Looking down the length of a pointer finger doing its job, I hear him intone once more, Don’t fall in love. Don’t you ever fall in love.
It is obvious that he says this tongue-in-cheek because I can see it working the inside of his mouth, keeping him from clenching his exasperated jaw and filling out the skin that is no longer taut and full of its own. He may believe that if he does enough with the rest of his face the tears will be too distracted to fall. But he cannot stay off the topic, and in spite of the shifts, bulges, and contortions, the tears come: not sweet warm tears to be wiped away once and all, but those that stain the translucent wrinkles on either side of the nose and those that drip from and cling to the inside tip of the nose itself. These are real tears. Ugly, but sweet still in their way.
I didn’t know it could hurt like this. No one told me I would hurt like this. Why doesn’t anyone tell you that?
He is telling me now, so I suppose perhaps someone had told him then. I suppose perhaps he had not listened. Perhaps he did not have the ears to hear when he married at 24. Perhaps I do not now. I will jot it down so I can look back in 50 years without excuse.
For what if I am falling in love? I hope against my own short past and his warning. I hope with academic assent, not with a knowing. I hope my searching has ended and that I have finally found mine. I cannot see why my hope is not well-founded, but on this side of time, no one ever does.
I smile and nod, knowing what he is saying, and he wags his still-pointed finger. I mean it, he says. Don’t go falling in love.
I’m afraid I may be. I’m sorry to say it, but I’m not sure you can turn me against the idea. Not today, anyway.
He smiles a smile that is still parenthesed by shiny trails where his tears passed on the way to his chin. Oh, I suppose I can’t keep you from it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Readers such as I learn from our reading that we should not always take words for what they are. A gifted thinker, a gifted speaker takes advantage of words, telling lies and speaking greater truths at once. I know what he is saying.
His smile translates the irony for me. His smile puts his hand on my shoulder and leans in close to my ear and whispers as if no one else should hear, not even Chris behind the bar, I would never wish for anyone to be spared this pain.
And as he lets the smile slip away, it releases my shoulder and leans back, finishing the last bit of his Jameson, hardly enough to wet the lips.
Dammit, I hurt. Why didn’t anyone warn me it would hurt like this?
I really put my hand on his shoulder as he leans over the bar as if he is in some discomfort. I can only give him the understanding of a man-child. How could I give him anything more? He knows to expect nothing more. But perhaps he had not even expected this. I doubt he came to the bar today thinking he would cry for a young, understanding stranger.
I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to ease the discomfort. It is all I can do and all he wants. Here we sit, two single men meeting on opposite ends of the same road. We know each other, at least.