Through a Stranger's Eyes

By Steven S Walsky

When love returns to Dave's life, he asks himself has he changed; has she changed. Is he the man she deserves, desires. To really see yourself, looking in the mirror is not the answer; you have to see yourself through a stranger's eyes. Just as important, Dave and Breen need to decide if this is real, everlasting love; is it 'need', or true 'want'? “Need is when you reach out in the middle of the night to touch the woman laying next to you; the need to reassure yourself she is still there. Want...want is desperately wanting to be there next to her, to be the only man she reaches out for.” And, as Dave has learned, romanticism may be glorious to the woman who receives the benefits – the flowers, the love letters, the small gifts of the heart – but to the romantic it has moments that overwhelm logic; overwhelm common sense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven S Walsky
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310620027

Steven S Walsky

The writings of Steven S. Walsky have been described as a ‘voice of the urban South’ flavored by his travels; ‘a painter with words'. In addition to novels, his short stories range from serious views of life to pure whimsy. Steve’s poetry is primarily free verse and free form. New short stories, poetry, and both serious and humorous writing support items (painting with words) are posted on his Wordpress writing blog "Simplicity Lane". Steve has another WordPress blog, "Words to Love By"; inspirational thoughts on life and love as a Christian (personal quotes, poems, and photography). Steve can be reached through his two blogs, or directly at [e-mail].

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Through a Stranger's Eyes

A story of finding love anew, and wanting to be the man she desires.

By Steven S. Walsky

Copyright 2005 by Steven S. Walsky

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

When you are dealing with something that is uncomfortable,

your mind subconsciously retreats to a time in your past

that was comfortable. Memories are the only truly personal

thing we have in this life; with time, so much more vivid

they become.

The drifting snow blanketed the ice-covered sidewalks, rendering passage death-threatening. I hated the damp winters, and longed for a time and place of perfect weather; with, of course, perfect typography. I enjoyed the ability to travel easily from seashore to mountains within a few hours, the lush rolling farmland in between, and the spring flowers and fall foliage. But the damp, bone-chilling winters were growing too old; having long-lost it's welcome. Today, if it were not for a short fused project I was working on, I would have stayed indoors, admiring the snow through an office window, with my spirits reinforced by fresh coffee from one of the shops downstairs. No, I was walking along the streets heading for a meeting, briefcase in one hand, and the other gripping closed the collar of my business dress coat.

Wool dress coats may be warm, but they require scarves, and I had failed to grab mine as I left the office. It was a high quality scarf that had been given to me as a gift years before. The quality bespoke of the woman who gave it to me. Just looking at it brought back hints of memories I had long ago stored in the back recesses of my mind. A closed chapter, journey complete; but journeys are never forgotten. As I reached the corner of Fairhaven Avenue and Main I caught sight of my reflection in the window of the Italian bakery. The image looking back at me was startling reality. My reflection exposed just how depressed I really was. And my mind questioned was it truly the bleakness of winter that darkened my thoughts?

No. Sure I had a desire to move to a new city, but winters were winters, and I could deal with them; albeit not happily. It was the sight of my hand at the place where the scarf Breen had given me should have been. A trick of the mind telling me that something important was missing from my life…the want of love. The failure of my marriage, the divorce, and thoughts of more pleasant times all summed up in a missing scarf. Life is many journeys; my marriage was itself but a journey that had come to an end. I started thinking about Breen; and even if those days were pleasant only in my memories, it gave me something to cling to.

Over the intervening years since Breen left my world, I had gone through a transformation. I remember the exact moment that I unconditionally recognized I had become a better, different person, and I needed to start living it. I was at the Pub on Trinity Street, my place of haunt.

Davie, your mind is asea tonight. It was the change in the rhythm of Gaven's voice that brought my attention back to the small group of fellow patrons, not so much the words. If you had been paying attention lad…you would have jumped right in when I mentioned James over there was late for his wife’s nagging.

Sorry Gaven, I seemed to have slipped away for a second. Gaven hates when his audience is anything but glued to his every word.

