The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) Page 10
As for Jeremy, I’ve decided to follow my grandfather’s footsteps and make sure you have some flowers waiting at home for you when you finish your exam tomorrow, but I’m bound by this damn promise I made, so I can’t buy you flowers. The only alternative is to pick wild ones. Penny is putting a bouquet of spring flowers together from her garden and Jeremy has agreed to deliver them, along with one final card, to your residence for me while Penny and I are up north. Of course, this arrangement necessitated a call to Matt to make sure he’ll be around when Jeremy drops by.
Finally, there’s Miss Harper. I’ve been thinking about what I wrote in last night’s letter. Though I was speaking in jest, I thought it might be kind of cool to write you a song, but given everything else I have going on over the next couple of days, I don’t have the time. Between the trek up north tomorrow and then marking through the evening and getting through all the chaos of Friday—and somehow working in a trip to La Vie en Rose and to Swarovski to pick up a couple of surprises—there aren’t enough hours in the day.
Instead of starting from scratch and writing you a song, I’m cheating a little. I decided to find one of your favorite poems and put that to music instead. I called Julie to pick her brain, and she told me about your fondness for Pablo Neruda. Needless to say, I did a little research, and I’ve found one of his poems that would perfectly suit a sunset cruise on Sunday. It’s called “In My Sky at Twilight,” and I’ve already worked out the melody.
I hope you’ll like it. Despite the melancholy tone, the words are very compelling. I’m particularly taken by the third stanza. I can’t wait to sing those words to you, though to be honest, I may have to shout that stanza. I think it’s become my new mantra. It goes something like this.
You.
Are.
Mine.
MINE.
Hope you’re okay with that. I sound awfully possessive, don’t I? Does it help to hear me say in return, that I am one-hundred percent, unequivocally yours, my love?
I hope so.
Yours.
YOURS,
~Daniel
xoxoxo…
P.S. I won’t be writing tomorrow. I know I won’t have time during the day, and I need to focus on your exam tomorrow night without distractions. I’ll be back on Friday, though, at which point we’ll be counting down the minutes. I can’t wait.
Friday, May 1
Hi, my lovely girl,
I have NEVER been so happy to turn the page of a calendar as I was this morning. May. It’s FINALLY May!
I mustn’t stay up too late writing. We have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow, after all, and I’m going to need plenty of energy for the events I have planned. But I have to spill a little ink, first to apologize for the way things played out this evening. I had no idea Sabrina would be dropping off her parents at my dad’s reception, and I’m truly sorry her arrival caught you off guard. More than that, though, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you she was back in town. If I’d mentioned that, perhaps you would have been less taken aback when you saw her walk through the door tonight, and your evening wouldn’t have been ruined.
I’m not purposely treating you like a fragile vase that might break with the slightest jostle, Aubrey, I hope you know that. You can hold your own with Sabrina, and with anyone for that matter (Jesus, don’t I know it…). No, what I fear is the destruction of the tenuous connection between us and the potentially damaging effects of the stupid things that keep happening to us. After our talk tonight, though, I realize I have to stop trying to build a cocoon around us. We can’t avoid conflict, and my constant desire to circumvent issues only makes things worse in the long run.
We will face challenges and we will have arguments and squabbles. After all we’ve endured, I have to learn to trust in the strength of our love. It’s not a case of thinking you don’t love me. It’s just that there’s something intangible about our love. I think sometimes I need to feel its solidity—its concreteness—in order to truly trust it. I hate admitting that, but I know it’s simply a result of the situation we’ve found ourselves in. With time, I know this feeling will pass. I’m sure living out our relationship in the real world instead of in my imagination or in the pages and pages of these letters will help.
Please forgive me for being an ass. I will make it up to you. This weekend I will focus on setting things right and proving my worthiness in every possible way. In fact, I’m so intent on the deeds that must follow all these many, many words I’ve written leading up to this weekend that I’ve completely run out of things to say.
When I see you tomorrow, Aubrey, this will be my most ardent desire…to give you a thousand kisses everywhere…Until then, I send you a thousand imaginary kisses…everywhere…
Yours, in word, and soon, in deed,
~Daniel
xoxoxo…
Monday, May 4
My beautiful Aubrey,
Well, here I am. The morning after the most wonderful weekend of my life. It’s six a.m. I know. I’m crazy. I only got about four hours of sleep. That nap we took yesterday afternoon must have messed up my internal clock. Not that I’m complaining. It was the best nap ever. Falling asleep completely naked with you in my arms at two in the afternoon is certainly not something you’ll find me regretting.
In fact, I don’t regret a single second of this weekend. I wouldn’t change a solitary detail. Not one. Even Saturday night—making love to you for the first time in front of the fire—maybe I should kick myself for the way things played out. My anxiousness could have entirely ruined our evening, but how can I entertain a single regretful feeling about the way you comforted me? I’ve never been more grateful for another person’s presence of mind so entirely in my life. What a beautiful, caring soul you are. You are also incredibly sexy. You quickly obliterated any remaining anxiety I might have felt the second you straddled me.
