A Trucker's Imzadi Experience.

By Rachel

 

I had been driving with Beverly for six years. Beverly's my rig, a real beauty, a silver and blue Ford with my name painted on the driver's side door.

Okay, maybe this wasn't the life my father had pictured for me, but it's a good life. I have command of my life, and I have the open road to explore. If you ask me, no man could ask for anything better. Executives in those big fancy buildings I pass day in and day out have money, but how many can claim to have seen the things I've seen or have met the people I met?

How many can proudly say they have gone to every state is US or A?

Likely none.

So I don't feel bad about not being a doctor or a lawyer, or a military man like my father, and his father before him. Don't feel bad at all.

Just lonely. . .a trucker's life is lonely.

<sum> * * *

Okay, I'm pulling an all nighter, hauling a load of Cherries to some packing plant in some po' dunk farm town in Michigan.

I'm tired, having had my fill of loud music, I've opted to turn the radio on AM for my favorite show. Psychology Now. The doctor, some woman who in my lonely hours I have tried to picture, takes cold calls from the screwed up people of America and tries to set their lives straight.

The people who call in are weird (to put it mildy), and this doctor, British doctor I would guess, usually tries to tie up their problems in a five minute therapy session.

Do I believe it works - hell no, man like me, man with life experiences don't believe anybody could fix up the lives of the crazies who call. Been around and have seen to much to be as naive as that. However, this doctor, this doctor Dina, she is different. This woman just sounds so sincere that I can't help but believe that she actually thinks her insights into teen pregnancy are going to help a cracked out sixteen year old carrying her fourth child,

And I respect that. I respect Dr. Dina for being able to stay pure in these times, these strange and crazy times. I respect her a lot and in a way I really desire her for that, for being so loving and trusting and really believing people today can be helped.

* * * Shit.

Psychology Now is a rerun for Dr. Dina's vacation. It's a rerun and because I'm a man on the road I have heard this program before.

Twice.

As pretty as Dina sounds tonight, I opt to turn the radio off. I know the next caller, and. . .well, the caller committed on air suicide.

Bad taste to rebroadcast this show. I'd boycott this station, but. . .

I don't like this call, I don't like what it does to Dina. In a weird way, her sadness affects me, and it just isn't right for a bad ass trucker guy like myself to get all teary eyed listening to some likely over-paid doctor loose it on the air.

No matter how sad she sounds. No matter how genuine her pain obviously is, or how it nabs me right in the gut.

So I let the music of the night entertain me for awhile, as I let my eyes travel the expansive farmlands.

Farmlands. . .and one Bright Red Lincoln Navigator with two flat tires.

<sum> * * *

I stop. Wasn't going to, a man like me can't stop for every auto problem on the road or I'd never make my deadlines.

But this time I can't explain it, is different. This time my foot feels compelled to stop and won't take no for an answer.

So I pull Beverly over and I hop out. Hoping it isn't some tight ass rich guy who couldn't tell you what a jack is to save his life and offers t five bucks for my trouble, if I am forced to change his tires.

Yes, maybe I too was once na´ve, but one two many jack asses set me straight.

* * * * I turn the corner of this beast of a truck accepting to see Mr. Armani and instead.

Sweet Jesus himself I see probably the sweetest ass this fucking state has ever seen. Sweet lord if I ever met Mr. Calvin Klein I would thank him for this moment, and those jeans.

Cautiously I clear my throat. Fuck, it is three in the morning and women these days tend to be jumpy, Don't want to scare the owner of this beautiful piece of property I'm letting my deprived self drool over. Likely she's carrying a .22 and would have no problem blowing my head off and asking questions later. Women these days are jumpy, men these days have made them that way.

But damn, this woman breaks the mold, this woman just stood up, real confident like and turned around to face me like we were in broad day light in the middle of the god damn mall of america0.

And al be, she turns around and I swear to god it was like some god damn shampoo commercial, her hair, long - nice brown color, flies around her shoulders in its ponytail and lands perfect. I've never seen hair that perfect.

