-week trip to Mexico in February - when I allowed myself the freedom to indulge in another sexcapade, should I choose to do so. But I didn't. It's just not my style. I'm unfamiliar with the concept of casual sex. If I let you in to my Holy Chamber in the first place, there must be some level of deeper connection - as friends, in a spiritual sense, SOMEthing. And then, based on whatever that genuine connection is, I expect a certain degree of appreciation, of communication. I'm not even concerned with monogamy or fidelity, and accept that in a casual sense people can be lovers and enjoy infrequent rendezvous. But what I do find odd is when two people share their intimacies, and it passes by with no further regard. My girlfriends tell me it's common. My guyfriends say the same. I'm bewildered by it. I just don't know how to flow with all that.

I am reminded now of one of my favorite poems, "The Lady of Shalott," by Tennyson. The cursed lady lives alone in a tower near Camelot. She's not allowed to ever leave, or even to glance out the window, but catches glimpses of the world passing by outside from a mirror hanging near her loom. She sings, and weaves the images she sees, and lives thusly, alone but content. Until one day, the beautiful Lancelot passes by, and she catches sight of him in her mirror. For his beauty and her longing, she leaves the tower to chase after him, and the curse falls upon her. She finds a boat nearby, writes her name on its prow, dies, and flows towards Camelot.

I should resolve to remain safely in my tower. To sing and to weave the beautiful life and fortunate destiny that is mine. To avoid the lure of beauty and passion, as it has always been my curse.

They say sticks and stones may break the bones. I pray the bricks and mortar may save me.