Hello? Anxiety, shmanxiety!
You don’t understand how sexy you are, which I’m sure makes you even sexier. Knowing what I do now, I can’t help thinking back over the semester. It’s a very good thing I’ve been lost entirely in the world of my imagination. If I had the very real (and hot as fucking hell) image of you standing before the fire slowly undressing lodged in my mind’s eye all semester, we wouldn’t have made it through that first tutorial. I would have dismissed everyone but you within five minutes and insisted on tutoring you within an inch of your life.
With my tongue.
And other things.
Other very hard things.
One of these things is actually getting hard right now as I think about how it felt to touch you for the first time. Slipping my fingers between your creamy soft thighs that first time—that moment is emblazoned in my memory, and will be forever, I’m sure. It’s second only to the feeling of looking into your eyes as I finally, FINALLY experienced the unparalleled ecstasy of moving inside you.
“Transcendent” is a word that’s bandied around at times like this, as a lover tries to properly articulate the emotional heft of such a moment. Well, it’s safe to say that even the word “transcendent” is a feeble description of how it felt to connect with you like that, Aubrey. And making love to you in the middle of the night—the quiet passion of that experience—it almost brought tears to my eyes. Maybe a “real” man shouldn’t admit things like that, but I’m inclined to argue that only a real man would allow himself to acknowledge such depth of feeling and have the courage to share it with the woman he loves.
(At least that’s my story, and I’m damn well sticking to it.)
For me the past two days were full of moments like these. I’ve never enjoyed my time at the cottage so much. I’m sure the memories of our weekend will color every experience I have at the cottage from now on. How will I ever play pool there again? I’ll try to line up a shot, and all I’ll see is you lying there naked, rolling that damn eight ball in your hand and gazing up at me with those I-just-came-so-hard eyes. Good God. Balls will fly everywhere.
&nbs
p; Interpret as you will.
And how can I possibly see that bed (where I shortened your life measurably—sorry about that) as a mere place to sleep, or look at that shower stall the same way again?
Actually, I’m quite happy to never look at that shower—or any shower for that matter—the same way again. Showering alone was becoming a decidedly unfortunate activity. Henceforth, I must never shower alone. This will take some rejigging of schedules etc., but I must always have you with me when I shower from this point forward.
Deal? Deal.
I could blither on ad nauseam about how hot you are, and about how great it is having frequent and mind-blowing sex with you, and how happy I am knowing I won’t have to eat another tomato ever again. I could rave on and on about your amazing lips and talented tongue, your soft breasts and exquisite ass, but that’s not all this weekend meant to me.
(Cue: your stunned face—I know it’s positively shocking…)
The past two days were an absolute affirmation of what I’ve been telling you for weeks, or at least what I’ve been thinking…I’m starting to lose track of what I’ve pondered here, and what I’ve actually told you. This is not good. Anyway, what I mean to say is you’ve brought such light and laughter into my life. For so long I’ve wished I could spend my days reveling in the fun of your company. As I told you yesterday, I think of the day I heard you and Matt laughing behind your apartment door at Jackman, and how desperately I wished that were me instead of him. And now it is.
I’m no longer on the other side of that door. In fact, all of the doors are open between us. These last couple of days were exactly what I’d been wishing for. Going for walks, playing in the games room, cooking and eating together, watching movies, boating…even being forced to chase you around the cottage nude because you stole my clothes—every moment was pure, unadulterated fun.
I’m not naïve enough to believe that we won’t continue to have trials and tribulations—every couple does—but you deal with everything so pragmatically. (At least it seems so to me. Perhaps you’d disagree.) I know there will be bumps in the road, but I’m sure we can face anything together.
I’ve searched in vain through the letters in this book of my grandfather’s, desperate for some passage that will help me to articulate how amazed I am that we stand here with a future before us. It’s been a frustrating journey to get to the point we’ve reached. It’s a journey that’s tested us, taking what started as attraction and a mutual interest and allowing it to become what I want to call complete communion. I can no longer imagine my life without you in it. That’s why I gave you the key to the condo, Aubrey, and why I hope you’ll use it.
What I’d dearly love is for you to move in lock, stock, and barrel, but I won’t pressure you. Doing that would get me nowhere fast, and in fact would most likely be counterproductive; but it’s difficult for me to keep my peace when I see no good reason for us to remain apart. It’s entirely safe for me to purge my deepest wish on this page, though. My deepest wish is this: I want you here. Every day. Always. Full-time.
I know I’ll talk to you soon and hopefully see you, as well. If all goes well, I’ll be able to convince you to come back here today so we can start christening the condo. Plus, I really need to shower, and how can I do that if you’re not here? A deal is a deal.
All my love,
~Daniel
xoxoxo…
Update: Monday, May 4, 11:30 p.m.