"Why, you're a sight for sore eyes."

That voice, shit that voice, her voice, is real nice, real familiar and if I thought about it, it would come to me. But. . .I can't think, at this moment I can't think and her ass is all but forgotten as I stare at that face.

She's beautiful. If I was a poet I would compare her to some exotic flower, if I was an artist she would be a muse.

But I am neither, I am a man of action, and all I can say is I have traveled the length of this country three times over and have seen many women in all shapes, colors, and sizes.

None have looked like her.

None have made me straighten up like my father, throwing my shoulders back like some trained military monkey. But I am. I am throwing my chest out, puffing it like a fucking sea gull or something, and I'm taking off my beloved Cincinnati Red's baseball hat.

No one has ever provoked a response like this in me before.

"Ma'am, if I may ask, how in the hell did this happen?"

Not smooth, not smooth at all. Shit. My brother is right, the open road and solitary confinement have changed me into a heathen.

But suprisingly this woman, the woman, actually laughs. It's a nice laugh, a sweet sounding little number that tickles my insides and starts a rush of blood to my cheeks.

Thank god it's the middle of the night.

"I don't know. It's a doozy though."

She's smiling, tilting her head to the right and her hands are brushing stray strands of hair leaking out of her pony tail.

Its nice. Her hands, real long with even longer nails. Nails you know would feel good on your back after a long sixteen hour shift. Red too. Like Red, makes me think of my Cincinnati Reds.

"I suppose you wouldn't have two spares?"

She shakes her head, and her eyes, even in the dark seem to shine, kind of like deer eyes. Seen a lot of deer in these parts, real pretty animal, and her eyes, her eyes seem to remind me a lot of them.

"I thought I was set remembering to have one."

She's leaning against her truck now, with her back against the door and her head resting on the window. Kind of cute, she's kind of tiny, petite I guess and she's driving this big ass truck.

Expensive big ass truck. Riker, your way out of your league.

"Do you need to use my cell phone, I have one in the rig. You can call your husband or something."

Okay. That was real nice of me. All good and dandy till I get to the husband part. Shit. I'm thinking with little Riker again.

Except I don't think I am. Little Riker wouldn't care about a husband and well as sexual as this woman obviously was in her jeans and white T-shirt, I wasn't thinking about taking her on the hood of her vehicle or something vulgar like most by buddies talk about experiencing on the road. Real woman seperation anxiety.

Instead I'm finding myself wondering if she's hungry, if she's frightened by my less than hygenial appearance. I'm wondering if she's from around here and if she could ever picture herself with a trucker.

Fuck.

But she's again shaking her head, letting that pony-tail of hers swing around all nice and releasing a thousand watt smile in my direction.

I think I could get used to a smile like that.

"Got a cell, no signal. Got a ex-husband and believe me he is probably hoping I could get lost."

She's leaving her truck, walking all nice over to me and I know now, more than before, that she ain't scared, her body language is saying a lot right now, and scared ain't one of them.

"But I do have a mother, about three towns back, and if I don't get a hold of her she will send either the State Police or the Michigan Militia after me."

She's joking and its real nice. My posture is lessening, but so is my tongue so I don't know how good it is that she is making me so relaxed.

"Your mother has ties into the Michigan Militia?"

"My mother has her fingers into everything, she's one in a million."

I'm not sure if how to take the comment about her mother, especially by the tone of her voice, but she is walking over to me and blow me over she is lightly touching my arm.

I smell Vanilla. . .and chocolate, strange but soothing combo. Been so long since I've had any contact with anybody, that I feel an eruption of Goosebumps on my arm.

"Suppose I couldn't talk you into turning around and taking me back to my mother's house?"

She's actually letting her hand, her nails, graze the expanse of my arm. I am helpless.

"Don't you know woman aren't suppose to take rides from strangers?"

I meant it to be a questioning deterrent, but even I heard something in the tone of my voice that didn't come off as anything but a line. My voice had actually dropped a couple of notches.

