Instantly Intimate

Under the covers and feeling the heat of her body inches away from mine. It was an impromptu sleepover on a first date. We both had a few beers after an initial shot of citrus flavored tequila. That was hours ago. Our alcohol buzz was mellow now with our mutual desire for sleep. This was her flat. A one-bedroom unit with a small galley kitchen and a tiny bathroom. If construction code allowed, I imagine they would have installed the toilet in the bathtub to get more floor space. We were tucked away on a platform bed with an oversized futon mattress. The futon hung over the edges of the wood frame by about three inches. Morilia asked, “Do you have your underwear on?”

Six nights later, I continued to find my evening rest beside Morilia atop her oversized futon mattress. On the seventh evening together, we decided to move our sleepover streak to my place. In a week’s time we were a couple. We left our insecurities out in the hall and became instantly intimate. We didn’t try to be cute and impress one another with simple niceties. In seven days our outlook toward each other had the maturity of a couple crossing over seven years of marriage. I didn’t try to cook for her, and likewise, Morilia made no attempt to buy me a preferred brand of jelly, or a special snack she may have observed to be my favorite.

There was no real attempt to impress the other. From the start, we were instantly committed to holding each other throughout our evenings together. We picked-up on one another’s simple needs and mundane chores. We fulfilled idealistic roles for one another from a value system embedded in our brains by our respective parents. I fixed some things around her flat that were broken or could work better. The latch bolt of her bathroom door was not aligned with the strike plate on the door frame. Consequently, the door to the cramped steamy room never stayed shut and would creep open in the middle of a shower. I stabilized that situation. I also walked her dog on the weekend.

Morilia stocked my refrigerator with fresh fruits, vegetables and Shinshu miso paste. She introduced me to a shoe organization system in which I was to hold onto the original shoe box and attach a Polaroid snapshot of the shoes on the outside of each box. In this way, I could neatly stack a higher volume of shoes in my closet within their respective boxes. Morilia tried to sell me on the idea of less clutter, less foot odor, and an instant visual inventory of footwear. Morilia owned over forty pairs of high heels and flats, whereas my economical approach to shoes kept me under six pairs at any given time in my life.

I liked the way Morilia looked. I liked her flirtatious “hello” after a long silence or when I walked into a room, as if we were meeting for the first time. I liked her graceful strides and how she held herself when static and listening to someone speak. She always expressed confidence and a sense of exploration with a slight tilt of her head. She looked everyone directly in the eye when engaged in conversation. She always made me feel as though I was the only person of interest in the room at a restaurant or party. In turn, I believe Morilia liked the way I looked. She liked the identity I had forged as a responsible professional man. She filled-in the other character components on her own, such as even tempered and honest, by way of my work affiliations and a few friends I had introduced to her along the way.

Everything was moving along and there was balance. We weren’t on a trajectory toward any specific life milestone. We weren’t on course for a safe approach landing to an unstated but heavily felt relationship objective. Twelve days in a row had passed in which we met in the evening and slept in each other’s arms for the night. When I settled into work each day, it only took an hour before my mind would map-out a get-together plan and schedule my call with Morilia to coordinate the where and the when for our evening ritual. Moving into the third week of our unbroken evenings together, I began to feel a pressure to not break the streak of getting together.

On day seventeen our evening plan was to have a theatrical experience downtown. I had secured tickets to see the national tour of the Broadway smash hit “We’re All Underwater Now – An H2O Musical”. I arrived at Morilia’s flat a full two-hours early. She left the door open and I announced myself. I was greeted by Luna, Morilia’s Toy Fox Terrier dog. By now, I was a favorite friend of Luna’s because I spoiled the little dog with little salami treats that I knew were on Morilia’s, “do not feed the dog that” list.

The lady of the house made her grand entrance from the cramped bathroom. Luna and I took-in the beauty of our Morilia dressed head-to-toe in black. Whenever we went out to a party or a nice restaurant, she wore black. This was Morilia’s fashion statement to the world. Whether it was a blouse and skirt combination, a dress of any cut, or leggings and a sweater — Morilia went out on the town in black. The only occasional accent of color was found in her footwear. She would pull something from her neatly stacked inventory of ordered shoeboxes with the attached images. Hot pink, royal blue, or metallic colors such as rose gold, platinum, or silver. Then there was the other section of her shoe catalogue – the variations of boots, pumps, wedges, and flats — every one of them in black. Morilia was confident, stylish, and she was beautiful.

