Regret

I just had a thought. What if I was wrong? What if it was just a big mistake? The biggest. Maybe I should have left well enough alone.

Walking through my friend Paul's new house, I feel in awe. I think he's given up on getting me to move in with him, if just for a while. "So how much do you pay for this again?" I ask Paul.

Paul winces a smile and said, "$2300". He raises his arms to show me the garden as we walk out onto the porch. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"It is."

"You should move down John. Now that..." He stops short of saying why.

"I don't want to. I don't need to," I reply. I guess I'm not surprised he keeps trying, "You know that."

"Fine. I didn't mean to-"

"And stop walking on eggshells will you?" I spend the rest of the afternoon eating chicken and horsing around with three of my pals, two of their girlfriends/wives, and one of their dogs. It's more than nice.

Sifting through the next wave of the social activities planned for that weekend, I find myself at a dusty bar with a small fireplace, a big pool table and a royal DJ booth. In walks the crowd I had been waiting for, slapping me on the back and deftly buying me another pint with one wave of the hand.

I still can't understand whether I'm getting invited out of pity or because my true self has come back through. I mean I used to be a relatively popular person among my friends. I had few complaints about the type of parties I was invited to, the activities in which I was included, the discussions I had. There were a whole host of people, interesting folks, too. I didn't hit it off with everyone, for sure, but those whom I was close to were loyal friends. Real friends. They still are. Some of the faces have changed and the tone is still not mocking enough for my satisfaction but they're "taking care of me". Keeping me out of trouble. Keeping my mind off things. This is why I sometimes think it's pity. You see, I am twenty-nine years old. And I'm recently divorced. Last week, I had what I had expected be a small birthday party turn unexpectedly large. I came home from my job and found that Paul had casually invited everyone to my place in the City to enjoy the views of the Golden Gate while drinking Anchor Steam in the sun. The crowd just came together, we had such a great time. It bears repeating. Such a great time.

Two months ago, the papers went through. I don't even know how to say it but I think that's right. My friend Stan, the lawyer, took care of the legalities, oh with him being a lawyer and all it seemed a good idea. And it was. Felicity didn't mind and we really didn't have much argument over whose stuff was whose. The jacket she bought me for my last birthday which she invariably wore was the only sore point. Stan made me leave it to her. It wasn't worth much but it wasn't old and tatty either.

Felicity never took my name. I don't blame her, even though I'm the one called John Doe. Really, I am. You see, my parents are to blame. Throughout my life, I've had to deal with my name. They had a choice. And while my uncle John was revered and a remarkable man; but to name me after him without thinking about the repercussions was just downright evil. And Felicity never became a Doe, partly because it didn't sit well with me in the first place. "Why should a woman take a man's name?" I said. I knew I wasn't suggesting the reverse, and was probably hinting at the not-necessarily-everlastingness of the choice.

We were married after six months. We met each other at a bar, well really a New Year's party for Paul at a bar, somewhere in the Haight. Paul's mother's sister's niece. In-law. So there wasn't too much of a family connection thing when I called it off. Paul and I are what I always thought brothers would be like, but most real brothers tell me that we're just like best friends. I am to Paul what he is to me and that's that. Paul always invites extended family to everything we do so it wasn't out of the ordinary. This is what happened. When the clock struck midnight, I was being kissed by another woman whose name I don't recall and Felicity noticed and finally got up the courage to come talk to me by one a.m. I know I'm not intimidating, so when she appeared nervous, standing like a crane on one foot or the other, but never both, I knew there was something. I hadn't noticed her until then but it clicked, and she moved in three weeks later.

The bar is getting dustier by the moment as people get off their stools and start stomping around to Lyle Lovett and the sweet melodies of his early music. It didn't make sense to me that country had come back in but then Lyle Lovett was never really mainstream country. He lost his wife and everything but there wasn't a real sense of pity to it. Most of my friends won't even notice anyway, they think it's all some sick but obtuse joke concocted by Paul. You see Felicity really looks like Julia Roberts. The full lips, devilish smile, and uncontrollable hair. She's just about five inches shorter.

I can't imagine what everyone is doing out so late on a Sunday night. It doesn't make any sense to me. Last I checked, Stan has a dentist's appointment he's been groaning about for weeks first thing Monday, and Lisa has sixty slides to prepare for a noon meeting, and Kate the hairdresser can't say no to her Monday-morning regular unless it was her birthday or the week of Christmas. And they are all still here, out until twelve-thirty on a Sunday night, stomping away.

