Two Lost Loves

She was so gorgeous she had to be a dream. He was so ugly he had to be real.

I loved them both, and lost them both.

Loving her was simpler than loving him. Jennifer had the classical beauty, the easy elegance, the obvious intelligence. How could I not be attracted? Jake, frankly, annoyed: the whining, the drool, the jealousy toward his mistress's suitors.

His outrageous behavior and unruly attitude at least were forgivable; he was a superb protector and devoted companion to her.

He challenged me, because he saw me as a threat. I needed her as much as he did. She claimed he was all the companionship she needed: eighty-five pounds of boxer dog sharing her bed and breakfast. He kept her warm at night; he gave her reason to rise in the morning. He shared her private moments; he kept her secrets. And that, she said, was quite enough.

Nevertheless she tolerated me for a while. I, too, was warmth, entertainment, antidote to her private void. I didn't drool, but periodically my emotions did slip out. Those damned feelings were my downfall.

We made our peace, Jake and I, and came to rely on one another.

In me he saw an authority figure and an entertainer. In him I saw the stolid strength that lay below his (minimal) personality.

He would sit for hours at her feet, or at mine if I was around. He was satisfied to sit — a canine mind at idle. I came to see him as my spiritual ground strap. My hand was drawn to his powerful back. Physically touching him put me at ease. Of all the dogs I have known and loved, none but Jake projected that brutish solidity. I still miss him.

I miss her, too, not for her solidity but for her fragility. She was wounded in ways she could not reconcile, despite the ongoing therapy. Father was distant; mother was cruel. She had severed relations with her brother years earlier for some unforgiveable act. Her husband had run off with his masseuse. The boys at the office had grabbed her, used her, climbed over her. The doctors had sliced deep into her right breast and left behind a scar that cut clear through her self-image.

She was beautiful; she was hurting. I was powerless to heal her.

In a way I was fortunate. Few men had had her after the divorce, though many had tried. For me she gave herself willingly. Arriving at her beach house on the Outer Banks, overwrought by eleven hours of driving and three hours of ferries, I scarcely noticed she was wearing nothing but a nightgown. Later it amused me: I had loved her more for the glow around her than for the clothes she wore.

She hated that. She, the impeccable clothes horse who had spent twelve grand on wardrobe in one year, was loved by some commoner who only used five shirts and three pairs of pants. It made no sense. It was unfair. It was unacceptable. It could not be.

And ultimately, it was not.

— by Bud Stolker

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Bud Stolker
Suite 101, Landmark Towers, 101 South Whiting Street, Alexandria, VA 22304
Telephone: 703-370-2242
E-mail: landmark@landmark.org
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