of disco club if she
remembered correctly. She would love to dance—again there would
have to be some kind of compromise with the shoes. She pushed up
her glasses, slipping down a bit on her nose, and carefully
examined the way the thing was put together. She really was
enjoying all of this, she decided abruptly. It was funny how things
worked.
All the wrong sort of men, married
mostly, and all of them looking soft and pudgy or old before their
time, were paying her all kinds of attention, and yet the odd
handsome stranger was always sort of lurking off in the background.
The few of them that were about were looking very shy for some
reason. She was scaring them off somehow, now there’s a cheerful
thought.
There was a fellow named Bartholomew,
not the best-looking one of the bunch, but at least he spoke
English. He was downright awkward, and there was this feeling that
he was somehow failing to scrape up the courage in spite of a few
awkward signals of her own.
It just didn’t seem worth it
sometimes. A man should be able to make up his mind.
Years ago, invited out for a wine and
cheese party at a downtown gallery at a very prestigious address,
she’d sort of taken a shine to Edouard, her water-colour artist,
although he was married and had three adult children. One of them
was only a couple of years younger than her. Edouard was handsome,
but it was his way of talking that got her. She still sort of
referred to the incident internally, and quite often. He had such
passion, for life, and work, his family and his art, all of which
were inextricably entwined in one mad, swirling ball of wax and
love and total commitment.
She was managing an insurance agency,
simply one of a nationwide chain. It could have been any insurance
agency, but the thought of moving, even for twice the money, simply
didn’t gnaw at her sufficiently to ever do anything about
it.
The education hadn’t hurt her any, but
maybe she should have specialized in something technical. Her
salary, though good, didn’t go too far in a city where an
apartment, anything even remotely worth having, would set you back
a couple of grand a month, and now with mother gone she had some
thinking to do on that front. She had a big old apartment loaded
with stuff she was afraid to let go of, and yet so little of it was
her own choosing.
When her mother died, after a long and
agonizing bout with pancreatic cancer, Jayne had endured six months
of the most intense emotional experience ever. Coming after two and
a half years of struggle, the grief, which she had expected, was
stronger than she could have ever believed.
All that love, love which worked both
ways, was gone.
All objectivity, the passive
acceptance, the submergence of self, which had been so necessary in
care-giving as best one could, was gone. For a time, she honestly
believed she was having a breakdown. Her well had run dry. She had
nothing left for herself. The only time she wasn’t grieving was
when she was at work. Even that had become a kind of hell. The
thoughts and the memories never left, and it just ate at her.
Without her mother to take care of, her own life didn’t seem to
amount to much.
She was too self-sufficient. She’d
been on her own for too long.
When her friend Melanie, good old Mel,
pestered her into taking a trip somewhere, on some kind of a whim,
mentioning this special charter, a real bargain when she thought
about it, sheer desperation to escape from all the suffering led
Jayne to agree.
When her friend suggested Rome,
Ravenna, Venice, Istanbul, and then on to Jerusalem, Jayne had
reluctantly agreed that it might be just the thing. Now of course
she was glad she came, but at the time, even the trip of a lifetime
brought doubts. She felt so horrible. There was no way she could
ever enjoy it, and inevitably she would sort of spoil it for
Melanie.
Off in the background somewhere,
Maurice droned on and on and on.
The next saint, all black, blues and
gold, with lovely fresh
remembered correctly. She would love to dance—again there would
have to be some kind of compromise with the shoes. She pushed up
her glasses, slipping down a bit on her nose, and carefully
examined the way the thing was put together. She really was
enjoying all of this, she decided abruptly. It was funny how things
worked.
All the wrong sort of men, married
mostly, and all of them looking soft and pudgy or old before their
time, were paying her all kinds of attention, and yet the odd
handsome stranger was always sort of lurking off in the background.
The few of them that were about were looking very shy for some
reason. She was scaring them off somehow, now there’s a cheerful
thought.
There was a fellow named Bartholomew,
not the best-looking one of the bunch, but at least he spoke
English. He was downright awkward, and there was this feeling that
he was somehow failing to scrape up the courage in spite of a few
awkward signals of her own.
It just didn’t seem worth it
sometimes. A man should be able to make up his mind.
Years ago, invited out for a wine and
cheese party at a downtown gallery at a very prestigious address,
she’d sort of taken a shine to Edouard, her water-colour artist,
although he was married and had three adult children. One of them
was only a couple of years younger than her. Edouard was handsome,
but it was his way of talking that got her. She still sort of
referred to the incident internally, and quite often. He had such
passion, for life, and work, his family and his art, all of which
were inextricably entwined in one mad, swirling ball of wax and
love and total commitment.
She was managing an insurance agency,
simply one of a nationwide chain. It could have been any insurance
agency, but the thought of moving, even for twice the money, simply
didn’t gnaw at her sufficiently to ever do anything about
it.
The education hadn’t hurt her any, but
maybe she should have specialized in something technical. Her
salary, though good, didn’t go too far in a city where an
apartment, anything even remotely worth having, would set you back
a couple of grand a month, and now with mother gone she had some
thinking to do on that front. She had a big old apartment loaded
with stuff she was afraid to let go of, and yet so little of it was
her own choosing.
When her mother died, after a long and
agonizing bout with pancreatic cancer, Jayne had endured six months
of the most intense emotional experience ever. Coming after two and
a half years of struggle, the grief, which she had expected, was
stronger than she could have ever believed.
All that love, love which worked both
ways, was gone.
All objectivity, the passive
acceptance, the submergence of self, which had been so necessary in
care-giving as best one could, was gone. For a time, she honestly
believed she was having a breakdown. Her well had run dry. She had
nothing left for herself. The only time she wasn’t grieving was
when she was at work. Even that had become a kind of hell. The
thoughts and the memories never left, and it just ate at her.
Without her mother to take care of, her own life didn’t seem to
amount to much.
She was too self-sufficient. She’d
been on her own for too long.
When her friend Melanie, good old Mel,
pestered her into taking a trip somewhere, on some kind of a whim,
mentioning this special charter, a real bargain when she thought
about it, sheer desperation to escape from all the suffering led
Jayne to agree.
When her friend suggested Rome,
Ravenna, Venice, Istanbul, and then on to Jerusalem, Jayne had
reluctantly agreed that it might be just the thing. Now of course
she was glad she came, but at the time, even the trip of a lifetime
brought doubts. She felt so horrible. There was no way she could
ever enjoy it, and inevitably she would sort of spoil it for
Melanie.
Off in the background somewhere,
Maurice droned on and on and on.
The next saint, all black, blues and
gold, with lovely fresh
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