"John?" Stan comes by, flush. "Lisa and I are going to the movies tomorrow night. Wanna come?"

I shoot him a look of disbelief. "I'm not that sad."

"No, we mean it." The sincerity is actually apparent. "Lisa's sister is in town and..."

The mysterious, notorious Lisa's sister. I can't believe it has come to this. After listening to Stan and Lisa trying to pass her on to one of our single male friends for so long, I never imagined that it would come around to me. None of us had ever met her, but we had all seen her picture. A good picture, no doubt, but still a picture which Lisa seemed to always conveniently have in her purse. Her name is Denise and she just has one problem. She doesn't exist.

Monday night comes along and standing outside Embarcadero theater for a while, I decide to take a stroll through the lobby to see if they're inside. In the corner of the entrance, sitting on a stool is Denise. I knew the picture was lying but I didn't know by how much. In fact, as I approached, I realize that she's quite pretty in a movie starlet sort of way.

"Hi," I push my hands as deep into my pockets as casually possible.

"Hi," Stan comes over, extending his hand to pat my back and bring me closer. "Denise, this is John."

"Hello," Denise doesn't get up but still looks me in the eye and smiles. "I heard about your company. Congratulations."

"Thanks, but it just started. Times are good and all. But enough about work." I try to think of something else to say, but it just blurts out, "So what do you do?" I smack my hand against my head in my imagination and hope she would find it funny.

She looks at me curiously and says, "I'm between jobs. Traveling a bit. Got a big payoff from a construction job I did a year ago and I'm still taking advantage."

She doesn't appear to be the hard-hat type, "Construction?"

"More like real estate development. I wire up luxury residential apartments and condos. The work is interesting in that few people know how easy it is and it pays well enough to make it bursty." She pauses, looks away slightly bored, and says again, "But enough about work."

I chuckle and turn my attention to Lisa who was studying my every move and gauging every reaction. "Stop studying us," I whisper into her ear. Another faux-pas. I could tell Denise doesn't appreciate the private joke. Stan ushers us into the theater and we sit four abreast, with Stan and I at the flanks. I don't have much opportunity to talk to Denise through the movie, just one quick, "See that?" which doesn't make much sense in a one-set art house movie.

We wangle our way out of the theater and onto Columbus. I really want to stop for coffee at the Steps of Rome, but Denise's yawn and stretch manoeuver effectively kills the evening and any chances I had to get to know her better. The happy couple looks me in the eye with a tinge of sympathy as they jump in a cab with Denise and whisk away. I'm left on my own, in a light drizzle, to walk the short walk back to my apartment.

A few days later, after an all-consuming workweek, Stan and I meet for drinks. I see him walk in and give me the same look of sympathy he had in the cab. Just at that moment the Denise evening comes roaring back to me. I can actually feel sad. I didn't think I was trying but I was. I didn't think I was interested but I was. I didn't think I was that pathetic. But I am. And Stan tells me so.

"You were so pathetic on Monday. I mean c'mon Johnny, you could have tried to be a bit more suave." Stan sits back in his seat.

"Thanks, Stan." I sip my beer. "I mean it. God, I think that's the first time one of you has been honest and straight with me. I mean, you haven't teased me in ages."

"Was I teasing you?" he's perplexed.

"Yes, and I enjoyed it. Of course I was ditzy. Of course I was desperate. The thing that surprises me is that she brought that out in me."

Stan doesn't miss a beat, "You're a man. Albeit a pathetic one. And she is a very attractive woman. And you're single again and as much as we might not believe it, I think you're over her. The time has passed. The year is over and you're a free agent again." His false-macho attitude returned, "You're just like you were when Lisa and I met you two years ago."

"I am?" I am not.

"You are."

***

Sixteen days later and I can feel the pressing of the deadlines against my sanity. I work for an electronic commerce startup. We sell consumer market research on-line. My boss, the founder, is a risk-taker par extraordinaire. The joy of my job is that win or lose, I get a lot of fabulous experience out of it, and I can sink oodles of newfound free-time into it. Throw yourself back into work, they say. So I do. And even though I have no life, it never really seems that way to me because I'm so busy.

I sit around again today in my office, looking out onto the parking lot and trying to catch that sliver of Bay that sometimes eludes me. I'm in some kind of Socratic trance because I don't even notice two people come into my room, ask me a question, and close the door. The founder says he has a rush of glee when he sees me like that, probably because he thinks I'm planning our strategy. The truth is, I'm thinking about being alone and whether I'm really well-suited to ever fit with someone else.