I stood to meet her in the middle of the room and embrace. Before I got there, I realized that there was a pause, a gaze, an examination. Morilia had never mentioned a word about my attire in the two-plus weeks we had been together. I was really looking forward to theatre and I was feeling a confidence about me as well. Earlier that evening, I felt that I could reach into my closet and bring out an old friend. It was a jacket that I had purchased while traveling on business many years ago. It was a vintage Gulf Oil racing jacket. This gem was from the 1970’s. It was an orange cotton-nylon material with two vertical stripes on the front right side. The stripes ran from the shoulder seam to the very bottom of the garment. The stripes were eggshell white and navy blue, and they really stood out in contrast with the bright orange cotton-nylon body of the jacket. On the front left, there was a single pocket near the waist. Too small to carry anything more than a comb or a driver’s license. Maybe a safe place for a note to my surviving family members if my racing endeavors left me impaled upon a motorway barricade. Still, there was something macho about this very impractical single pocket. Then there was the heroic Gulf Oil logo with a waving checkered flag, which stood proudly over the chest of any man wearing this timeless piece. The original owner had his name permanently added to this classic coat just below the Gulf Oil logo. Embroidered in black script, with first and last name stacked and offset by about two inches, someone might occasionally refer to me as, Otis Chesterfield.

Morilia was aghast. Horrified by the idea of being seen with this standout man wearing the bright orange Gulf Oil jacket. She wondered where I found this article of vintage men’s attire and asked if I was seriously going to wear the cotton-nylon outerwear to an evening event. “People are actually going to see you in that thing, and they’re going to see us together.” Morilia was struggling with the image of her urban chic black ensemble gracefully gliding through public venues, juxtaposed with my day at the motor speedway costume. She asked if I was carrying any wrenches or extra lug nuts on my person. I tried to lighten her mood with a description of his and her personalized crash helmets awaiting us in my car. If I had actually ordered helmets, Morilia’s would be black with a platinum strap.

There was no hand holding on the way to my car or along the sidewalk downtown as we approached the theatre. We sat through “We’re All Underwater Now” like an elderly couple with years of miscommunications and delusional vendettas for commonplace domestic miscalculations associated with a lack of concern for one another. It was day seventeen of our short lived intimate relationship, and as we approached day eighteen, we had become something less than intimate and something more in the realm of routine. A bad habit neither one of us was ready to kick.

There was my business dress code, which Morilia witnessed during lunch dates and dinners directly after work. I was comfortable with my hip casual-man look on weekends and on some late nights during the week; when I had a chance to get home and dispose of the business getup. Morilia was happy and comfortable with these looks. These looks fit the identity of the man she slept with and made love to each night for almost three weeks straight. A thirty something man trying to shake-up his version of cool with an orange Gulf Oil jacket connected with motorsport enthusiasts was not something that Morilia was remotely interested in.

Had I shown up on our first date with the sporty windbreaker, Morilia surely would have launched a desperate excuse to terminate within the first twenty-minutes. The excuse itself would have been purposely unbelievable in order to shame me and condemn my dating sensibilities for future first date outfits. I would have been left with the riddle of, “what did I do wrong”, often associated with early termination first dates. I might have concluded that the “wrong” part was directly correlated with something I said, or my preference of underarm deodorant brands. It would have taken dozens and dozens of first dates for me to self-analyze the myriad details and have the mental breakthrough to realize a woman like Morilia did not like bright orange windbreakers made of fine cotton-nylon material, emblazoned with the logo of a petroleum company from decades past. I may have never come to this realization ever. Having never ever realized all of this, I may have lived-out the best years of my manhood without a steady girl. No woman to share my life with due to a seemingly innocuous ritualistic choice to wear an oil industry promotional jacket to each and every first date.

For twenty-one days now, I was sharing my evenings with one woman. Our streak continued. We were still addicted to one another. Neither of us had business travel or sleepover visits with parents. Neither of us was planning a weekend escape with old friends from back home. We had no desire to break our consecutive nights of getting ready for bed together and coming to rest in the quiet breathing of the other’s company.

