Cyber-love Affair (cont'd)
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On Monday we go to the ocean. Strangely, with all the rain, I have forgotten that there is so much water nearby. We hop into the car and drive through some of the fabulously rich L.A. neighborhoods: Brentwood, Beverly Hills, Glen Haven. We talk all the time, our fingers intertwined as the windshield wipers beat out a tattoo on the glass. We drive down the freeways and into the canyons, around the cliffs and onto the coast highway, the parallel road to that vast gray sea. We pass a small side street that calls to us and seems to lead down to the beach. At the end of the drive is a gate and the entrance to an empty parking lot and a large restaurant nuzzling the water. A large jetty covered with sea birds sticks out into the surf and the dull water breaks into choppy waves just before they strike the sand. We park and get out of the car. The smell of the sea surrounds us and, this time, the rumble of water is real. The air is cool and moist, just a hint of mist remains of the ceaseless rain and we feel wild and comfortable as we walk onto the jetty. We stand together watching the endless waves coming in and the wind flaps our clothing about and chills our skin. We turn and walk back. She goes into the restaurant while I wander a while on the empty beach, dancing to avoid the advancing tide. When I come inside, the hostess says, "Your wife is in the main room." I give a little start, wondering who she means, and then it seems natural. Marci sits in the large, empty dining hall in front of a wall of windows overlooking the ocean. I sit down across from her. There is a tenderness between us as if we have already shared years together, a gentle sensuality, a communion that is as natural as it is exhilarating and unexpected. We sit and eat and speak in front of the sea as the sky loses even its dull gray color and slowly shadows into blackness. "You're going home tomorrow," she says, looking down. "I have loved being with you and I don't know if we will ever see each other again." She begins to cry softly. I come around from my chair and sit beside her, my arm on her shoulder, and draw her close to me as I caresss her hair. "I have loved being with you also," I say. We stay there quietly together, the candle on the table lighting our faces and in that moment we are children again, holding each other against the morning. In the car, driving home, she says, "Tomorrow I have a standing appointment with my therapist. His office is on the way to the airport and I would like to stop in for my session before I drop you off. He's been on vacation in Mexico, studying psycho-tropic plants and he only knows that I just met someone over the Internet. What I would really like," she turns to me, "is for you to be there with me." "Really?" I ask, dumbfounded. "I've never had a date before with someone who asks me out with their therapist." "Does it bother you?" "No, but it just seems such like such an intimate thing to do together. I'll come if you really want me there but I don't know how comfortable I'll feel or what I'll say." "I do want you to come with me," she says. In the morning we kiss and touch each other awake again. I barely have enough time to pack before we have to leave. We do not speak much but sit quietly on the ride out to see Dr. Bob. I am feeling that anticipation before returning home, when the presence of the place where you are leaving is rapidly fading, but not quite gone.
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