~
Women do fall in love with one another at first sight, but they take a little longer to fall into one another's arms.
~
Scents of Heaven
(c) 2005 by Penelope Street
I shall always look at the simple metal box and its supporting post with something resembling awe. It is just a mailbox, after all. I cannot help but marvel how such simple items can be the centerpiece to events that change our lives. I shall be ever thankful of the manner in which my humble letterbox changed mine.
Everyone remembers their first true love, and all that comes with it. I suspect most recall something less than an example of supreme bliss or the start of a romance for the ages. That was exactly my recollection until a cool spring day not so long ago, when an unplanned encounter led me to reevaluate everything about my life, my heart, and myself.
Before then, I wasn't even sure whom I would have named as my first true love. Was it the first boy that held my hand? Or kissed me? Or fucked me? Or would I have been sentimental, as well as dishonest, and tried to pretend it was my husband?
In my late teens, I was never lacking for opportunities for male companionship. As a girl, I was cute, sporting a chiseled face framed by shoulder-length locks as straight as they were black. My figure was similar to my hair; sharp, short, and straight. I was cute, nothing more, but that's enough to turn the heads of boys at a time when their heads aren't used for much more than turning.
Though I was of interest to the boys, I did not find them similarly appealing. At the time I figured I was simply young and accepted that one day I would look at males in a different manner, even though I could but imagine what the experience would be like when I did. It never quite happened the way I had envisioned, but I did have boyfriends.
The boy I now consider to have been my first beau was Michael Anderson. He wasn't much bigger than I was then, though he was a senior and I was a sophomore. My earliest memory of him was playing on the same co-ed intramural soccer team. During one particular contest, a rather large boy on the other team kicked me twice and then knocked me to the ground. Before I had a chance to regain my feet Mike had tackled the other lad.
Of course, Michael got a pounding for his trouble, in addition to a red card, but he was still my hero. We held hands throughout the school corridors for all of three weeks. I even sat up at night in my bed and practiced signing "Grace Anderson."
Then he asked if I would be his girlfriend.
I panicked, thinking that being his girlfriend meant doing more than just holding hands. Looking back, I doubt he wanted more than a confirmation of what we already shared. In spite of fantasizing about being his bride, I was not yet ready for kissing, let alone more. I dumped him in the indurate fashion that is all too common to teenagers.
Only years later, as more serious boyfriends came and went, did I begin to regret the haste, foolishness, and callous cruelty with which I treated a very nice boy. I have often thought to seek him, if only to apologize. Although I am sorry for how I had treated him, I have never regretted not having become Mrs. Anderson. However, I do hope that, wherever he is, he still thinks of me as his first girlfriend, though I know it to be a title I do not deserve.
After high school, I went to college, but never graduated. It was the late sixties and there seemed to be more important things to do than study, including having far too much sex with boys I knew far too little about.
Looking back, I feel fortunate. When I did get my stupid ass knocked up, it was at least by as close to a gentleman as one could hope to find in that age group. He offered to do the decent thing, and I accepted. Thus I became, and have since been, Mrs. Andrew Myers.
As fortunate as I feel, I feel just as guilty. I have never been as good a wife to Andy as he has been husband to me. The one simple, unshakable truth is, he loves me, but I have never quite felt the same way. I have tried, but the task is impossible, none of us choose whom we love. Like all those who have contemplated that bitter irony before me, I know not why. I have spent entire days wondering if love is the most simple thing, or the most complex. The more I wonder, the more I am convinced it is the latter.
Thus I lived what most would expect to have been the best years of my life, those early times when the spirit and body both feel young. Though my daughter was an accident and my husband a convenience, I cannot say that I suffered. Andy was a good provider. Colette was a model child. I did my duties to both as I saw them and, in hindsight, I did an acceptable job on both fronts.
Yet, though I did not suffer, neither was I joyful. I knew my life was a shell of the dreams I had had as a child. When Colette went away to college, the abject emptiness of my own existence became apparent.
I considered seeking a separation, but I could not see myself happy with another man anyway. In spite of the fact that I did not love Andy, I at least liked him, trusted him, and respected him. I felt like a mercenary, or even a harlot, for choosing to stay with him for practicality rather than passion, but I stayed just the same. The prospect of being unemployed, unloved, and alone seemed far more daunting than maintaining the sham that I was a contented housewife.
The story of how that sham became a reality begins the autumn day the "For Sale" sign appeared in the yard next door. When I first saw it, the sight caused me some distress. Though I had no great affection for the couple that lived in the adjacent home, they were quiet neighbors and the risk of having some hooligans in their place was, at the very least, disquieting.
I need not have worried. The young couple that purchased the house turned out to be even more reclusive than their predecessors. Andy greeted them the day they arrived, as the movers unloaded their truck. In spite of the pleasantries exchanged, they essentially ignored us afterward, and we reciprocated.
Over the winter, I caught an occasional glimpse of the couple and their two boys. Once I saw the mother and her sons in the backyard building a snowman, but I never gave them a second glance.
Thus my neighbor and I were essentially strangers come early spring when I stood by my mailbox, flipping through the envelopes, hoping to see something other than a bill. I got my first decent look at the woman as she conducted her boys along the walkway from her house. She was a shade on the stocky side, though hardly fat. A short mop of ruddy brown capped the head that I judged to be an inch or two above my own.
A smirk crossed my features as I noticed the young lady wore her nightclothes. My head bounced once as I issued a snigger; I at least bothered to wear a sweater and slacks, even if I was just getting the mail. When she caught my gaze and returned an honest smile, my sneer melted along with my contempt.
Such a happy smile
, I thought, returning a polite, but aloof, nod.
And just walking with her boys in her pajamas, how can she be so happy? Have I ever been that happy?
Wearing a scowl, I continued to sift through the post, but my focus was beyond my hands. When the woman reached the sidewalk not ten feet distant, she bent over to kiss each boy on the cheek. As she did so, her loose top fell away from her body. My gaze jumped, forgoing any pretext of examining the parchment, to stare straight at her exposed bosom. So wonderfully large and full were her breasts, perfect of symmetry, uniform in hue, enticing in their apparent softness.
My eyes bulged as my tongue felt the moistness within my mouth. With a gasp, I glanced first left, then right, then back to my mail.
What is wrong with you?
I scolded myself.
Checking out another woman's breasts.
In spite of my internal reprimand I found myself looking again a moment later. I could not recall having ever seen anything so alluring.
My focus dropped to my own modest bosom, obscured as it was by my sweater. When I looked up again, I inhaled a quick breath. My neighbor, her face aglow, had covered half of the distance between us.
Her smile
, I mused.
It's every bit as lovely as her breasts. Her baby face and those freckles, how dare she look so good without a shred of makeup!
I snapped my head in a pair of brisk pivots, as if by shaking it I could expel the thoughts I judged to be unnatural and wrong.
"Hi," she began. "I'm Cheryl. Cheryl Dobbs. But my friends call me Sherry. You must be Grace?"
She knows my name!
My jaw fell and hung idle for a full second before I recovered enough to speak. "Yes," I managed to mutter. "I'm Grace. Grace Myers. Pleased to, uh, finally meet you; Sherry?"
"Yes," the woman nodded. "Sherry."
My eyes roamed in the silence that followed, dropping with some haste to her chest and the perky nipples that stood out clearly through the lean fabric in the crisp morning air. Shocked by my own fascination, I snapped my focus back to her face, where I found her eyes sparkling every bit as much as before.
"Aren't you, uh, cold?" I inquired. "Being outside in just your PJs, I mean."