You’ve got Heather on your mind. I told you she would wrap her fingers around your...the look in your eyes says it’s serious this time. Best we leave that subject alone for talk and buy you a drink and tip to your good fortune! Dennis, a Scotch for Davie and one for me!

No; come on Gaven, no toasts!

Nonsense, besides, we haven’t had a decent toast in this fine establishment since United won their last match. Bill how long ago was that? Never mind. OK, a toast to Davie. To Davis and the lady of his dreams!

‘The lady of my dreams?’ No, I was thinking about life's journeys in general; recent and long past, and why this one was ending. The journey to this last evening at the Pub was not a short one. Nor was it a journey that started with a proverbial first step. This one started with a cataclysmic, paradigm shift in my life.

Her story is for her to tell. Mine, I was standing on a corner and saw the most desirable woman in the world. It was a most beautiful day of early spring.

Then, as the Italians say, I was moon-struck. I felt her presence long before I saw her. It was as if the world stopped turning, people and cars stopped moving past, even the birds were enveloped in silence. ‘All’ was defined as this beautiful girl walking on the far sidewalk, moving within a sea of out of focus objects. At the corner she turns to cross to where I am standing. I'm captivated, and my heart spoke the words that lifted from my lips, I know I’m in love. Before I could say something to the vision of my dreams, the world came back into focus and I could once more hear the noise of the traffic, I felt a chill from the rush of air. As fate would have it, someone else called her name. I remained silent.

I would carry my soul’s secret around with me. My secret was baggage that would become so heavy to carry; my heart burst. Then one day, years later, I held Breen in my arms. The very thought of that first moment still today inflames my heart. Then it was over.

The hard part was not my acceptance that she had made the smartest decision in her life, turning me away. The hard part was accepting the slow setting in of the reality that I was so selfish when I had my chance to kiss an angel. I turned to my writing. The words poured out on paper. Prose so deep and haunting, that I finally became too scared to write. I stopped photography because I saw only darkness in the images. Life went on, nevertheless.

I just had no idea where I was going. I knew I had to change. I worked at it; nevertheless I just could not believe change was taking place. Then one day as I was riding to work I realized I had changed as a person, and it was only me, myself, and I that was keeping me from believing in that new person. That baggage of love lost was still sitting in some corner of my mind, reminding me of what I should have been…keeping me from believing I had truly become a man who could not just say he loved, but could show it, live it. I realized I was on a new journey.

Not everyone is given a second chance, so you must watch for it. That’s why it is so important to recognize life is a series of journeys; not one long continuous, unbroken birth-to-death trip. Maybe it’s the cause and effect factor, chaos principle, three (five?) links to everyone else on earth, the butterfly in Brazil flapping its wings, that all inconclusive predestination, freewill, predetermination, philosophical rhetoric that education empowers us with that puts blinders on our eyes.

I once bet on a horse that died on the back stretch of Pimlico; at a point where, if you are standing at the fence, the infield tote board is right in your line of sight. The horses zip out of the second turn, then disappear behind the tote board. They zipped in, the gaggle zipped out less the one I bet on. You wait…your mind does not accept the reality…your brain does not process the fact eight horses went in and only seven came out. The horses cross the finish line and still you look for your horse. You move further over to the left and can now see the horse lying on the ground. You see the meat wagon roll onto the track. They cart the horse away. I turned to my cousin, obviously the blinders worked, he was too distracted looking straight ahead at death to finish the race. Life is a race. One day life will be over. I don’t want blinders on my eyes…there are too many wonderful things to be missed if I only looked straight ahead.

It’s not that I have a disdain for conservative people, I just feel sorry they never take the time to look right and left. Blinders on their eyes keep their memories so blasé. You meet someone who at sixty-five suddenly professes, reminisces about the good old days. You know full well in his twenties the guy would not have been caught dead listening to psychedelic rock music or riding in the rebuilt 70s muscle car he now drives to the Pink Floyed cover band show. Conservative lives become rewritten history once the commercial symbols of the society rebels they disdained in their youth become K-Mart retro purchases. Poor Jimmy H., if he only knew how his detractors now wear tee-shirts emblazed with his picture.