Her hand stopped, and those big eyes looked up into mine. I saw something for a second, a flicker of. . .desire.

I've been on the wrong to fucking lawn. Broads like this, don't go for scraggily unshaven men like me.

"I have a good sense of character, and I must say I feel nothing but safe in your hands."

Her voice is kind of lower too, and I feel, I feel like that although we obviously come from two different worlds, that she sees me for more than a trucker. Like she sees me for who I am.

Stupid. I know my feelings are stupid and I'm growing delusional in my lack of sleep. Still, I hold out my arms like we are going to the fucking prom, and she takes it like I'm some guy in a tux, and we walk to my rig, my Beverly, like it's a limo.

Man, I've been on the road way WAY to long because this is the best things that has happened to me in months.

* * * * Okay we've been on the road for about twenty minutes, going the wrong way to her mothers. Unfortunately when you drive a truck my size, turning around on an express way is no easy task.

And you know what, she hasn't shut-up. She just chatters non-stop. And you know what else, I find myself enjoying it, almost to much. I find watching her in the dimly lit cab, and I find myself trying to imagine what her hair looks like down. Trying to imagine how those full lips kiss. Trying to picture what she sees as a perfect man and wondering if I could somehow warp myself to be that.

That voice of hers is very VERY familiar.

"Oh god, I've been going on and on about my mother, and I don't even know your name."

She is looking at me now, this petite woman on the opposite side of my truck, which I usually reserve for my Burger King wrappers, and now she is inquiring on my name like some damn fantasy.

"Bill. Bill Riker."

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and I wonder for the first time if it's a stupid name. Legally, the name is William, and I suppose I could have gone to Will, but. . .

"Well its nice to meet you Bill Riker. You are not only commander or an impressive vessel but you are a gentleman who will be forever in my gratitude."

I think she is kidding. . .until I look at her and see the earnest, sincere look she is flashing at me. Just like Dr. Dina, trusting before she even knows a guy. And she is running her left hand along my wood grain dash and I swear she is in awe. I read people and al be she is in awe of my blue collar rig.

I regretfully make my exit to turn around.

"What's your name?" I'm curious, and well the way her hands are running up and down my dash, I feel the animal side of me becoming restless, needing a distraction was in order.

"Deanna. Deanna Bar. . .Deanna Troy. Sorry not used to going back to my maiden name yet." Her hands stop but so does her smile.

I made her sad and damn it, I don't like it.

"Hey, Deanna Troy is a nice name, don't sweat it." I wink and my hand pats her hand.

Skins soft, just how it looks. Bet someday she will make some man very very proud.

Having something like that to come home to every night would make me very very proud.

"Your smooth Riker, I bet you say that to all the woman who ride on this side of Beverly." She winks back before her head turns to the passenger side window.

She's still sad, and if I ever meet the guy who did this to her, I'd rip his throat out no questions asked. Like Aretha Franklin says, women, especially like this, deserve a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

<sum> * * * *

Okay we have been driving in silence for a few moments and I think as nice as she is to look at, she is even nicer to talk to. I want to talk to her and I haven't wanted to talk to anyone in a very long time.

"Do you like the radio?"

She turns to face me and I see tear streaks down her face. I feel my foot working for itself again, and before I know it I have pulled the rig over and have taken her in my arms.

She could have screamed rape or something, but she didn't. She seemed grateful, and that face buried itself in my chest and began to softly sob.

For the first time in a long time I feel like a man.

My hands went around her shaking shoulders and I drew this woman, this fantasy , farther nto my chest and I probably should have enjoyed it. But at the moment her obvious pain brought me pain and I wanted her to stop. . . to be the joking woman I had seen only moment ago.

"Shh. . . he's a jerk. He doesn't deserve you or your tears."

Her sobbing stops, and she draws her head back to look curiously at me/

"Who?"

"Your husband. He obviously didn't deserve you."

