ركرا

by martin block

simple in his actions and his reactions. He slept and, strangely, so did I. In the morning he had no remembrance of what had gone by. I had wakened and washed, brushed my teeth and bussed to work while he had slept on. Later he called me where I worked. I remember now how I had been quick to hang the phone back in its cradle and annoyed with myself. Somehow I felt guilty as a judge must feel guilty when his son comes before him on a charge of burglary, or a mother who finds her daughter has aborted. I had no sense of displeasure with him but all through the day I would suddenly address myself in my mind with thoughts, with curt apologetics and with a somewhat irrational sense of justification.

For several days I expostulated on the telephone to mutual friends. "Really," I said, and "After all," and I would go on laughing through the great details. But somehow I never told how we had loved and the memory of these few moments rankled under all.

Eventually he came to see me where I worked, walking in during the late afternoon hours and I nodded curtly and busied myself with chores I had avoided doing during the last few days. He looked younger every moment and as he stood in the afternoon shade one could fancy him resolving into the motion picture cliche of the abashed child, one leg idly toying behind the other, the hand flowing uncomfortably idle, the pervasive restlessness making itself known quietly and almost captiously and finally he caught my eye and his little boys voice asked with an incredible innocence, "Why are you mad at me?" and my heart quite broke and more than ever I loved him.

But I was stern; my rectitude was parental, my vulnerability shielded, my dignity in place. We spoke and after a little time he went away and for a little while I concerned myself more with other friends, with the sexual chase and the rituals of earning a living. However we all move in limited circles and so, in due time, we were meeting again and being polite again, and then spending as much time with each other as we had before he had clutched at me in the dark.

It is simple to say that this had changed our lives with respect to each other. Of course it had; but then, we change our lives each time we dine in company or pass the time of day. We cannot but think, if all we do is nod to an acquaintance in the street, how well she looks today! or ill or old or tired or how unchanging. We are deflected in the moment every moment but accept the flow of thought until some sudden activity hemorrhages the calm processes to which we have accustomed ourselves. Intangibles become realities, realities revert, all with the quiet complexities of the bloodstream.