True happiness does not require danger or rebellion. True happiness only requires taking the time to see the beauty of a flower, to savor the smell of fresh baked bread, to really feel a woman’s touch. Life is a series of journeys and it’s never too late to start enjoying yours.

As a person I had to change. As the years passed I became more understanding of her feelings, her dreams, and, most of all, her hurt. My quest to atone for the hurt I caused her by my childish, selfish, self-centered ways gave importance to my becoming a better person. She would never know because she had closed the door to my existence, moving on to find a man that would want her, and she him.

Thus, my last night at the Pub on Trinity Street. I eventually learned to live with the memory and move on with life.

As a romantic I believe that memories are the only truly personal thing we have in this life; with time so much more vivid they become.

my one wish

is to hold you once more

in my dreams

only

in my dreams

On the day I woke up and started to live once again

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Chapter Two

Sometimes, when you realize that what you are doing is so out of kilter from your routine of life, you actually laugh out loud at yourself; hopefully the people around you do not think you’re laughing at them, or that you’re a nut case. I had waited for the elevator for what seemed to be an eternity, and in a rash moment of poor judgment to get back to my office, I stormed through an exit door to take the stairs. Now having just come back inside the building, in from a real storm raging outside, because I remembered too late, once the hallway door had shut behind me, the stairs only exited to the outside, I stood wet and feeling stupid. In situations such as this all you can do is laugh at yourself and leave it behind you. I did. I was still having a random chuckle in a small takeaway as I started to pour coffee into a paper cup.

Still have a sense of humor; good. Here, pour mine. A cup is placed next to mine. I hesitate to turn to see the woman who spoke…my mind is saying ‘no, it’s not her’…but my heart saying otherwise. It was Breen.

Dave, you can move now. At least you’re not pouring coffee on the floor. I looked at the coffee urn and saw it was frozen at an angle just to the right of slosh. Had she spoken a split second later the pot would have been frozen in slosh mode, cup overfilled, coffee everywhere, as I stood mesmerized by her presence.

One step at a time…put down coffee pot…smile…slight shake of the head…hi. There are few words in the English language that if said with feeling can say as much as ‘hi.’

She smiles; a radiant, wonderful smile. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was not even sure you would want me to speak to you…it has been quite some time, hasn’t it. Just short of a question, but equally short of rhetorical.

A few years. What an understatement. I was lost for words. I just did not want to say something that would scare her away; like ‘I love you and my heart is telling my hands to reach out and touch your cheek, to take you into my arms, to hold you’…to tell her the sun still rises and the moon still sets in her eyes. Be strong Mr. Brain, stay in control.

As if reading my mind, playfully, For someone who likes to talk, you seem to be lost for words.

I grin, smile, do that movement with my head where you kind of look down and tilt it first left, and then right as you lift your eyes to her, Breen, a thousand words are waiting to be spoken, I just don’t know what ones to say first. Good one, fast on your feet; not too glib, spoken with feeling. It was glib, why lie to yourself; that was way too glib.

She grins, she smiles, Are they good words? So tentative; not scared tentative, testing the bath water with your big toe, searching tentative.

Good words. Can we go somewhere to talk? Animated movement…hand gestures, head bob…pleading with my eyes. Please don’t rush off.

I won’t.

I finish pouring the coffees, pay, and we walk over to the tables. She has changed. Maturity of age has made her even more beautiful, if that were possible. The softness of her voice was a good sign. I loved her voice. I admired her for the strength of voice she could intone when she wanted to.

I play the gentleman, holding her chair, waiting for her to sit. The other patrons are watching. I am not sure why. Is it me, am I outwardly showing the confusion, uncertainty, the mesmerizing effect she is having on me? Is it her? She has on business attire; stylish, professional. She is radiant, alive, sensual, alluring. I feel the perfume, so soft; she is not one to wear a scent, but to carry it on the current of her presence.

Knowing that she dislikes me watching her every movement, I steal glances, to both reassure myself that she is still there and to take pleasure from the warmth of her closeness. She toys with her coffee cup, running her finger on the lip. She’s waiting for me to say something. Her eyes have already studied me; taking measure of my clothes, my personality. I cannot help but remember that she had the power to see right through me; so much for the false appearance we drape ourselves in with clothes and verbiage. Years ago, finally understanding what she was seeing, she disliked what she saw.

