Love and Sex
“Everybody knows that love is real, but not many people know why.”
I was raking the leaves in my back yard when my neighbor, Mr. Cristas, made this comment to me over the leafy hedge.
His words reminded me of the way he sprinkled water on his lawn, even and measured.
“How's that again?” I said to him, straightening out my body and dropping the rake so it formed a right angle to my body.
Mr. Cristas let his breath out. “Well, we're all brought up here in the United States to believe, well most of us, at least, that love is real and tangible. Now, there's good reasons why love is real, able to be felt and noticed.”
“Isn't love an intangible? I mean, that's kind of the point, you know?” I responded, vaguely bothered by Mr. Cristas' leaning on the word tangible, as if love were something he could dole out evenly, like the water on his rosebushes.
“Nonsense. Love is as real as soil. You're body changes, when you feel love at first-your heartbeat gets faster, you sweat, feel nauseous. Then, later, it relaxes you.”
“It sounds like you're describing sex, Mr. Cristas,” I said, and bent slightly to pick up the rake.
“That's because what my generation called love, you call sex,” he said.
I'd heard that tirade before. I dropped the rake. “Sex is a manifestation of love. Love is intangible, sex is tangible-a material manifestation of love,” I said, satisfied that I had reached an agreeable conclusion.
Unfortunately, I only angered Mr. Cristas.
“That's not true at all. Let me tell you a story about love.” He turned to face me.
“A few years ago, this garden was like spring to me. The problem was, I never wanted it to be summer-because once it was summer, you knew it was going to be fall soon, and that meant death and decay.”
“But then a woman came into my life, and taught me not to fear summer, fall, or even winter-because spring would come again. Together we spread soil around the hedges, sprinkled water like children's tears on the roses. Do you understand?”
I nodded. The sun was hotter than it seemed when I first came into the garden. My mouth tasted like old metal.
“She once said to me, 'Henry, remember that love is real.' I never forgot her words. Even when she left two weeks later with everything of value I owned, I never forgot those words. That is why, even though I have an empty house, I have a full garden.”
My heart seemed to big for my chest. My vision was clouded. I struggled to speak, to respond to a story that I instinctively hated, and feared, because I was afraid that my too willing hatred betrayed a failing in me.
I said, “Your story misses me, somehow. Perhaps it's better that we don't understand each other. Life might be too simple, otherwise.”
Mr. Cristas picked up his bowl and ladle, and once again began sprinkling drops on his plants.
I was raking the leaves in my back yard when my neighbor, Mr. Cristas, made this comment to me over the leafy hedge.
His words reminded me of the way he sprinkled water on his lawn, even and measured.
“How's that again?” I said to him, straightening out my body and dropping the rake so it formed a right angle to my body.
Mr. Cristas let his breath out. “Well, we're all brought up here in the United States to believe, well most of us, at least, that love is real and tangible. Now, there's good reasons why love is real, able to be felt and noticed.”
“Isn't love an intangible? I mean, that's kind of the point, you know?” I responded, vaguely bothered by Mr. Cristas' leaning on the word tangible, as if love were something he could dole out evenly, like the water on his rosebushes.
“Nonsense. Love is as real as soil. You're body changes, when you feel love at first-your heartbeat gets faster, you sweat, feel nauseous. Then, later, it relaxes you.”
“It sounds like you're describing sex, Mr. Cristas,” I said, and bent slightly to pick up the rake.
“That's because what my generation called love, you call sex,” he said.
I'd heard that tirade before. I dropped the rake. “Sex is a manifestation of love. Love is intangible, sex is tangible-a material manifestation of love,” I said, satisfied that I had reached an agreeable conclusion.
Unfortunately, I only angered Mr. Cristas.
“That's not true at all. Let me tell you a story about love.” He turned to face me.
“A few years ago, this garden was like spring to me. The problem was, I never wanted it to be summer-because once it was summer, you knew it was going to be fall soon, and that meant death and decay.”
“But then a woman came into my life, and taught me not to fear summer, fall, or even winter-because spring would come again. Together we spread soil around the hedges, sprinkled water like children's tears on the roses. Do you understand?”
I nodded. The sun was hotter than it seemed when I first came into the garden. My mouth tasted like old metal.
“She once said to me, 'Henry, remember that love is real.' I never forgot her words. Even when she left two weeks later with everything of value I owned, I never forgot those words. That is why, even though I have an empty house, I have a full garden.”
My heart seemed to big for my chest. My vision was clouded. I struggled to speak, to respond to a story that I instinctively hated, and feared, because I was afraid that my too willing hatred betrayed a failing in me.
I said, “Your story misses me, somehow. Perhaps it's better that we don't understand each other. Life might be too simple, otherwise.”
Mr. Cristas picked up his bowl and ladle, and once again began sprinkling drops on his plants.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and April walk to the liquor store
- Volume III: Helen meets Roxy for coffee at the Fremont College coffee shop
- Volume III: Tim walks back from Contemporary American Fiction
- Volume III: Helen conducts section, can’t prevent Michael from being dissed
- Volume III: Helen conducts section (HSZ version)