I think I say something reasonable, something Dr. Dina would say. But it isn't having any desired affect. She is giggling?

"Oh, I'm not crying over that loser. I'm. . ."

Okay the nervous giggle is over and the tears start again.

I'm feeling impulsive. I'm taking my hands, and I'm cupping her chin, lifting her fact to me.

"What to you have to cry about Ms. Troy? Nothing can be as bad as you think."

Nothing can be as bad as she thinks. Fuck I won't let it because. . . well just because.

"I'm a doctor Bill, I'm a doctor and I let somebody die."

<sum> * * *

Dr. Dina. I don't know what the fuck made it click but it did.

I had fucking Dr. Dina in my presence. . .fucking Dr. Dina my ideal person, my trusting voice that kept me believing in this fucked up world.

And I am compelled to somehow, someway, help her.

Something told me not to tell her what I just figured out, so I decided to play dumb. Playing dumb was one of my specialties.

"Can I possibly interest you in some dinner?"

Okay, so I wasn't exactly sure where I was going here, but Dr. Dina. . .Deanna obviously needed something and well I know I always considered food to be a comfort. I figured it couldn't hurt.

"Your awfully sweet," she murmurs between sniffles, "but I couldn't hold you up. You have a life."

Her voice is wavering somewhat and as an avid listener to her radio show I can hear it definite pitch changes.

She wants to go but she is still bummed out.

"Actually to be honest, I don't have a life." I shrug my shoulders for her benefit, deciding to play up to her martyr personality, and venture an attempt to get her mind off of her current worries, "so really I'm being quiet selfish asking you to dinner. A man like me can't help but wonder what it is like to sit across from someone as beautiful as yourself and share a civilized meal."

I think this line made her blush. Its dark, but the way she is suddenly fidgeting in her seat I can tell she is pleased. Pleased and momentarily purged of what I assume can only be reference to that on-air suicide that I know has forever changed her life.

I suppose I am being awfully cocky by assuming this, in a truth it could be something else she was referring to - but I don't think it is. For some reason I am experiencing almost a sixth sense where she is concerned. Right now I feel more confident of what is going through her head at this moment than what is going through my own.

"Where can you go to get a civilized meal in three in the morning?"

I let a small smile slip at her question.

"Why Denny's of course."

* * * * * I figured a broad like this doesn't frequent Denny's often, but without looking at the menu she managed to order a complete meal from memory.

I was impressed. Small things like this, rich dame frequenting Denny's for instance, impressed me.

When the waitress dropped off Deanna's large chocolate milkshake and I watched Deanna down it in thirty seconds flat, I realized I just may be in love.

"Like chocolate?"

She smiles shy like and wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

"You could say that."

* * * *

She is sitting across from me and we have been waiting for our food for nearly thirty minutes.

Sometimes you just got to love Denny's - dependably slow.

"Do you. . ."

"No."

Surprised I shut my mouth. I was going to ask her if she wanted to talk about her comment earlier, and somehow, before I even got the words out, she answered. Crazy as it sounds, I think she knows what I was going to ask.

"Okay fair enough. Just know that if you need an ear, I'm the best kind - one you will never have to see again."

I wink - she laughs.

"Bill, you're a hell or a guy." She leans forward in the booth and before I know what is happening, she is holdng my hand.

I raise an eyebrow - she laughs harder.

"If I don't tell you, is that a promise that I can see you again?" she questions.

Damn. Lump, size of a baseball suddenly in my throat - my patented no-fail lines gone from memory.

All I can think to do is squeeze this perfect hand.

She smiles, "You probably regret this, don't you."

"No."

I find my eyes drawn to our hands, my presently greasy ones, her perfectly clean white ones, locked together and looking. . . perfect. Don't know why they look so good together, but they do, they really do.

Shyly she looks at me, "You know so much about me. . .tell me about you."

Unconsciously I run my tongue across my dry cracked lips. Same time, waitress comes from nowhere - damn, her appearance constitues my look of death. Thirty-five minutes to wait for my food is not long enough to wait. Especially right now - I wanted this moment to last forever.