Many days and nights had passed since I wore the orange jacket. That was an emotionally cold evening with Morilia. That was the closest we had come to an actual couple’s quarrel. As we moved into week four of our non-stop relationship, I had to test the waters again with my orange friend.

Morilia and I had talked and texted throughout the afternoon. We were both hitting deadlines and ship dates at our respective work. We’d get together a little later than usual and keep it casual. A quick stop by my apartment around seven o’clock for a splash of water on the face and a change of clothing. Our spot for eating out that night was a local favorite, Lizzy’s Pie Face. This was not a fancy restaurant, nor was it very expensive. Lizzy’s primary patrons were young families and retired couples. Pie was essential and no meal at Lizzy’s Pie Face was complete without it.

Before I ran out of my apartment to meet Morilia at Lizzy’s, I went back to my bedroom for another layer. I opened the door to my closet and looked up to a top shelf with a stack of sweaters. As I brought down my first choice of sweater from the middle of the stack, my eyes glanced at my old orange friend hanging before me. My orange cotton-nylon Gulf Oil jacket rested on an ancient white wire dry cleaning hanger. Could I dare test the depth of her tolerance once again? Could I face the tension and awkward silence that might surround me over dinner? Could I risk breaking our streak of being together each and every night. Removing the jacket from the closet, I placed my arms into the sleeves. I adjusted the shoulder and collar to rest in the proper position on my frame. This was the right thing to do. This orange Gulf Oil racing jacket reflected a part of my total persona. If Morilia and I were to move beyond week four and head toward a longer-term relationship in the realm of month four, or year four — she would need to accept all of me. Morilia would need to embrace the man-child who still saw himself in a bright colored cotton-nylon windbreaker, flying down the steepest driveway in his hilly hometown neighborhood on his first two-wheeler. Always testing and pushing with a possible wipe-out in the end.

I entered Lizzy’s Pie Face in slow motion. I was overly aware of my strides and the rhythmic motion of my arms swinging alongside my hips. I could feel my soles slightly slipping on the thin veneer of fallen food residue embedded in the restaurant’s tile flooring. The hostess was three feet in front of me, providing visual cover as she guided me to a back-corner booth, where Morilia was already seated. Morilia was established on the higher ground of a semi-circular oversized corner booth. Just before the hostess and I appeared before the final destination, a couple passed in front of us. The hostess stepped to one side and the passing couple moved in the other direction. From Morilia’s point of view, this created a human curtain opening with me center stage, adorned in the fabric of my friend, the orange cotton-nylon Gulf Oil racing jacket.

I tried to relax the muscles in my neck, but my skull seemed to be locked to the limited movement of my shoulders. The hostility ray beams pulsating from the temples of Morilia’s head touched my guilt sensors and kept me beyond arms reach. I dodged her arrows of anger for an instant and moved-in for an obligatory peck on the hardened surface of her clenched jaw. Then, back to my side of the restaurant booth, where I could deflect her opposition to my jacket with glances at the other patrons of this establishment and take an overly eager interest in Lizzy’s extra-large laminated menu. I didn’t quite hide behind the menu, but it covered most of my orange torso from Morilia’s sight line. I wore the clothing that gave me comfort. I showed up in it. I wasn’t hiding my choice, but I wasn’t trying to rub it in her face either.

Things turned pleasant and I reconsidered whether there was ever a real black cloud of hostility hanging over the booth to begin with. Perhaps I was being too self-conscious. Maybe my guilt meter needed a recalibration. The muscles in my neck loosened. I could rotate my head toward Morilia and engage in conversation. We talked about our favorite problematic co-workers and the obstacles we tackled or avoided at work that day. We didn’t touch on any future plans. In our time together, we never discussed tomorrow. Our focus was always on the hours in front of us and where we’d spend that night together. Intertwined with our work review and post-restaurant consumption planning, there were some small comments about my sporty orange companion. A short list of these comments was building in my head over the course of our meal. Morilia was skillfully inserting thoughts and observations relating to my jacket. She paced herself with the timing of her remarks. She was very clever with her conversation, transitioning back to the jacket from time to time, and then a smooth segue onto something else. Always shifting the topical focus point and degree of interest, well before she felt I might become aware or defensive.

