She invited me to her
home the first week after we had first met. Our attraction to one another was
spontaneous and mutual. The chemistry was all there and we felt as though we
had known each other since birth. Indeed, we even felt that we had met in a
former life, but we could not decide whether it was in
"I can feel your tantric energy flowing through me the first time we
met" she confided after our first date. This was the kind of expression
which would have frightened off the multitudes, certainly anyone who was a
potential suitor, but I was attracted to her eccentricity, and she welcomed my
own quirks and habitual absurdities. We found companionship in interests which
were foreign to most other people. For instance, she loved collecting dead
leaves in autumn and pressing them within the pages of a prayer book. Later
when they dried she would make greeting cards with them glued on sheets of
thick paper. She showed me her collection and I was amazed by their simple
beauty. "How interesting, I exclaimed when she told me.
I then confided to her
that I collected labels from bottle of beers and pasted them onto blank
postcards to send as greetings to friends I hadn't seen in a while.
"How
charming! She
exclaimed when I confessed.
We met regularly on weekends and
talked about our eccentricities. Encounters became therapy sessions and we had
begun to trust one another to such an extent that sitting together over a cup
of coffee was more therapeutic than the confessional.
The collecting of leaves and
Beer labels was only the tip of the iceberg. She revealed other eccentricities
likes impersonating the voices of well-known actresses and talking to the
penguins in the zoo.
He
catalog of bizarre behavior far exceeded mine and I realized after a month that
I was no match for her. She was really "Queen of the Bizarre" and I
listened with great interest as she opened up the chambers of her hidden soul.
It was after two months that she
said to me with solemn earnest, "Mario, I want to show you
something."
What made her comment so
strange was the solemnity with which she conveyed he wish to share. I thought
she was going to show me old photos of her family or perhaps pictures of
herself dresses as a nun, but instead she took me inside into the dining room
and opened up a chest filled with cups and saucers, plates and glasses. But at
the bottom two shelves there was an exhaustive collection of salt and pepper
shakers.
"Look at them,"
she cried excitedly, "aren't they
beautiful?"
There was agleam in her eye
that sparkled with radiance and achievement. "They are my collection of
salt and pepper shakers. I have collected them from all over the world,"
They stood there in
pairs on the shelves like married couples in a Mormon Marriage; different sizes
and different shapes as a metaphor on the human condition. Some were made of
pewter, others of glass, some were rounded and other squared. Some had initials
carved into them while yet others gave no hint of their maker and origin.
"It has taken me a long
time to amass such a large collection." I found it was even stranger that
she had taken up such a collection as a hobby since the meals she prepared
contained almost no seasoning.
I had no answer except,
"They are very interesting!"
They stood there in silence
on the shelf, a menagerie of figurines which were probably never used. I was
reminded of Laura Wingfield and her menagerie of
glass animals and how she so much favored the unicorn because of its symbolic
uniqueness.
"Do you have a
favorite?' I asked her playing the role of the gentleman caller.
"Oh Yes!" her eyes
gleamed with pride and delight. She reached into the case and pulled out a
solitary shaker. It was about seven centimeters high and made of a glass stem
with a pewter cap. It was carved in the style of Bavarian crystal and , had the salt been removed from the shaker the light
might have danced through it reflecting a rainbow of colors.
"This is only the
salt. The pepper shaker broke about five years ago. It fell to the floor almost
on its own volition and broke itself into thousands of pieces."
She had a great
weakness for hyperbole.
"now,
she is alone."
"So, I thought, she IS Laura Wingfield
after all. She identifies with the pieces and this one in particular. No she is
alone. Was this some sort of come-on? Was I now supposed to say, “You are not alone. I am with you." That sounded too melodramatic
and somewhat corny, so instead I said, “We are all alone." which came
across as melodramatic nevertheless.
When she finally closed the
case I felt relieved. Her behavior had become bizarre in a neurotic sort of way
and I felt I had entered the inner circle of her fantasy which had been closed
from others. This invitation to intimacy was more than I had bargained for and
the closing of the case gave me cause to wonder.
It was several weeks later that we went
to a rather upscale French restaurant. it was her birthday and I decided to
celebrate it is a quiet way with a fine dinner at a famous restaurant noted for
its entrees made with imported ingredients, organic vegetables and exotic
wines.
The decor was elegant,
the sort of place4 for lovers on holiday or newlyweds on honeymoon. It was a
restaurant for special occasions. The ambiance was relaxed with a piano bar
player sitting in the corner at a grand piano playing requests. His talent far
exceeded his repertoire and no request, however, obscure, was beyond his grasp.
The waiter wore white gloves lest
his hands should inadvertently touch the food and service was prompt, polite
and ingratiating.
We dressed for the occasion. She wore a
white dress which could have carri8ed over into an evening gown. Her hair was fashioned
in such a way that at first sight I could hardly recognize her as the person I
knew.
"You look ravishing, my
dear." I whispered. Had we gone to Starbucks for coffee the word ravishing
would hardly have been appropriate but here it fitted the occasion.
"Thank you, dear." she
replied. Ironically we were no more than good friends and such words as
"dear' and "darling" were pretentious given the relationship but
not the occasion.
"What shall we order?"
she asked scanning down the menu. In such restaurants the woman is given a menu
without any prices and the man's menu contains not only the prices but also the
service charges and recommended tip.
"Well." I thought to
myself, "After all, it is her birthday and such days come only once a
year."
The waiter came over and smiled
politely.
"My name is Andre and I will be
your waiter for their evening." He delivered his introduction with an
affected French Accent which he most likely had mastered at the Actor's Studio.
It is well known that in
She ordered frogs legs au
provincial and I ordered chopped meat burger in a wine sauce au flambeaux to
balance off the entree into a price range I found affordable.
I noticed to my
disappointment that the meat had not been properly seasoned. as
the waiter approached our table with sautéed vegetables and creamed broccoli, I
asked, "Sweetheart, I think this entree needs so salt."
"Shush..." she
admonished with embarrassment.”Not now."
I scanned the table and
noticed that the salt and pepper shakers were both gone.
"Where are the
shakers?" I asked innocently. "I noticed them on the table when we
sat down to dinner, but now they are gone."
"Shush, please, not
now. Try to enjoy your meal."
Suddenly it occurred to me
what had happened. I looked at her angelic face aglow with the soft touch of
candlelight and asked, "You didn't?"
She looked at me and said,
"I did."