But the waitress is a zombie and despite my best attempts to frighten her off, she drops our pancakes uncerimously on the table and Deanna withdraws her hand from my own.

I can't help to feel a let down at the loss of contact.

Strangely as I look across the table, I see the same loss reflected in Deanna's beautiful face.

"Appetizing huh?"

"Actually, I suddenly don't have an apetite." She responds cooly.

Funny, I don't seem to have one either. Can't explain it.

Silently I watch my date begin to aimlessly push her blueberry pancakes around with a fork.

"What did you want to know about me?"

"Huh. . .or right," looking relieved, she drops her fork, "Everything."

And I thought she was enthusiastic on the radio.

"Everything, about me?"

"Oh yes, everything." She has moved her pancakes to the end of the table and has taken the liberty to move my untouched plate too.

She has grabbed my hand again.

"Deanna, why?"

"People fascinate me, real people, people with a heart, people with a soul."

"And you think I have heart and soul."

I want to believe I am the person she thinks I am.

"I know you do."

She obviously is stubborn.

"And what if your wrong?" I question half playfully, half seriously.

I think she is choosing not to listen to me because she is pretending not to have heard my question.

"Tell me about your family."

Ouch. Of all the subject to discuss - that could not have been more sore.

"Beverly's my family."

It comes out bluntly but I lift her hand in my own hoping she isn't upset.

"Your truck." She is put off, but only a little. I can tell she likes the feel of my hands in hers because she is moving her palms against mine causing a pleasant friction between us.

"Who is your truck named after?"

"A friend."

"Oh. . ." I feel her withdraw somewhat and her hands begin to draw away from my own.

Don't know why accept maybe sudden desperation at loosing the proximity again, but I shoot out and grabbed her retreating wrist, "Beverly's my doctor actually, sweet gal, wrote me a doozy of a medical excuse when I was trying to get discharged from the military. Told her I'd be forever in her debt for that little stunt, promised I'd name my first daughter after her."

I smile, never have I shared that story with anyone before.

She relaxes and before I know it hands are again locked, only tighter.

"Why didn't you want to be in the military?"

"Because my father wanted me to and I never ever do what my father wants me to."

She nods, she seems to buy stock in everything I say.

"Bet there is a story behind that."

"Yep, but nothing I care to share with a stranger, no matter how much her smile turns my insids out."

It amazing, she somehow makes me be brutally honest. Don't know if that is a good thing or not.

"Fair enough - I'll let you out of that one if you promise to answer another question."

I feel her legs wrap around mine under the booth.

Its wonderful.

"Shoot."

"Why didn't you save the name Beverly for your daughter?"

Her head is tilted to the side and she is analyzing me. Man, her callers thought her voice was intense they should see her in person.

"Guess, because I gave up the idea of family long time ago."

"Why?"

Damn it if those eyes didn't get bigger staring at me from under those long dark lashes.

"Because no one has ever made me feel the urge to want a family."

Which is true. Been with my share of women, physically, and none fill this void that I think a wife should fill. None make me feel like a man.

Except tonight - but that's even to forward for a man like me to say. Kind of scary too.

"I know what you mean Bill." Her nose cutely crinkles, "I dated pretty heavily when I was youner, but after a while I just grew tired of endlessly feeling empty."

Empty. Good word. Before tonight, I felt empty.

"What about your husband?"

Hope I'm not being to pushy with that question. I just feel compelled to know everything about her.

"He was a colleague that pursued me. . ."she shrugs, "I thought I could learn to love him, but I was wrong. My unhappiness soon broke an already thinly bonded marriage."

She shrugs again and I understand she needs a change of subject. I need one too.

Funny how are needs are almost mirrored.

"You have siblings?"

Another of my sore points, but this time I will share.

"Yeah, a twin."

"A twin," she sighs, "you mean there are two of you? I thought the world was just lucky by having you."

