The Womanless Man
Continued, 9
L. Stewart Marsden
Go to previous installment . . .
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“A toast! Here’s to getting that cast off your leg!”
They clinked glasses. Hers was a dry martini, his a Tom Collins.
“I, for one, am going to miss having to sit on the john with my leg extended on a footstool.”
Simone smiled and sipped her martini, swizzling the pearl onion around in her glass. In the background a jazz band laid down the mood music, and their table, overlooking a vast sea of blue mountain tops at sunset set the perfect stage. Stew was nervous, but also strangely at ease at the same time. He wondered how that could be.
“That’s one thing about your work I couldn’t do,” he said.
“What?”
“You know — the bedpan thing. I would’ve quit the first day I had to do anything like that.”
“It’s just a function of the body. It’s not like some of us never go to the bathroom or anything.”
“I don’t know … I’ve met some pretty constipated people in my time on earth.”
She laughed.
“Taking care of my business is one thing — but taking care of someone else’s? Jeez!” he said.
“So when you are in a relationship and the two of you are growing older, you would object to helping your partner?”
“One, I’m not in a relationship. Two, my dad ended up doing that for my mom as her Alzheimer’s worsened. But he never let on — didn’t tell any of us kids about the strain and stress he experienced.”
“That’s sad. He couldn’t afford help?”
“Sure he could. But that would have been an admission of weakness on his part. Plus he didn’t want us kids to know how really far gone Mom was. And I think he realized how very important she was to him. Not that he didn’t love her all those years. He hadn’t appreciated her.”
“For better and worse.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me. They were married over 60 years. I know there were rough spots, but they stuck to each other through thick and thin. More than I can say for myself. Or my siblings. Of the four of us, three of us went through divorces, and my brother and I went through one more. But enough of this cheery conversation! Tell me why an attractive and bright woman like yourself has never married.”
“I’m a perfectionist.”
“No man is good enough for you?”
“Not that. No man can put up with me for long.”
“So no serious love over the years?”
“One. Someone who was so compatible with me it was scary.”
“What happened?”
“We agreed it was too much. Too much commitment, too much of an uphill battle, too many complications to have to navigate, especially in the south.”
“He was black?”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Back in the day.”
“So, you are …”
“I’m still looking. For the right person.”
“The right woman, you mean.”
“No, not necessarily. Love knows no boundaries, right? I consider myself an equal-opportunity-faller-in-love person.”
“I’m not sure I believe love conquers all. It’s not like Romeo and Juliet overcame theirs. Nor yours. Or mine, for that matter.”
“Perhaps in a strange way they did.”
“That’s an extreme solution, if you ask me.”
“What about you? What do you see down the road for yourself — relationship-wise?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve come to the point — especially after two failed marriages — maybe it isn’t for me. I mean, I never thought I’d divorce either of the women I married. Well, actually, they divorced me. But I made it expedient for them. It’s a bit nit-picky to say one or the other called it quits. We both did. Just like we both said I love you and I promise till death us do part. God, I’m rambling!
“Anyway, what I found once I was single is everyone around me tried to fix me up. It’s like they were uncomfortable for me to be around them when I didn’t have someone hanging from my arm. I was broken and needed fixing.
“And I tried the social match sites. What a joke! Half the women posted photos from a decade or two ago, and all of the bios read the same: I want a man of God who can be strong for me! And all of them love long strolls along the beach, for chrissake! I hate the beach! It’s okay for a few days — but what the hell do you do there? Bake in the sun and treat your third-degree burn? How many shells does one need to take back home? And the sand is everywhere! In your underwear, in your bed, in your car!”
“So you’re not a beach person, I take it,” Simone grinned.
“When I moved up here my sister asked me what the hell I was doing living in the mountains? She thinks “cold” is a four-letter word! She doesn’t get it!”
“How many times has she visited you up here?”
“Zero! I’m sorry — I’m ranting again.”
“I totally understand. You know what you don’t want. Do you know what you do want?”
“That, my dear, is the question. I thought I had it all figured out until the bear attack. I had sworn off pretty much all contact with the enemy.”
“Enemy?”
“Women. I don’t mean that literally. Look, one of my dad’s favorite songs came from My Fair Lady.”
“I love that musical! Which song?”
“Remember when Higgins is incredibly frustrated with Liza?”
“That was pretty much all the way through the play.”
“But in one instance, he slams down a book and asks Pickering, ‘why can’t a woman be more like a man.’”
“Oh, yes!” She wasn’t offended. She nodded her head and laughed. “And we women say, ‘why can’t a man be more like a woman?’”
“I suppose. Where’s the fun in that, though? See, this is where you know God has an evil sense of humor. Adam is doing just fine in the Garden of Eden, tending things and naming everything. He’s content. Not a care in the world. And God says, ‘Well, Adam, how’s your sex life?’ Adam shrugs his shoulders, not knowing what sex is. God decides Adam needs a mate. Does he ask Adam? Does he give him a little foresight as to what this will eventually mean? No. He makes an executive decision. So he puts Adam under and removes one of his ribs. And from that rib — ”
“— He fashioned Eve,” Simone joined in.
“Exactly! He now has a mate and doesn’t know why or what to do with her, plus a malformed rib cage. And do they get married? Does one of the animals in the Garden step forward to perform the ceremony? Maybe a penguin? No! They live in SIN (which God had not invented yet, by the way)! Without the ‘benefit’ (he made quotes with his fingers) of matrimony!”
Simone began to titter, restraining herself from outright guffaws. A couple at the next table were more engaged in what Stew was saying, and laughing.
“The thing is,” he continued, “there were no rules of engagement back then. Like the birds and the animals. By the way, I wrote a poem in the sixties for a poetry class. Wanna hear it?”
“I have a choice?” she laughed.
“It’s a haiku. Well, not according to the strict definition — but it goes like this — if I can remember it:
Then they simply said,
In God’s holy name we wed,
And went straight to bed!”
The couple at the next table burst out laughing.
“Thank you! Thank you, all! My next show is at 9 pm — be sure to tip your waiter well!” He bowed slightly from where he sat.
She reached across the table and put her hand on his — just a touch.
“You said you thought you had it all figured out, until the bear attack. What about the bear attack?”
Stew inhaled and exhaled, as if gathering courage.
“Well, not so much as the bear attack than what happened after the bear attack.”
“What happened after the bear attack?”
“You happened.”
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Writing Odds n Ends 
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