Chapter 10: 10:35PM continued

. Sitting on the bar stool next to me is a woman of about forty-five with a perfect oval face, smooth skin, large expressive dark blue eyes, soft shoulder length brown hair parted on the side that curls in to and frames her face. Her smile is incandescent and comes from inside her. But there is mischief there too. I know the smile. It always leaves me a little breathless and knees of Jello. I am delighted to see her. She knows this. She knows she is the love that eluded me. The love that destroyed me like a wood frame house in the way of Category 5 hurricane. She knows all this, which is why she graced me with a smile and a wave at the airport.

I say, “You remember.”

“Did you think I would forget?”

“No. I was pretty sure you wouldn’t, but it gives me a little joy knowing you do.”

I met Dwynwen Kristin Morgan on a business trip to Boston sixteen years ago. I was on the 6:15 Acela from New York to Boston. I traveled to Boston a lot back then. It was the heart and soul of digital advertising and that meant me traveling there on almost weekly basis. I could have flown, taking one of the “shuttles” from Newark or LaGuardia Airports but I preferred the train. It was a two subway stop trip to catch the train, and there was no security to deal with or dealing with ground delays in the northeast corridor. And when all was said and done the trip took the same amount of time door to door. I preferred the comfort of the train. Nicer seats, space to work if I needed to and best of all I could catch a few cat naps when I wanted.

The morning, I met Wen, I was running late and barely made it to the train before the door slid shut. The train was crowded. Nearly every seat occupied. I spied an open aisle seat about halfway down the car and made my way to it. When I got there, I saw the seat that I thought was empty was actually occupied by one of those ubiquitous black totes that businesswoman used to carry the things that won’t fit into their briefcases. I also knew it was a ploy to occupy seats when the owner of the bag was hoping to sit alone. I understood. I liked having an entire row to myself as well, but I needed a place to sit so I asked, “Is this seat taken?” The woman, deeply engaged with a spreadsheet on her laptop, looked at me with an exasperated expression, as if I had said something mildly offensive, and said “no.” Taking her bag and placing it under the seat in front of her she returned to her work.  I thanked her, sat and placing my black Tumi backpack under the seat in front of me promptly fell asleep.

I woke up just as the train was leaving Stanford. My seatmate was still fully engrossed by her spreadsheet. Tying to be the hale and hearty fellow traveler I asked, “I am going up to the club car for a cup of coffee may I bring you back something?” Not even taking the time to look up from her computer screen she replied frostily thank you.” As I made my way through the rocking train to get my coffee, I thought to myself “What a bitch.”

The trip passed without incident or conversation. I was put off by her frigid tone and did not have the energy or desire to pierce the permafrost. Besides I had work of my own to complete… As we exited the train I wished her a good day.

My first meeting was at the offices of Develin, Coughlin and Bondanza in the Prudential Building. They are an advertising agency who had fully embraced the digital revolution and whose clients were among the most prestigious names in Boston marketing including Reebok, LL Bean, and the reason for my visit today, Gillette. The offices were designed in concrete chic with exposed floors, modern furniture with large windows with panoramic views of Boston. The receptionist showed me to a conference room just off the main lobby and told me that Ms. Morgan, was running a few minutes late and to make myself comfortable. I unpacked my bag, hooked up my computer to the projector and put  my game face on for the presentation. Fifteen minutes later a woman with shoulder length soft brown hair parted on the side that perfectly framed her face and crystalline blue eyes walks in and puts out her hand and says “Hi, I am Dwynwen. You can call me Wen.”

Stifling a laugh I reply“Wen, I think we have met before.’

She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time and says “Oh my god. You are the man on the train who made me move my bag.”

“That would be me.” And we both laughed.

I don’t recall what we spoke about at that meeting. My memory has failed in that regard. I do remember leaving feeling good about life.

From then on whenever I made one of my frequent trips to Boston, I would reach out to her to see if we could meet. Often, she could not. But when we did get together, whether it was for dinner at Grill 23, or a game at Fenway Park or a few moments stolen in her office when I was at the agency visiting with other people, our friendship gained depth. We learned that we shared the same compassionate world view. We read the same books. I appreciated the music she loved.  She laughed at my jokes. We shared our troubles with each other. Whether that be frustration at work or relationship challenges. We exchanged emails that shared the nitty gritty of our lives, philosophical epiphanies, self-deprecating stories of minor failures in our lives and the occasional emotional trauma. It was innocent. Neither one of us was looking to fall in love with each other.