Wow. She has floored me with that response.

"Bill, did I say something wrong?"

Did she say something wrong? Hell no. Its just no one has ever said anything like that to me before and I am not sure quite how to respond.

"Bill?"

I stand up, floor is unsteady at my feet and I am holding onto the table for support.

"Bill? Bill are you okay."

Shakily I hold my hand to her. Not quiet sure if I'm doing the right thing.

"Bill?" she is insecure and worried but she takes the hand I offer her.

Slowly, like in one of those romance movies I watch only if nothing else is on, I draw her to me. This is different than the truck because now I don't mean to comfort, I mean to impress, I mean to woo, I mean to kiss. And I think she knows, and I am sure she wants this too.

First we are inches apart,. .. .then we are centimeters apart. . . . we are millimeters apart and I find I am still unsure if this is the time or place I should do this.

Her eyes close, her lips divide ever so slightly and when she leans up on her tip toes towards me I finally loose my inhibition.

We kiss. We share our first kiss under the unforgiving florescent lights at Denny's

And it's the best kiss I have ever had.

* * * * After the kiss I am dazed. By the distant look about her, I believe she is dazed also. And if it wasn't for the fact other patrons were coming in, we probably would have stayed standing there like to idiots, gawking at each other like two teenagers.

But people did come and without a word passed between us, we walked back to Beverly.

This time hand in hand.

I escorted her wordlessly to the passenger side of my rig, I opened the door, and without a word I lifted her into the truck.

"Bill?" she looks flustered, a good flustered, a sexy flustered.

"Call me Will?"

"Why?"

To be honest I wasn't sure why I had suddenly made that request. But when I looked at her, really locked gazes with Deanna, I could see a light of recognition flash in her eyes that told me she understood what I couldn't explain.

"So what happened back there, with that kiss, you felt it too?"

She sounds relieved and she wraps those beautiful arms around my neck.

"For a second I felt whole." She continues and I realize if it had been any other night, with any other woman, I would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of such a comment.

But this, with Dr. Deanna Troy, was different. I had felt watch she referenced. I had lost a piece of myself in that restaurant, and had gained something so much more important. Something that I could also not find words to explain but which I felt had filled be with inexplicable fulfillment.

For lack of the word to explain what that kiss, what she herself had become to me in such a small time, I did the only thing I could think of to do. I leaned forward and wrapping my arms around her, I kissed her again.

* * * *

Well one kiss lead to another, which lead to another, which lead to a flurry of groping which I would have felt guilty about except for the fact that she was the grooper and I was the gropee.

I found myself adoring the current flush in her cheeks and when she, in a breathless voice that would make Marilyn Monroe envious asked if I had a bed behind the curtain, I had reached any red blooded male's breaking point.

I took her.

But in the same sense she took me as well, matching my eagerness with her own, going so far as to take both sides of my shirt in each of her hands and ripping it down the expanse of my chest sending buttons flying in every direction.

That's when it became apparent that she wasn't going to back down, despite the fact that she was in my mind of goddess status and I was a peasant unworthy of her presence.

So I took her the way I imagined nobel knights took their maidens on wedding nights. She reminded me of someone classy enough to exisit in that time period.

First I moved slow, I was gentle, I found enormous pleasure from the pleasure I was able to impose on her.

I paid loving attention to every inch of her body until she could take no more and screamed out my new name. Then, finding the animal in me respond to her cries like a matting call, I took her fast, catering to her every pleasurable gasp until we both came, crying out in matched intensity before collapsing in an entwined heap on my small one person matress.

It was magnificent.

It could not be explained as sex, it was love in the purest meaning.

And after that, afraid to move and find myself ending this, I drew her to me. When she laid her head on my chest willingly, and began to run her nails through my chest hair, I felt a satisfaction like nothing ever.

I wanted her to know how special she was to me.

Hesitantly, know only one way to express myself, I whispered three words that were rarely uttered to me as a child and which I had never truly understood. . .until now.

