dontravis.com blog post #589
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SMOKY
I called her Smoky.
She was the girl who always carried the
faint fragrance of jasmine with her, and I was the guy who was in love with her
from the day we met in freshman English. It was a big class, but I was
fortunate enough to sit beside her. Before the class convened, I screwed up the
courage to utter the five most difficult words I had ever spoken.
“Hi, I’m Am. Ambrose Haller.”
She looked puzzled before responding.
“Gwendolyn Sharp. Nice to meet you.”
Understanding her confusion, I stiffened
my spine and spoke again. “I didn’t stutter. I really said ‘I’m Am.’ That’s
what everybody calls me instead of Ambrose.”
“Oh.” Then she smiled. Smiled with her
whole being. With her eyes as well as her lips. Her irises were gray. Not pale.
Dark, smoky gray. Seemingly infused with swirling mists of changing shades and
shapes. I’d never seen eyes like that before. In that moment, she became Smoky
to me.
Her laugh was silver pinging off crystal.
“Let’s do that over again. Hi, Am, I’m Gwen.”
When I took the dainty hand she offered,
some part of my essence flowed through our clasped palms into her. Did she
recognize what had just happened?
Professor Sorloff called the class to attention,
breaking the magic of the moment and earning my undying enmity. Damn Sorloff! Why was somebody with a
name like that teaching English, anyway?
For one hour, three days a week over two
semesters, I sat beside my angel. Although almost everyone else I knew despised
the class, I could hardly wait for 9:00 a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
We became friends, almost intimates, occasionally sharing confidences that drew
me closer to her. I suffered some setbacks, as well. There was the boyfriend, Dirk,
who showed up after class to claim her as though he owned her. Later came the
bitter breakup that left her shaken and unhappy.
My opportunity, right? I thought so, too. But
while she shared some of her feelings with me, it was a strapping footballer
named Robin who apparently had a more comfortable shoulder. The school term
staggered to a close with me little more than a classmate to my beautiful
Smoky.
My sophomore year was a drag because she
transferred to New Mexico State in order to follow her football tight end to
Las Cruces. For an entire semester, the slightest whiff of jasmine made me ill.
Twenty years passed before I glanced
through the one-way glass wall of my office at the Central Avenue Branch of the
Spartan Bank and noticed a woman waiting in line for a teller. She wore a pair
of large, very dark glasses, something signs prominently displayed on the bank’s
doors discouraged. As usual, I took special notice of someone who might be
attempting to mask her identity. The tall woman was quite well-formed. I’m not
certain if I made that mental note as a banker identifying a potential scam
artist or as a man who’d recently undergone a divorce. Regardless of the
reason, she was in my sights now.
The woman was not a regular customer of
the branch yet somehow looked familiar. Drawn by curiosity—or perhaps caution—I
moved into the lobby to stand at the tall table that once held deposit slips
and counter checks before banks went to computers and did away with such
necessities. She stood in profile as she moved up the line.
Her delicate features sent my mind racing
over wanted posters and past relationships, but I had not pulled whatever was
niggling at me from my memory banks by the time she finished her transaction
and started for the door. On impulse, I moved to intercept her.
“Excuse me, ma’m. I’m Mr. Haller, the
manager. May I welcome you to our branch?”
She halted abruptly, which excited my
suspicion… and brought a hint of jasmine.
She pulled off the shades and looked up at
me. “Am?”
“Smoky!” I exclaimed.
Her laugh still sent shivers down my back
“I haven’t been called that in years. It’s good to hear it again.”
“I lost track of you after you transferred
to State.”
“I’ve wondered about you often. So you’re
a banker?” That tinkling laugh again. “My banker. I just opened an account last
week.”
She was more beautiful as a mature woman
than she had ever been as a coed. Back then, her looks merely promised
something. Now she delivered on that promise. True beauty.
Somehow we ended up agreeing to meet for
coffee after work. She was employed as an electrical engineer at a firm a
couple of blocks down the street. In that enchanted half hour, I confessed my
recent divorce and learned of her difficult breakup from her husband… that same
footballer who’d taken her away from me all those years ago.
That
coffee was succeeded by dinner a few nights later, which gave rise to others.
Then came the magical night where I found myself where I’d only dreamed I would
ever be.
On top of Old Smoky.
****
Sorry, I
couldn’t help it. Forgive me.
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Don
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