My first realization that things had changed happened shortly before Christmas four years after we met. It was a busy time for both of us and the only time we could meet was for a few minutes in her office. To make it celebratory I brought a box of “Chocolate Orgasm” brownies from Rosie’s Bakery in Cambridge. We drank coffee, munched on the incredible brownies and lapsed into chatting about our holiday plans. She asked what I was going to get Catherine that year. I thought the question odd. Why would she want to know what I was buying my girlfriend?  I asked with incredulity “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Okay. Have I ever shared with you my theory of gift giving?”

Laughing she replied, “You have a theory of gift giving?”

“Of course.” I said grinning “Doesn’t everyone.”

“Do tell.”

“First, the underlying principle is good gifts are things that the giftee would love to have but won’t buy for themselves. With holiday presents you need to try to buy gifts that represent the total person. Something that feeds their mind like a book, theatre tickets or a membership to a museum. Perhaps another present for their body like something from the Body Shop or an indulgence that makes them feel pretty. Finally, you need to give them something that is whimsical and fun.”

“For example?”

“Catherine and I have a running joke that the best job in the world would be the executive in charge of naming Opi nail polish. They have the best names like “Taupe-less Beach” or “Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie.”, “Big Apple Red” or “Don’t Bossa Nova Me Around.”

“You seem to know your nail polishes.”

“I just think the names are great, smart ass. In any case my whimsy present this year is going to be a collection of nail polish that have something to do with our life and a couple that just amuse me like “Teal The Cows Come Home.”

“I wish Trey would treat me like that.”

We had been friends long enough for me to know that her relationship with her husband had its ups and downs. In addition to not being liked by many of her friends he could be insensitive and emotionally abusive. It was so bad that many of our mutual friends wondered why she stayed with him at all. Wen told me on more than once the only thing holding them together was the love of their infant son and toddler daughter. I replied with sincerity “You deserved to be treated like a queen if not an empress.”

Smiling, she said. “Yes. The Empress of Belmont.” naming the town in which she lived.

I replied, “Maybe this will help” and reaching into my jacket pocket I pulled out a beige envelope with gold trim and handed it to her. She gave me a curious look and said, “What is this?”

I replied “It is your holiday present. Open it.”

“But I didn’t get you anything.”

“All the better. Open it.”

She did. It was a gift certificate for a day of pampering at the Shangra La Day spa in Cambridge. Before she could say anything, I said “Remember, I told you my theory for gifting is giving someone something they really need but would never do for themselves. You give of yourself constantly. To the job, to your kids, to Trey. You never give yourself anything. You never take time for yourself. I figured you could use a day where the entire focus was only on you.”

“Danny, it is too much.”

“I am pretty sure it is not enough. But it will have to do.”

When I got up to leave Wen, in gratitude for my gift, gave me a hug. When our bodies touched it was as if we had touched an ungrounded wire. A bolt of electricity passed through us that was at once undeniable and embarrassing. This was not something that happened between friends. It was the type of electricity that was immediately followed by clothes being ripped away, followed by love making so intense that your mind would be wiped clean of any guilt or misgiving and would flirt with your consciousness for days if not weeks afterward.

The bolt was a surprise to both of us. Up to that point we had been close friends. Even intimates. We shared confidences and we were open with each other but physical intimacy had not been on the table. She was married, had two adorable children. I was in a long-term relationship with a woman whom I loved. But as we both knew, each of our relationships had deficiencies that left us wanting. For her it was a husband who was emotionally remote, abusive, and treated her as if she were property. Catherine and I loved each other. We treated each other with respect and kindness. But I wanted more. I wanted to be married. To have children. Create a family. She would never say no to those next steps. But when pushed would utter “I am not saying no. I am just saying no for right now.” She knew, and I was beginning to understand, a more straightforward answer would end our relationship.

The holidays came and left. Neither Wen nor I reached out to each other. This was unusual. Normally we would have found a way to touch base.  That is what friends do but what happened between left us spooked. It was obvious we were playing with dynamite. One false move would lead to the destruction of our carefully constructed lives. It would provide us with a label, adulterer, that both of us thought tawdry and was inconsistent with who we thought we were. It meant hurting people we loved should they ever find out in way that would leave them forever altered. It was Eve with the apple. Pandora and her box. Neither one of us had the courage to take a bite of that fruit or open that lid.

In early February I went to Boston for the annual “Snow Ball.” It was a black-tie charity event that was practically mandatory for the digital industry. You went to see and be seen. I went knowing that it was likely I would see Wen. But I didn’t reach out to her and let her know I was coming to schedule some private time together. The dynamite had “sweat” on it and I did not want any intemperate move to set it off. The gala was held in the old Ritz Hotel directly opposite the Public Gardens on Arlington Street. The ballroom was decorated in white with dangling snowflakes from the ceiling, ice sculptures depicting various winter sports, and tables resplendent with table settings that reflected the Ritz’s pedigree.