"I love you."

I felt her chest release a sigh.

"Is that okay?"

Slowly she lifted her head to meet my gaze, and I swear I saw tears threatening to fall.

No one has ever cried for me for any good reason, so like a frigtened child I found myself drawing her closer.

"Please say its okay."

She lays her head back down on my chest, kissing my side lightly.

"Its more than okay Will, its perfect."

She doesn't return the sentiment and it hurts, but only a little. I don't think I need the words to see what had been apparent in her eyes when she looked at me. Don't believe I need the words to read what her obvious squeezes meant.

So I close my eyes finding a peace I didn't realize was possible to achieve.

* * * * * I wake up, but I do not open my eyes.

Something has changed again.

No longer do I feel that comfortable weight bearing into my side. No longer do I feel that curly hair tickling my nose.

I do not need to open my eyes to know she is gone.

One could fool themselves my pretending she is waiting to wake in the passenger seat. But I can not fool myself that way.

I have a sixth sense about her and because of that I know she is not waiting.

Eventually though I do force my eyes open and I get up. Dragging on the same sorry ass pair of pants and a different shirt. A shirt with buttons. A shirt that does not smell of vanilla and chocolate. I do not allow this sadness that lurkes in the corners of my heart and wants to overtake me achieve its goal. I do not let myself experience the same pain I have likely brought to others.

I will not let myself to feel guilty about this encounter because it was the single best night of my life.

So instead I drag a hand through my hair and hide the inch to long crew cut under by beloved baseball cap.

Cincinniti Reds. . .no longer do I think of the team. Now I think of those nails, long, red, and perfect on the back after a sixteen hour shift. Now I have a memory of those nails to go along with my fantasy.

But I don't dwell, I know it is time to head back on the road. At least that is what I tell myself, as I push back the curtain and make my way back to my seat.

My commander's chair Deanna would call it. Had a nice ring to it.

I glance down in this very seat she now makes me proud of, and see a perfectly folded piece of manila paper lying there.

I know its from her.

I just don't know if I can read it.

So instead I stare at it for awhile, contimplating if what it says will change my outlook.

* * * *

I finally decide I really need to make up time and I can't do that staring at a stupid piece of paper.

So I pick it up and I let myself fall into my seat. My Commander's chair, and because I know it will be easier now to read it than later, I unfold it. * * * * Dearest Will -

You are my soul mate. I could say something poetic but it wouldn't suit our relationship because let's face it, there is no word to adequetly describe what I felt with you tonight. Wholeness, completeness, the other half, all words and phrases that begin to explain, but do not totally grasp the concept of what I felt, am feeling, will likely always feel.

You have bestowed onto me a wonderful emotion. I loved it. I love you. I wanted to say it earlier, I love you, but I was afraid that once I did I would turn myself over to you as damaged goods. You don't deserve anything but my one hundred percent devotion.

So that, my dearest Will, is why I am gone. I must confess I am haunted by a past you were kind enough not to make me elaborate on. I feel I am scarred by something you would say is not my fault. It may be, it may not be, but I am sure I am in need to fix myself before I can start to build what I felt tonight. Before I can make a life with the happiness you showed me was possible to achieve, I first must make piece.

My ex-husband favorite piece of advise is one must take a step back before they can take a step forward. I usually don't listen to the blow hard, but in this case, I feel he may be right. I must see myself through something that has torn my self worth to shreads before I have any hope of getting on with my life.

Does this mean you are rid of me. . NO. It just means you have been granted momentary immunity. But I swear, as daughter to the mother of the fifth family to settle in Michigan from Great Brittian, I will find you. I will find you someday, and when I do you will never be rid of me again. That is not a threat my Will, that is a promise.

I only ask in my absence that you stay true to yourself, stay listening to AM radio (I turned it on this morning and put to two and two together) and still believe in me. Your pure heart has brought me the hope I so desperately needed to go on. You and this night are my stepping stone to recovery.

I will love you always,

Deanna

THE END