Here’s my recap of Morilia’s subtle references to my orange Gulf Oil jacket while eating at Lizzy’s Pie Face. I pieced this list together in my head while I slowly swirled what might have been a small chunk of cherry pit in my last fork full of Lizzy’s cherry fudge cream pie. The cherry fudge cream pie was a once-a-month special at Lizzy’s Pie Face.

The Synopses of Morilia’s Contempt:
     •  “This place is always casual. I’m happy you changed before dinner.”
     •  “The yams are buttery and delicious. So orange and bright in color.”
     •  “Our waitress almost splashed you. You’d have no worries with a stain.”
     •  “Lost-n-found inventory must be big here. People lose stuff on purpose.”
     •  “Are you warm? Do you need to take that jacket off?”

The pie was delicious. I wanted to lick the last remnants of cream off of my plate. I left the mystery chunk of cherry pit, (or hardened pie crust), atop of my used napkin. Our meal check arrived. The plastic black tray, holding curled paper and a cracked pen, was placed near Morilia. I wanted to see if the waitress removed the cup of tomato soup from the total tally. After all, the soup was never brought to our table throughout the entire meal. Morilia pushed the check tray across the table and caught my glass of water in the process with a charm from her bracelet. A tall glass of ice water spilled in my direction. Cold liquid rolled over the aluminum edge of the white speckled formica table before me. I watched in anticipation and accepted the tabletop rinse into my lap. The bottom portion of my Gulf Oil racing jacket received most of the water and turned dark as it absorbed the liquid. Morilia was suddenly all over me with both of our soiled napkins. With the best intentions to sponge water off of the garment, she proceeded to grind oily food deposits into the fibers of my cherished friend. My body froze, and I could only think about my current choice of laundry detergent. I would forever be affected by this moment. Years later, even the mention of Lizzy’s Pie Face would cause me to feel contaminated and think about dry cleaning.

We walked to our cars in the restaurant parking lot. It was dark enough for me to avoid facing the reality of my tarnished jacket. I kept thinking of its pristine look when I last removed it from my closet, and when I last saw myself looking in a mirror, zipped-up in my orange cotton-nylon buddy.

I was in no mood to be with anyone, let alone perform for the twenty-second night in a row. I would break our streak and put the relationship to a stress test. Would this lone night of sleeping in our separate beds bring about a small fissure in our romantic bond? Or, would sleeping apart from one another reveal the compulsion that was keeping us together up until now?

On day twenty-three, we met for coffee. We gathered at a location about midway between our apartments. The tea and coffee establishment had an odd floor plan. It was deep and narrow with random portions of the wall obstructing our pathway to the stern of the java infused cafe. We sat at the last table behind two metal rotating display racks. This was the merchandise section where patrons might choose to take home an oversized coffee mug or portable flask designed for sipping hot liquids. No one was shopping for a mug today, and the flasks were priced too high. Our table had some privacy.

Seeing her smile was the best part of my day. We fell silent after some initial words. Then, her magical and playful “hello” moved me off pause. We talked freely, but I felt some need to take an apologetic tone. I was looking for assurance. I hoped nothing had changed. I wanted to believe our connection was not disturbed in the least, in light of the occasion of a first night in which we did not fall asleep next to one another. I was patient. I moved slowly in my search for some sort of pledge or assertion from Morilia. I was doing my best to attempt something other than insecure and needy, but insecure and needy were on full display. From the vantage point of other coffee patrons peering through the gaps of fully stocked display racks, we were a lovely couple sitting across from each other and having a lovely talk. That should have been enough assurance in and of itself.

I found a dry-cleaning specialist who dealt with vintage clothing. The elderly woman I consulted with had owned the Greco Clean laundry matte and dry-cleaning business for over forty years. Maria Nikolakakis started the business with her now deceased brother. Her nephews owned the smoke shop next door. It was a standalone building with three storefronts: laundry matte, dry-cleaning, and smoke shop. The building stood two stories high in the revival district, which was often congested with construction traffic. It was hard to find parking and it was hard to move about. Everything in this part of town was being renovated over the last ten years. The Nikolakakis family owned their building for almost a half century and it was one of the first in the area to go under extensive restoration.