I look down at my hands, I’m holding onto my cup so my hands won't start visibly shaking, in a half question, Do we ask each other how we are…what do we say to each other? Obviously it’s going to take some time to tell the stories of our lives since the last time we spoke. I…I want to listen to you talk. I know that sounds stupid, but, I missed your voice…I missed you. Saying the words was easier than I had thought it would be. And saying them brought a measure of relaxation to my voice, nonetheless not to my shaking hands.

What do you want me to say… she smiles, Okay, I missed you too. No point in hiding the truth. I…Dave, I’m not sure what we need to say to each other. I do know that now is not the time or place for a serious discussion. So let’s ease into a conversation.

Okay. Nice weather we’re having…

She laughs; good sign, Nice weather…if you like wet clothes.

Two hours later we were still talking; her husband had died four years ago, I was divorced, talking about her job and mine, talking about the subway system, the bird she saw from her kitchen window, my dog, and her cat. We talked about ourselves. And when we realized the time, that our forgotten coffee was stone cold, we exchanged phone numbers and set a time and place to meet again. I walked her to the door. No kiss goodbye, no hug, just looking into each other’s eyes and seeing them reflect warmth and an invitation to tomorrow.

For the rest of the day I could not concentrate on work, could not carry a conversation; impossible to think of anything but her. That evening I sat in the overstuffed chair in the living room and did nothing but stare at the far wall. All the time thinking about each word she had said, thinking about each movement of her eyes, her hands, the play of her hair when she would touch it. I wondered if she was doing the same thing. Of what importance was my image to her? Did she walk out of the building this afternoon and forget me, turn her attention to her day, place my memory in some dark recess of her mind? Or, did she move through the day as I, trying to make some rational sense out of this situation.

Was there even a situation? Let’s face it, be honest with yourself Dave; seeing me just happened, no premeditation, no anything but ‘just happened.’ Obviously she cares for me. Fate, or no fate of bumping into each other, did she place any great importance on it. Or was I just trying to believe this to protect myself from harm. I turned out the light, yet stayed in the chair.

Saturday. The rain had moved off to the north, thankfully. Maybe the day would defy the weatherman and turn out sunny. I am sitting on a sofa at Page & Cup; sitting near the book store/coffee shop’s large picture window. It reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons in Heidelberg. Sitting in a large leather chair by the guesthouse’s window with a glass of Pfalz red wine; smooth, Portugieser grape. I would watch the tourists and students pass by, as the raindrops slid down the window.

This afternoon I was far from Heidelberg physically and figuratively. The pie on the plate before me was peach, fresh; no doubt good streusel-topped pie. Yes, I was breaking a promise not to eat to relieve stress. Besides, the slice was only about 400 plus calories. I watch my carbs; so subtracting the 3.5 grams of fiber, made the slab of heaven a mere 63 or 70 grams of carbohydrates. Ah, stress, the only thing for stress is carbs. Donna - my best friend - is drinking tea and nibbling at a gingersnap cookie. Based on serving size, I think I got the better deal; her puny cookie weighed in at a pitiful 12 carbs. We have met at her favorite place to discuss my love life and her quest for a dress that was going to render some poor guy named Fred into a dribbling idiot. Not that I know anything about women’s clothes for conquest, or even serve as an objective sounding board. Donna just likes to tease me with images of what I was missing by not sweeping her off her feet and into my bedroom. Friends are like that. Every guy needs at least two friends. One fellow man who agrees totally with your irrational behavior and one understanding woman who likes to compare you to the most recent magazine article on true love.

She breaks off a piece of cookie, So what did you say?

Donna, this was not supposed to happen…this was my fairytale…fairytales don’t happen.

Obviously Dave she is not a figment of your imagination. So what did you say!

You’re right, she’s real. We’re going to lunch Wednesday.

"Lunch? This isn’t a ‘let’s do lunch so one of us can air-kiss for an early goodbye