Widowish: A Memoir(48)

I met Davis awkwardly one morning when we were both walking into Marcos’s house. Me from morning drop-off, Davis from a night out. He gave me the once over, and later Marcos told me that Davis liked me on sight because I didn’t look like I’d be moving in anytime soon.

While I had been in a committed relationship with Joel since I was in my twenties, Marcos had had many relationships. Many. Mostly with beautiful actresses and/or models, like Davis’s mother. She and Marcos were never married, although they did live together for years. They split up when Davis was a toddler, and while Davis had a relationship with his mother, Marcos was the one who was raising him during his teenage years.

I wasn’t looking to be in a relationship. I thought that whatever happened between us would be a fling, at most. I didn’t have time for much more than that; neither did he. Our make-out sessions reminded me that mutual desire overrides things like self-consciousness over an aging body and worry if he would ever call me again. I was a widow. I was in my forties. I had already lost everything there was to lose.

I got a text one morning while I was at Clooney.

Come over. Now. It was from Marcos.

All clear? I wrote back.

Yes! he said.

I had never finished Clooney so fast in my life. It didn’t matter that I was sweaty when I got to Marcos. Davis would be gone all day and this was our chance.

Marcos answered the door naked. Absolutely nude. With a big smile.

“Welcome!” he said.

Maybe it wasn’t romantic, but I found it very funny. And sort of charming. I, too, was naked by the time we got back to his bedroom.

This was not how I pictured our first tryst. Or my first tryst with someone other than Joel. I thought it would be at night, first of all. I thought I may have a buzz going from a romantic dinner date, with wine, that preceded nudity. But then again, all my expectations about Marcos were wrong from the start.

I liked that he knew Joel. He often mentioned him in conversation. He didn’t seem scared or daunted or even nervous around The Widow. He saw me as a whole person, and just as I found him interesting, he was interested in me. Whatever was happening between us felt different, for both of us.

I loved how he kissed me. I was comforted by the weight of his body next to mine.

Afterward I admitted to him, “You know, I was actually surprised you called me that day. About the tattoos.” I started to laugh.

“You’re the one who asked me if I had any!” Marcos said.

“Yeah, like a week earlier!”

Marcos smiled.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” I said.

“Well, your husband had just died. I was proceeding with caution.”

“Yeah,” I said and sighed.

Joel.

Tears came to my eyes. Marcos squeezed me. I lay there with Marcos but was thinking about Joel. Are you OK with this, hun? Are you mad at me? If so, can you forgive me?

“It’s alright. You’re going to be OK,” Marcos said.

I wiped my tears from my face and cried quietly into his arms. He didn’t seem to mind.

I inhaled him in and it soothed me. He smelled masculine. His hands and arms were strong from playing guitar every day. I loved how smooth his skin felt and how his hair curled under at the base of his neck. I dried my tears on his chest.

“I’m here,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m right here.” He kissed the top of my head.

Wherever this man is, I thought, is where I want to be.





SEVENTEEN

Every Everything

I continued with my healing rituals every night (read a passage from Healing After Loss, shared a memory of Joel with Sophie, watched my Real Housewives, read Iyanla, listened to the Other Joel . . .) and still cried my way through a lot of my days. But I was also in joyful anticipation of meeting up with Marcos, which was about once a week.

Where I seemed so confused in other aspects of my life, with Marcos things were crystal clear. My needs, which were surprisingly physical, were getting met, and neither of us had an issue with that. I never worried that he was overstepping or taking advantage of my vulnerability because we were on the same page. It was a casual fling.

We would meet at his place when the coast was clear, and about an hour later, I’d be home. Our time together was tender, but when we were done there was no pretense that we would spend the rest of the day or night together. Every so often we’d have coffee and talk and laugh in his kitchen. We tried a few times to meet for a drink or go on a “real” date, but it never worked out. We were getting to know each other in spurts—but in an effort to keep things easy, I didn’t overthink it. I also didn’t think a relationship was necessarily in the cards. I didn’t always follow what he was saying, but I liked his company.

Marcos thought like an artist, always just a few inches off the ground, his mind in other places. He was a fierce blues musician but wasn’t familiar with bands I loved, like Wilco and the Avett Brothers. He was only aware of pop music because his students would come in wanting to learn the latest Taylor Swift or One Direction song, but otherwise he knew nothing of pop culture. He didn’t even own a TV.

He had no idea who the real housewives were, had never seen an episode of Game of Thrones, and once referred to Kourtney Kardashian, who he saw in our neighborhood one afternoon, as some girl who had a bunch of paparazzi following her around when all I wanted to do was get a cup of coffee.