After circulating for a while and finding no group of people worth penetrating I went to see if there was anything worthwhile to bid on in the silent auction. The items up for bid were at the far end of the ballroom, displayed on tableclothed folding tables, each with a clipboard showing the bidding history for each offering. I was contemplating a bid on a weekend for two at the Chatham Bars Inn when I heard a voice from behind me say “You have been avoiding me.”

Without turning around, I said “Does it look like I am hiding?”

I turned around. There was Wen, stunning in every sense of the word. She was wearing a strapless mauve gown that was synched and the waist that accentuated her slim figure and bust and was just short enough to be sexy but not indecent. Her hair was up showing the elegant curve of her neck and while she normally eschewed makeup except for lipstick and eyeliner she was fully made up. She took my breath away. I managed to blurt out “Wow. You clean up nice!”

There was a moment of awkwardness. Normally we would have hugged. But after what had happened the last time both of us were hesitant to initiate one. Eventually, we maneuvered ourselves into a first cousin’s hug wrapping our arms each other’s shoulders but not allowing mid sections to touch. It didn’t help. The spark was undeniable and perhaps even a little more urgent than it had been before. It was difficult to maintain my composure, but Wen seemed completely unruffled. She said “I just came over to say hello. I must get back to my table. But will you walk me to my car when this is over.”

Wen’s car was in the lot below The Boston Common. Despite the late hour and the ice laden paths we decided to cross through the Public Gardens. It is a pretty walk at any time, but it had snowed that day, and the trees were draped in snow, a perfect complement to the charity event we had attended. It was also very cold with an occasional gust of north wind blowing the snow as if we were in a snow globe. We were mostly silent. Each of us caught up in our own mixed emotions. As we crossed the bridge over the Frog Pond Wen tossed me a conversational hand grenade. She asked, “What do you want from our relationship?”

I knew what I wanted to say. It occupied the majority of my thoughts for the past month. I just think I had the courage to say it aloud. Instead, I played dumb so I would not bare my soul too much. I replied“What do you mean.”

She stopped and turned and looked at me and said “Danny, you know exactly what I mean.”

I should have known better than to play dumb with her. She, who always saw through the flack of my personality to what lurked beneath. I took and deep breath and said “Wen, the honest answer is whatever you will give me. I feel more connected to you than anyone I have ever been with. You know me in a way no one else does. And I know you. We complement each other. Fill in each other’s gaps. I want to take you to bed for a week and then for a week more. I want us to fill each other with joy.”

I paused and that went on “But I also know that you have a family. Two children that you live for and a husband, whatever his shortcomings, is someone you love too. I don’t want to destroy that. For that matter I don’t want to hurt Catherine either. She is a good person. I know that our relationship has an expiration date, but she doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

 She just took my hand, and we began to walk,the snow on our path crunching beneath our feet as we made our way. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said. We knew our feelings. We knew the problems that they created. Perhaps we knew the inevitable.

The parking structure was empty. The office workers and tourists had left hours earlier and we could hear our steps echo as we made our way to her car. Finally, stopping in front of a grey Honda Mini Van she said, “This is me.” I leaned down to give her a hug goodbye. She turned her head up and kissed me.

Kaboom.

When, after a lifetime, we had finished kissing Wen looked up at me and said, “You are dangerous.”

Thinking I had done something wrong I said, “I’m sorry.”

She replied “Don’t be. I meant that in the best possible way.” And she kissed me again.

Our affair lasted a little over two years. While, due to our situations, it lived in the shadows and corners of our lives it was the keystone of what brought us joy. Since we could not be together except for the few moments we managed to carve out each month, we wrote to each other every day. These were not perfunctory little notes whispering sweet nothings. They were full blown five hundred to a thousand-word missives on what we were feeling and what was going on in our lives. Troubles with co-workers, emotional challenges such as dealing with aging parents. Both of us would feel anxious if our “conversations” with each other were late and feel as if spring had sprung a thousand flowers blooming when the notes arrived.

Perhaps it is a rationalization because we could not be present in each other’s daily lives, but we felt our notes allowed us an intimacy that most couples never experience. They detailed our days, our work, politics even natural disasters. We made time to share our lives in a meaningful way despite seeing each other infrequently. We were in a long-distance relationship that conveniently forgot that we were committed to others.

We made love as if we were teenagers for whom sex was a new discovery and we were the grateful experimenters. Our chemistry would have won a Nobel Prize. Of course, this was heightened by the fact that we could only see each other once or twice a month and when we did see each other in public we could not show physical affection of any kind. We were both concerned, Wen far more than me, of being discovered.  Our relationship provided the oxygen she needed to breathe but her family, her children, were the world and she would protect with the fierceness of a mama bear. It meant our overwhelming physical attraction was bottled up and went we saw each other it was as if you were squeezing a toothpaste tube with its top on.  Eventually it would burst but unpredictably. We made love everywhere. In elevators, dressing rooms, restaurant bathrooms, cars, board room tables, beach chairs and in a pinch, hotel rooms.   

