A Short Story and Linens

When I first moved to
London I read the Jane
Austin novels, which
made me cry.

I had chosen not to
marry and my son was a
baby. I was not within
the scope of the novels.

And yet, up until then I
had largely maintained
the virtue of heroines,
even when I hitchhiked.
My clean white tennis
shoes, pink gingham
blouse, cut on the bias,
and wheat jeans were
chosen to show what I
was really like.

I carried a silver letter
opener shaped like a
scimitar that had been
given me by a handsome
young man when we
didn't click. I carried it
to use if someone tried
something I did not
agree to. And I agreed to
little.

I am sure I had the country charm that I so valued. Though now that I am old, I wonder if I could
have somehow gone from the image and feeling of virtue and goodness to marriage. I wonder if I had
a bedroom with linens like those shown above, if I could have married.

I was asked to marry, that part I had down.

I remember in London when I was living with the topologist, having a dream about the tunnel of love,
not a ride, more like an obstacle course. I had been in the dark making slow progress when I saw
daylight and the opening that would take me into the world, but between me and that place I wanted
to be was a pond of mud, black and slippery, and who knew how deep. There was no path around it.
I woke with a sense of apprehension, in view of what I wanted, but held back. I had to get John to
take me across, I thought. Why wasn't he with me? Or was he? The expanse of mud faced me and I
knew that love existed only if I crossed.

I woke up with longing and fear. The mud sounded dry, the tunnel hollow, when I tried to tell John.
He didn't offer to build a bridge or a pontoon. I had thought he would know what to do.

We swirled real cream into our dark coffee in thick walled cups, made to chip not break. How deep
had the mud been, I wondered. John made a paper ring and slipped it on my finger. Paper, I thought,
it wouldn't last. John wanted to go to the West End, so I dressed Miguel and me and the three of us
went. On Regent Street John guided us to a jewelry store with rings in the window. The glass felt
thick as... "I don't want to get married," I said. "I want you to ask me, to keep asking me for seven
years."

As if the money in his pocket were his emotions and I had rejected investment, the pride that had
billowed our journey was gone with an almost audible puff.

I wanted it back, "Seven years, isn't that common law?"

He never asked again; in less than three years we split up.

So I wonder, was there some way of mixing flowers and plaid, blue stripes and solid yellow, that
would have prepared me to say yes?

Perhaps... but I think my mother, or someone, would have had to talk about the relationships...