Maria Nikolakakis knew exactly what she was looking at with my orange cotton-nylon Gulf Oil racing jacket draped across the smooth examination table of her dry-cleaning establishment. She was a specialist in the preservation of antiquated articles of clothing. More importantly, she was wonderful at interfacing with those who could not let go of something perceived as precious from the past. Something damaged. Something stained. Why else would a patron like myself stand before the sweet old Mrs. Nikolakakis? We all wanted to be made whole again. We were all in search of hope. A fix for our damaged domestic possessions. Restore the things that were now tarnished. Mrs. Nikolakakis had touched so many patrons over the decades with her dedication to restoring something from the past and giving the clothing of her customers a do-over, many times over.

Almost a week later, I picked-up my old orange friend from Greco Clean. I had to laugh at myself for being so upset and so worried. It wasn’t good as new, but the jacket was restored to its condition prior to my evening at Lizzy’s Pie Face. I wanted to send flowers to Mrs. Nikolakakis and write a note of thanks. I never did that. I did obsessively recommend her as the doctor of dry-cleaning to my co-workers and strangers in line at my local big-box grocery store.

Beyond counting days and weeks, Morilia and I were entering the dominion of months together. We moved into our second month together physically intact, but emotionally weak. Everything about our relationship told me that it was just a matter of time before some other guy came back into her life. I would shift from insecure and looking for some type of relationship reassurance to a demeanor of over confident – blindly assuming the best in us and everyone around us. I wasn’t sure if Morilia was affected by my cycle of extremes, or if she was driving me to these extremes.

Late Saturday morning I received a call from Morilia. We did not go out on Friday night. She attended a business function after work. I flew back from Peru on Thursday and had stomach cramps throughout my connecting flight from Atlanta to the west coast. I went into the office for a half day on Friday. Then, transitioned to my apartment, and sat in front of the television that entire afternoon and evening sipping tea and munching on well-done dry toast. When I heard Morilia’s voice on Saturday, the cramps in my midsection were gone. On my long flight back from the Southern Hemisphere, I imagined our relationship slowly going dark with diminishing communications and seemingly reasonable excuses to avoid any in-person get together. Was this Saturday morning call a reprieve from my entanglement with emotional distress?

Morilia wanted to see me. She wanted to go to a matinee movie together. It was too late to plan for a lunch, but she wanted me to come over soon. Our movie plan slipped to a late afternoon screening. Still, she wanted me to arrive at her flat right away; hours before we would need to leave for the theatre. I felt a sense of relief to know that Morilia was initiating our date. I was also feeling the disturbance of running toward her inviting arms, only to realize overwhelming insincerity in her intoxicating warm embrace. I went to her on my terms and on my schedule.

I drove in her direction with enough time to step inside her door, and then head-out for the movie. This was in no way following Morilia’s “right away” request. Years later it occurred to me, why she may have wanted me to arrive hours early. Why she wanted me with her “right away”, and long before we were due at our planned destination. Morilia wanted my company and she wanted the intimacy we had shared through so many nights together. I was like a silly pup, fooled by the presence of a treat — an enticement to leave the house or come back in. She had no desire to see a movie, take a short car ride, or leave her apartment at all. Morilia wanted to be loved and receive the same assurances I was constantly seeking in her.

Maybe our timing was off. Maybe we could never align our cycles of moving from insecurity and self-doubt to blind confidence, which pushed the other slightly out of focus. We cherished the identity of the other at first sight. We held that original image of one another and even embellished it, in spite of discovered character flaws. My bright orange racing jacket and her head-to-toe black ensembles were outward projections of history and persona, which didn’t fit with the promise of an early image we were bound to. Beyond the initial infatuation, we became caught up in the indignant feelings of a false representation on the other’s part.

Halfway between Morilia’s apartment and the theatre, she screamed at me to stop the car. She wanted out. Morilia wanted out of the car and out of the relationship. Everything was to come to an immediate halt on that city block. We would travel no further together. I offered to drive her home, but she was already on the curb and shutting the door. I remained parked on the side of the road for a moment. I looked through my rearview mirror. I watched Morilia walk away in the opposite direction. When she disappeared, I shut off the engine and closed my eyes.

I sat down to write a letter to Morilia more than once over the following weeks. I had accepted our ending and I knew she might move to another city soon due to work. I wanted the letter to be something that wished her well. Words that expressed the things I liked about her, the things I admired, and the things I adored. I never sent the letter and I never shared the words. Someday, I hope she reads this story to know how much I cherished our short time together and the beauty that fills my mind when I think of her.