He was a clown, a veritable clown. He relished in wearing clothes that did not match and patterns that clashed. He had curly hair that often went wild after too long of a haircut. He had a big mouth and guffawed a lot. He was funny and sometimes she refused to laugh at him.
That was his comfortable side. When I saw him dressed up for a meeting the first time, I was astonished by his creativity. This costume was similar to that of the clown; a well-crafted and sharpened version of the man we saw everyday. Under a slightly more fashionable suit than the average joe would wear, a patterned button down, the pattern of which clashed but the colors matched (a purple pinstripe with a purpled check dress shirt and a paisley tie of a purpley hue). And, to preserve some of his clownishness, he usually wore striped socks or some sort of socks that did not fit a suited man, which peeked out of his hems when he crossed his legs. I'm certain he amused many a meeting with his socks and his antics.
I might have been able to ignore the details of his dress, those careful nuances he placed there for anyone who would pay close enough attention (sometimes it comes down to that, who will pay attention to you, who can notice everything about you?), had it not been for the cologne. It is hard to describe exactly how the cologne affected me. He entered the room to say so long, for his meeting would go longer than I was due to be there. When he exited the room, it hit me, a subtle earthy, spicy, clean smell of him and I was surprised at how affected I was. Weeks later, when left alone, I even went on a campaign to find the source of it, carefully pulling open drawers and small doors, but to no avail. It is likely the scent wouldn't smell the same on someone else anyway, but I still wanted to know it, find it and learn it.
I tried to reject this feeling time and time again. As things warmed up, I felt a sense of dread, that I should not be enjoying him so much. That I should not look forward to seeing him. That I should not be so sad when he was already away for the day. I saw her anxious stares back and forth between our faces. I looked at him, he looked at her, and she glared at me. And I wanted not to feel that way for him.
I threw myself into the task of loving the sister, the baby. Under my tutelage she began to grow and be cognizant. She was a dull baby, very rote, very interested in routines. Her world was so foreign to her she had to memorize it to be comfortable. I understood, so I did my best to give her that comfort and worked hard at creating a world of surprises that she could enjoy: singing, playing, eating, dancing, running, reading and it was a lovely time. I really discovered a joy I had not known in child rearing. I interacted with her at her level nearly every time, for four years. I did whatever she wanted to do, I encouraged her to explore her senses, I taught her sign language, I showed her how to blow bubbles, I let her explore the contours of my face, we covered every inch of the house with toys and games.
One morning he lingered and played with us, I instructed him in her routines (even when playing with toys she had very specific actions that had to be played out precisely or started over) and he taught me things he had learned about her and we laughed and played and talked. When yoga came into the conversation, I expressed my frustration (and still it is a frustration) that I could not do the crow pose. It is a balance pose where you squat and lean your legs over your upper arms and lift your toes and legs into the air behind you while resting your weight on your arms. And he became a crow in front of me, with a giddy grin, his daughter staring up at him in awe and surprise and his joy broke my soul.
Imagine you found the love of your life. He was everything you ever imagined a person ought to be. And then you realized you couldn't have him. He didn't belong to you and he never could or worse, would. And then imagine the ache.
I tried very hard not to become enraptured. I sometimes felt the knot of crying in my stomach from just having to lie to him and tell him it was a bad morning or I was grouchy from no coffee or I didn't feel like talking today, so that I didn't have to laugh with him and seemingly adore him. It was bad enough that eventually I couldn't work there. I had no belief that anything would happen or he felt some way. I was fully aware that my feelings were completely one-sided and nothing ever happened to initiate the swell of emotions, he never did anything other than be who he was. Even now I will say he was always honest and true, a man to admire among a sea of those who do not arrive when expected.
For a while I believed that he was the father figure I had missed. And then I felt a brotherly feeling of fraternity and good spirits, the sort I had with my brothers before we parted at drugs and peer pressure and idealized pretenses. Eventually I felt a camaraderie with him that felt very natural and welcoming. And then something changed. It was beyond the physical, the smell of him, the look of him, the hard working he did, the smiles, the british accent, the thick black rims that held his eyes, his hands always expertly manipulating whatever they held. It also went beyond the intellectual stupor of him, that he was the communications guru, that he teased me about prunes and marmite, that he teased me about everything, that I could make him giggle and snort, that he was probably one of the smartest men I'd ever met.
The first time it happened I was so caught up with him that I almost forgot the whole thing, that it would never be. It was a phone call to arrange my hours for the next week, that lasted nearly an hour. Then he would drive me home at night, even though I lived less than ten minutes away, it would take an hour. Frequently, we stopped off at the grocery store and goofed off in the aisles, like two kids. Eventually, we decreed that a ride home must take a different route each time. As time went on, the would never be part began to sit on me like a metal safe and I thought I could not take it anymore.
After spending the most blissful half hour to an hour with him, I would go home to him, he, the supposed love of my lifetime, and I would see the misery I really had in such stark contrast that it was unbearable. I couldn't indulge in it though, except for those late night encounters, which I suspect he began to enjoy as much as I did. He certainly was the one at the helm for all of it, and I was his willing partner in crime.
Things carried on that way for some time, perhaps a year had gone by where I let him drive me wherever he liked and I wondered how she felt, but couldn't worry about her. Sometimes when we were all together, I would try to be conscientious of her feelings, but if he was in the mood to be silly, I could not resist the invitation to play, our words and laughter rang out and it was probably one of the strangest feelings, to be so completely thrilled by someone who did not and could not and would not ever belong to me.
Then I did a stupid thing. I could have passed off all of it as a pure sense of enjoyment and not enchantment, I could have not hurt her, and I promise I didn't mean to, I wanted to share with her the joy I felt for her daughter, who was growing more interesting as she began to speak and create new games for us to play, so I shared with her an entry I wrote about her daughter. In it, I mentioned him and how I would have loved to have had his children. She was startled and I was mortified. I think that was what brought out the shame I felt, and why I began to pull away from him, trying to pretend he had no effect on me, because she read that flippant comment about him and it was inappropriate for me to reveal that to her.
Ulitmately, I withdrew, finding being there too difficult. They hired other babysitters, two or three, and since we still had friends in common, I would hear of them sometimes. Months went by. Time was a balm I relished and savored. I was welcome in their home for birthday parties for the baby, and I occasionally did babysit in the evenings, so they could have date nights, but I tried my best not to indulge him on the rides home. I knew I had crossed a line and I wanted to show her that I respected her place with him, perhaps I didn't respect her as a person, as a mother, but I respected that she had him, that he was hers, that he belonged to her.
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