You’re Wrong About Love

The Beatles, for their part, lasted three years after saying “all you need is love.” For us it was only two.

“What’s next? The art museum or the ice cream shop?” It was a typical choice we’d pose to ourselves, walking the town of a Saturday. “As you wish,” the other would reply. Or, “Where shall we live? Uptown or East End?” “Vacation in Jamaica or Rome?” Whatever the question, the answer didn’t matter — cliché alert — “as long as we’re together.”

"Okay here's one," I said. "'Our guy did bring peace.' — 'Yeah, but there wasn't a war.' — 'All the greater accomplishment.'"

She paused a moment. "Uhh…oh yeah. David Mamet. Barry Levinson. Wag the Dog." Film quotes were only one of our many shared pleasures. But you had to know the writer and director.

"Very good. We were wee babes when that came out."

"Okay back atcha," she said, "'You a troublemaker, is that what you are? You makin' trouble?' – 'Yeah! I'm a troublemaker. I'm makin' trouble.'"

"Ooo sister. Good one. Still, too easy. Spike Lee. Do the Right Thing." Such were our days.

Blast it all…it's such a seductive notion, "all you need," and we bought into it like fish buy water. We even had the Beatles' song as part of our wedding. We weren't special, only where we were meant to be. Sharing political passions made it that much easier.

She pointed down the sidewalk. "Oh wait…look…that guy's campaign t-shirt."

"Oh God, another one."

"This is getting out of hand."

"Yes…we have to do something." I sidestepped to be unmistakably in his path. "Really?!" I said it loudly so he'd look up. "Are you truly so misguided and brainless?" He seemed confused as he lifted his puffy cheeks and flat face. So she pitched in, "Your shirt…it's stupid."

"I love my country." He spoke with a slur, looking down at the shirt and then from her to me.

Smiling to her, I said, "Isn't that precious." Then slowly to him, with force, "You don't know love." He said nothing more, and his shallow-set, wide eyes got a bit moist. "Awww. It has a sensitive side…did we hurt its feelings?!"

She closed our little romp with "You're pathetic," and we decided on ice cream.

That was how beautiful and deep our camaraderie ran. We were a team, and nothing stood in the way of our love. Simple.

But then, I've already told the ending, haven't I? Like Bresson's film title "A death row inmate has escaped," I gave it away at the start. I suppose, like Bresson, the real story is not what happened but how, and there I fall off. I know facts…I can tell you more what. How is a different thing.

It started slowly, maybe a year in. Toothpaste came into it, just like the old marriage seminar trope…squeezing the tube in different places…spots on the mirror. What is it with love and toothpaste? Then, we'd get tired at different times and wonder why the other was not cheery and lovey-dovey. We'd prefer different shows, and "as you wish" became "…as you wish" on its way to "didn't we watch yours last time?" We came to step on each other's toes more and more, just the way car tires can only make a road rut deeper.

We tried going around the rut. We continued leaving sweet notes for each other, walking the town together, cuddling and caressing. This is love, right? Even so, it was a steady drift downward, and eventually Rakuten Kobo sells audiobooks and e-books in partnership with Walmart Advertisement we came to question each other. She arrived home one day, later than expected. "Where were you?" I immediately pressed. "You could have let me know."

"Playing Big Brother again, are we?"

"Look I'm sorry, I just thought that love would stay in touch."

"And I thought love would trust."

Soon after, the word "split" came in, offhandedly. It took on a life of its own, like fruit forgotten at the back of the counter, until it had rotted away the last of our relationship.

Two months after the divorce was final, I had yet to find solid ground. Not knowing what to do on a Saturday, I returned to walk alone our old downtown haunts. I couldn't keep it up for long, though, and I fell into sitting on a stone wall by the sidewalk. Watching the faces go by, I sorted them into buckets: loving or angry or sad. Bad idea. The loving bucket was too much for me. I closed my eyes, letting my chin fall to my chest, and the street noises melded into an indistinct rumble.

"I forgive you." The words were loud and firm, startling me back into the moment. I opened my eyes and campaign t-shirt boy was leaning in for a hug. He gave no hint of awkwardness, nor of personal boundaries or social propriety. He smiled as he straightened and simply stood there, looking from my right eye to my left.

"How do you say that?" I asked. He didn't reply, he just kept looking. After maybe ten seconds, his smile fell and he turned to continue on his way.

I watched him as he went, then without thinking I called out, "Do you want to go for ice cream?"

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