2001
The summer of that year had been warm and lengthy, my husband and I lived in a small one-story condominium on an elevated corner road with neighbors directly across from us on a shared lot.
My husband worked as a gourmet chef, I, a student and homemaker. I recall that James disappeared for hours at a time, working, drinking or betting on Poker. Many nights I spent amiss his presence, and often I didn't see his face until the light of day.
Pastimes awakened my passion for life, kept me entertained -- walks, computer games, shopping at the mall, browsing the web, or smoking marijuana with girlfriends. Preparing food, drinking wine, and decorating and crafting were among our best hobbies, you see, Friends are not something I have been without. To make life more interesting, I knew my neighbors well- A group of interesting young men rooming in an identical condo shared our space. Alex worked nightshift at a television station running shows and late-night commercials. Mark, a tall thin blonde man with a witty personality, worked in advertising at a local radio station. Michael worked as a part-time prep cook in a shoddy cafe downtown throughout the summer, and was into home repairs and remodeling throughout the fall and winter of 2001.
Six months subsequent to making our vows, my husband and I barely saw one another. He was a hostile and insecure man, as I came to discover, and I learned to enjoy my time alone. I spent a lot of time over the seasons with the guys, especially Michael, as he was also home frequently, and of whom shared many of my tastes.
There was no hope of reviving James, or bringing him home before his time; this was well established. In fear of losing everything to Poker, I entertained myself with the company of my friends and hobbies. Michael and I found the company of one another when no one else was around. Fine red wine, grass, relaxing and talking about much of nothing usually. Sometimes we'd play board games or cards or stroke Michael s cat, Foster. In the evenings this group of men would often convene for a party.
"You've got to try some of this cheese" -- Michael's mother would send bricks of it from home in Wisconsin. "Sweaty..." he'd say.
"Sweaty?" I grimaced.
"Sweaty Cheese, that's what it becomes after it's been sitting out for awhile." I looked at him, then at the cheese, and burst into joyful laughter. "Indeed, it is sweaty!" I exclaimed at such delusional, joyous
We sit outside in the bright daylight. It is warm, summertime magic. I am wearing my light gray sundress. The dress included spaghetti straps I remembered, which I could never pull off dude to the enormity bulging from my chest, necessitating my bra. Nevertheless I rocked the gray dress, bra straps and all in my carefree youth. Imbibing ourselves until drunk, we passed the time with either extreme -- conversations which were deep meaningful, purposeful, or those which were based on entirely moot subject matter. I with my tea, my wine, and blackberry beer, getting high while he played renditions of "Dark Star", sharing memories, laughing with movies, returning back into our respective homes, or sitting outside while he strummed his guitar were my favorites.
Through the months my friendship with Michael flourished. I sometimes ...waited...for him... to return home from the workplace, a flutter in my belly. The fall had passed by quickly and the Western valley wet with snow. I recall taking short residence upon the porch swing with a cigarette, shivering beneath the blanket I wrapped into, Michael there, calm and collected he says, "you know in Wisconsin it's much colder than this, this is really warm," I thought it was always within his character to speculate laughingly, on these observations of the blatant type. Michael originated from Wisconsin and traveled into the western states just when he moved to the condo in Salem. I'd never known any different. The mild Oregon climate was one I'd grown with my entire life; for this Michael's history of travel, and experience of the world, was appealing.
"Do you have any more of that Chianti?" Michael nodded to his kitchen area (a kitchen dreadfully kept in a houseful of men), I followed Michael in the dark for the Chianti. Bad television we watched for awhile; his house always smelled of stale air and pizza, which both disturbed and humored me.
