The Secret

by Pat Higgins

I didn't have too many friends that were married. I used to watch couples step into their sleek convertibles on summer nights, poised and secure, glamorous in the mystery of their reciprocal possession, and they seemed to own the warm, scented night air, as they owned many other secrets, in their lives that were closed to me, in their dark rooms at night. I thought, they must savor their lives, knowing no one has the right to disturb them in their beds, and they must want to giggle as children do who are allowed, as a special treat, to spend the night at each others' houses, in the snugness of their physical love. Sometimes I would look up at their dark windows, and wonder. And in the daytime, what fun it seemed, to have a house together, to make love with the curtains blowing, the sun shining on the furniture

smoking cigarettes together, afterwards, an ashtray beside them on the bedtable..

In a way, that was what started me off. I wanted to know what it was all about. I wanted to share in the mystery, the cult of those who belonged. I wasn't the only one, of course. Most of my friends went out with boys, or men, and went to their houses, or rooms, or parked in their cars in deserted spots. I don't know what the others wanted, but at least they were company.

It didn't do any good. I didn't find what I was looking for. I found moments of pleasure, thinking for a while this person was mine, we could be together, afterward, smoking cigarettes, while I played house in my mind. I searched relentlessly for affairs, because beneath those snugbound moments a great black abyss lay, waiting to draw me down and down. Only the warm island of lamplight could save me, and only those momentary affairs could bring me into it. And I knew, all the time, it was guilty and sordid. My heart would leap like a frightened deer when a branch creaked, or a car passed.

But even then, I had no choice. And I never discovered the secret; going through the motions wasn't enough.

my

As I grew older, many of friends got married. It was strange, visiting them in their kitchens and livingrooms, seeing them with their newfound mates. I used to watch their faces, searching for a sign of what they knew, what they had discovered, what was between them. I couldn't discern anything. I tried to take an interest in their problems, to feel akin to them through my sexual experiences, but it seemed so different from what theirs must be, though it was physically the same. I knew nothing about housekeeping. I knew less about jobs. Children seemed small people from Mars.

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