It was wild, primal, mind blowing, can’t get out of your mind for days, personal highlight reel sex.  It was like nothing neither of us had experienced before and while we satisfied each other in every way. It was something we could not get enough of

The first Christmas of our relationship found us in a small suite at the Elliot Hotel, a small, boutique inn on Commonwealth Avenue, just off Mass Ave.  This was not one of the hotels I normally stayed at in Boston. I preferred bigger chains where I could collect points and up my prestige levels. But prudence demanded something smaller where there was a less than zero chance someone we knew would see us.

I had been racking my brain for months on what gift to give Wen. I wanted to give her a token of  my love she could look at every day but banal enough that it would not raise any red flags at home. After we had opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne and toasting each other I handed her a small blue box with matching blue ribbon that could only come from one store.  She said “Danny, what have you done?”

“Open it.”

She looked at me with mock anger, but Tiffany boxes have an irresistible nature to them. She opened it and pulled out a solid silver “Makers” Compass. Before she should comment I said “I thought about this present for a long time. Perhaps too long. I wanted you to know that you are my true north. I guide my life through you. And, if you ever find yourself lost and not knowing what to do you have a compass that will guide you and hopefully bring you back to me.”

“But…”

Interrupting, I interjected “I know what you are going to say. It is a corporate gift. One of your vendors gave it to you, and others, as a paperweight for your desk. And that is not a lie.”

“I guess I can keep it on my desk at work…”

Smiling I said, “There you go” and then handed her another gift. This one is the size and shape of a shirt box and say, “This is a present of my heart and you should probably burn it the minute you have a chance.”  She looks at me quizzically and unwraps the box. In it is an 11” x 6” gray photo album with an image of an Adirondack Chair from I had taken at an industry conference we attended Gurney’s in Montauk. Inside were pictures of places we held special including a photo of the parking place where we had first kissed.

Wen laughed. A bit offended, I had put a lot of effort into the album’s creation, I said “What is so funny?”  Reaching into her black bag she pulled out a gift-wrapped box the same size and shape as the one I gave her. She said, “Open this.” I did. She had created an album too. If there had ever been any doubt about how we thought alike it was dispelled in that moment. It left me struggling on what to say.  I stuttered a few unintelligible syllables, and she put her fingers to my lips and  kissed me.

We made love in front of the fireplace. It was passionate but not hurried. Each of us taking the time to make sure that the other felt all the things we wanted them to feel. Neither one of us was in any hurry to finish something that we did not want to end. When we did finish, we did so together, in a blistering climax that left us without the ability to talk or for that matter think, for many moments.

When we had recovered, and regained speech she said to me “You know how much I love you.”

Kiddingly, I responded “Well if I didn’t know before, I know now.”

Laughing she said “Fair enough but beyond all that. You know right?”

I am a person who believes you should never have to tell someone you love them. Words mean far less than deeds. It is easy to say that you love someone, but it requires effort to show someone they own your heart. She knew that and I wondered in the moment what she was driving at. I said, ‘Why are you asking.”

“Because I love you. And I worry about you.”

“Worry about what.”

“Danny, you are alone. You ended it with Catherine and now all you have is me. And that you only get at best part time. Don’t you need more.”

“A little bit of something is worth a lot more than a truck load of nothing.”

“But if something bad happened. If Trey found out about us for example, you would be left with nothing and you would be all alone.”

“What are you saying.”

“You know what I am saying. We have talked about this. If I made to choose between you and the good of my children, they would win. Not a question.”

“I know. And I agree. You need to protect your babies. Whatever the cost to you. It is one of the things that I love about you. But what choice do I have? I love you. I cannot fathom loving you in the way I do and being with another woman. I don’t have the skillset, bandwidth, or desire to do that. Besides, it would be so unfair to anyone I got involved with. You would always be there.”

“But what if Danny?”

“I don’t know. I have always been the type of person who chooses to face the consequences when they present themselves as opposed to worry too much about what will happen?”

“But surely you have thought about what would happen if…”

“I guess in the darkness of my bedroom, in the middle of night when I am all alone.”

“Then?”

“I find that Ben and Jerry therapy helps make the world right again.”

“Seriously!”

I replied “Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never to have loved at all.”

“Okay Danny. As long as you know. As long as you have thought about it. One more thing.” she said kissing me.

“What’s that.”

“Make love to me again.” So, I did.

What I didn’t know then was that the Tennyson poem I quoted was an elegy.