Endymion

Really, she thought, glancing at the magazine rack by the check-out line with a bottle of organic, non-fat, hormone-free milk and a bag of baby carrots she had managed to convince herself she would snack on instead of the leftover quarter of apple pie waiting on her kitchen countertop. I’m following two diets at a time.

At the peak of the pyramid of beauty were those glossed magazines, with Cover Girl puckering her ruby candy-coated lips, her skin unblemished and creamlike with a tint of strawberry in the cheeks, and the cloud of headlines like mindless speech bubbles chattering of “Score a Slammin’ Bod in 60 Days” and “25 Naked Truths About Guys’ Bodies” around Cover Girl’s head. Strata underneath were the scattered assortment of cosmetics, clothes, accessories, hair salon appointments, pedicures, manicures, and spa treatments. But at the base of the pyramid was the staple of which she had been bred and fed ever since she had been but a pigtailed toddler, peering into tulips in search of Thumbelina and her fairy prince. She knew the fairy tales by heart. The prince would enter on his white horse, riding in on the wingtips of such words as Fate and Destiny declaring eternal youth, eternal beauty, eternal love. How would the princess know her prince had come? Snow White never questioned whether the prince who had kissed her deathly lips was the One. Sleeping Beauty never questioned whether the prince who had slashed through the thorn hedges and slain the dragon was the One. Swept away on the white horse into the distant sunset implicit of a happily-ever-after – they just knew.

She knew it too then, that moment when she looked up and set eyes on him for the first time. It was something more than the way he carried himself like Michelangelo’s David, eyes agaze with a look of expectant confidence, set into a face chiseled from the finest marble framed by dark Grecian curls. It was more than the way she felt as if he had struck her in the chest with a crushing stone that left her gasping like a leaping fish.

She knew it then, that summer night when she waited for his shift to end and he took her to the ice cream parlor downtown where she ate all the toppings from his sundae and he ate her unfinished ice cream (she had suddenly become self-conscious of the calories) before leaning across the table to lick the sugar from her lips. She knew it then, the time they wore matching leather jackets to the opening night of Spring Awakening at the performing arts center and he held her hand through the show as she pretended not to cry and he pretended not to notice the wet patches where her face had been pressed against his sleeve. She knew it then, the first time he cooked for her at his apartment and he served her lemon-herb salmon filets and rosemary potatoes with red wine and poached pears (taking her diet all into account) and afterwards she reluctantly agreed to watch the horror films he loved so much and spent the rest of the evening with her eyes shut clutching his arm in fright. (She soon had the sneaking suspicion that his love for horror had more to do with her frightened antics than the blood and gore on the television screen). She knew it then, that same night when she couldn’t sleep with all the images of dismembered body parts rattling in her head and how he cradled her in his arms on the couch until they were both lulled to sleep by the rhythmic way their breaths drew in and out in unison like the tide.

She knew.

She knew it then, as they lay under the stars inventing their own constellations and he pointed into the sky and said, There’s you and me – like Cepheus and Cassiopeia, like Perseus and Andromeda, like Fate and Eternity. She knew it then, when before his two-week trip he bought her an enormous teddy bear spritzed with his favorite cologne and how she would breathe in the scent of him late at night, shivering with the craving emptiness of an addict in withdrawal. She knew it then, when he blindfolded her on her birthday and all she could feel was his hand leading hers, and when he finally undid her blindfold she saw him kneeling before her on one knee. She knew it then, the moment her three-letter answer left her lips and transformed his face into a Cheshire smile of bliss as he lifted her into the air towards the sunset and let her feel as if she could fly forever.

No.

She thought she knew.

She knew it then, when the years passed and the layers of the pyramid began to crumble to ruins. She knew it then, when the hairdresser began recommending dyes to conceal her graying roots. She knew it then, when the lines began to settle into her face and neck, eroding from etches to crevasses in her aging skin. She knew it then, when she stood next to him in front of the bathroom mirror and saw the same, proud, timeless, statuesque face she had first seen on him so many years ago, looking decades younger than her graying visage.

She knew it then, when they sat together on the couch watching another film without roaring gun fights or blood-spurting murders (lest they trigger palpitations in her heart) and she fell asleep beside him long before the movie ended and the credits began to roll. She knew it then, when she no longer wore her leather jacket (because nobody at her age wore leather with the exception of clogs and handbags) when he took her to the performing arts center and she heard whispers of “cougar” and “cradle robber” behind her back and she pretended not to crumple like a tissue as the lights began to dim. She knew it then, when she was bedridden after surgery and he spoon-fed her strawberry ice cream with each bite powdered with all of her favorite toppings as if she were the child among them.

She knew it then, as she lay awake beside his sleeping form, wondering if he dreamt of that cute, twenty-something waitress who had commented how gentlemanlike it was of him to take his mother out for dinner, or that pretty saleswoman whose eye had lingered on him seconds longer than what would be deemed professionally appropriate.

She knew it then, when the pent-up misery inevitably unleashed itself, clawing at his timeless skin and pounding at his immortal bones. She said nothing when he packed his bags wordlessly and left, to wander for another eternity.

She knew it then, when she could no longer look upon his ageless beauty without reminder of what she had once been.

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Merry Christmas, everyone. Yes, a little depressing -- but that's my style.