My lovely girl,
I must be crazy because I’ve left you alone in bed to sneak off to the office and write. You’re asleep, though, so it’s not like I’ve actually abandoned you. You’re dead to the world—even snoring a little. It’s very cute. I don’t blame you for conking out. I think it might have been the four glasses of wine and the…“after dinner activities.”
You’re absolutely exhausted.
Anyway, the reason I’ve come in here to write is that I was lying in bed thinking about this afternoon. Telling you a little more about my anxiety issues today—explaining all of my foibles and the events in my past which precipitated me developing these various eccentricities—was so incredibly liberating. It was also very eye-opening. You said you can see why I would have kept all of this to myself, but that it’s important for you to understand these things about me. Of course it’s important.
You bought yourself a notebook today so you can begin to write for enjoyment. You said it was only fair—I write about you, so shouldn’t you be able to write about me? I made you promise to continue telling me everything as well, and not just turning to the pages of your notebook when you felt the need to vent. What a hypocrite I am.
As much as I hate to admit it, I suppose writing all of my feelings here might be impeding me from sharing things with you as fully as I should. And so, although it pains me, I’ve decided it’s time to give my keyboard a rest. As my grandfather used to tell me when I was a kid, no one can read my mind. I have a tongue in my head and it’s my responsibility to use it.
Instead of pouring my heart out here, I’ll pour it out to you, my poppet, just as I did today. I think this will be good for my mental health. Beyond that, I believe it’ll be beneficial for our relationship. With that decision made, all that’s left is to share these letters with you, and I will—but not yet. Sharing them will be a gift, but more than that, it will be a daring leap of faith. I will know when the time is right. I look forward to that day, whenever it may be.
It’s difficult to know how to close three months’ worth of thoughts and feelings. Maybe simplicity is best. Please know that I cherish you with my whole heart. I don’t know how long these letters will remain under wraps, but until the day I share them with you, I will make sure you know—both with my words and my actions—that I love you.
Happily, I can now close my laptop, safe in the knowledge that in less than two minutes, I’ll crawl back into bed and pull you into my arms. You’ll then proceed to drool contentedly on my chest for the next seven hours.
And all will be right with the world.
Yours, in every conceivable way,
~Daniel
xoxoxo…
Part Four
The Record of My Heart
Sunday, November 1st
Hey, gorgeous,
As you can see, it’s been a while since I checked in here. We’ve been together for almost nine months. During that time, we’ve been through a storm, Aubrey—a storm, a tempest, a fucking Chinook—call it what you will. I would argue that our relationship hasn’t just survived this storm, it’s triumphed in the face of it. Our love for each other has endured many trials, several of which threatened to chase me back here to the comfort of these blank pages. I resisted this compulsion every time.
That day we had the awful fight about Eli, for example, it would have been so easy to rage at a blank page, filling it with complaints and misery. I stopped myself. Instead, I went for a long walk and then listened to some music, keeping those thoughts locked in my head so that when they eventually did spill, they would be words shared with you rather than with a computer file. I’m so glad I made that decision.
I wish I’d used a similar approach to deal with my summertime crisis involving Nicola. I truly believed you weren’t remotely interested in hearing her name, which is why I resisted telling you what I’d found out about her. But choosing not to share with you and opting not to purge my feelings on paper had a disastrous effect. The bad dreams and constant anxiety were inevitable.
Having you by my side when I confronted Nicola and finally put the past to rest was an unparalleled experience. I felt so safe knowing you were there supporting me. More importantly, it reminded me of the importance of communicating with you openly. I’m convinced that our ability to tell each other anything—to share everything without fear of judgment—is what brings us to where we are today.
And where is that, you ask? Let me tell you.
You’ve gone off to the theater to watch and review The Boys in the Photograph, and
I’m alone, nursing a glass of wine and rereading this collection of journals and letters, and pondering one of the most intricately planned proposals imaginable. I say that as if it’s a nuisance figuring out how best to propose to you, but I don’t mean that at all. What I mean is, I want it to be perfect. I’ve always been a romantic fool, but the pressure to make a proposal not just meaningful, but unforgettable is overwhelming. But trust me when I say I’ve done my homework to make sure I don’t screw up.
I’ve got the ring—carefully designed with suggestions from your mother and Julie and some invaluable input from Patty (you’ll understand that when you see the ring for yourself). I’ve chosen the date on which I’ll propose (a Friday the thirteenth, no less), and I have a plan in place to get together with your father in Calgary when I head out west to attend the Renaissance symposium next week. I’m determined to meet him and secure his blessing before asking for your hand. The only thing left to do is to craft the words to the proposal, which I’m sure will cause me a fair amount of angst because, regardless of what I say, I’ll never be able to properly communicate the multitude of reasons behind my desire to spend the rest of my life with you—at least not succinctly…
However, when I ask you to marry me, I’ll be gazing into your eyes, and when you look at me, you will see my soul, as you have since the day our eyes first met. Even without words, I have no doubt my feelings for you are always written on my face, in every doting smile, every fiery gaze, every loving glance. Having said that, I often wonder if you truly understand the depth of my love for you—how much you’ve changed my life.