A week passes. Three more trances. The founder actually has the gall to purposely bring one of our investors past the window of my office to show him me, 'Our Visionary'.

Stan stops by. He's relieved that his second tooth operation went well and that there was significantly less pain than he worried about. "It was amazing. The lidocaine is fantastic. They must have reformulated it because I couldn't feel a thing. And even the needle wasn't too bad-"

"Will you fuckin' shut up about the fuckin' dentist you wuss? It's just a fucking filling. Millions of children like you get 'em put in every fuckin' minute of every fuckin' day!" I just lose it.

Luckily for both of us, Stan's not just a prodigal lawyer, he's also a social scientist and a honours psychology major from Princeton. He understands that my tirade is either a result of a slash from a hockey stick across my back or is indicative of emotional stress. And since Stan and I aren't skating, he knows that something's up. Something big. "Well. Are you going to tell me?"

We just skip through the apologies and what's wrongs and wait until I start talking in a low voice. "It's Denise." It isn't. "I can't stop thinking about her." I could barely remember her name. "It's like she's indelibly etched into my memory." I knew that that corny line would trigger Stan's bullshit-meter.

"No, it isn't John. What is it?"

"I don't know bud. What if I never find someone. What if I never marry?" Stan started to blush. He knew that his relationship with Lisa was contributing to my problem. He always felt self-conscious that his perfect (and he admits it) perfect relationship was something to look up to, something to aspire to, something to give up trying to find because only one in 2 billion are like it and they're the one. "I think I've come to terms with it. I will never marry."

Stan puts his blush away and looks off at the cars coming down California Street. A cable car knocks its bell and narrowly avoids hitting one of its own riders. He starts to talk softly, "You can never tell, John. Yeah, maybe you will never marry again. So what? Let the future be and just live in the moment will you?"

It's an easy thing to say to make me feel better and it works.

***

I go into the founder's office and tell him that I was on the verge of burn-out. I am. I could sense that another 100-hour week would drive me mad. We scrape together enough out of our marketing programs budgets to pay for my first staffperson. I would start interviewing that Friday.

My first interviewee is one of Kate's clients. She and I had a professional interview, exchanging each other's goals and expectations and agreeing to disagree. She isn't the one and I am not the job she's looking for. But she seems to have a good time in the process and invites me out to hang with her friends. She also manages to subtly mention that she has a boyfriend, and that Kate would be there too. I agree and meet her at the Revolution Cafe in Hayes Valley for an early drink. Kate was already there but she's on the phone and I meet 'the boyfriend' as I walk in the door. She has at least said enough about me so that he recognizes me. I don't really get a chance to know either of them much since Kate and I get into a deep discussion with Vendela, a random coffeehouse-goer. Vendela has beautiful, luscious, chocolate hair, which is why I'm sure Kate noticed her, and she has a worn black leather jacket that carelessly falls off her shoulder every half-hour or so. We talk mostly about why none of us had seen a play that we had really enjoyed in a long time. We wonder if we just don't get today's plays which are either targeted at the musical-going audience or the historical biography set. We're all none of the above so we have something in common. While Kate doesn't take a hint, I think her bladder finally collaborates and affords Vendela and I a few moments of privacy. I ask her out, confidently, simply, not like I had ever done before. She looks surprised and hesitates for a moment. Unfortunately, my interviewee interrupts to say her goodbyes and by the time all that's over, Kate sits down again. Thoroughly embarrassed, I excuse myself to the Men's.

When I get back, they're both laughing and joking and Vendela fairly loudly says, "I'd love to go out with you. Let's meet here tomorrow at seven." I thank her, which isn't appropriate but is still well received and she packs up her stuff and leaves with a weird wink of sorts.

"That was so funny!" Kate chuckles.

"What?" I ask impatiently.

"Your ring finger. It's so white. You've got tan-lines from that long African honeymoon you and Felicia took." I look down. I do have tan lines. I sort of knew I did but I don't think they're that noticeable. "So, Vendela thought," Kate kept laughing throughout, "that you were married and that you just slipped your ring in your pocket in a slimy attempt to pick her up!"

I just stare at her in awe. I have something to blame for being ignored for the last few months.

"Isn't that hilarious? Naturally I told her that you were divorced, very much available, and that it was about time you started dating again!"

***

Vendela and I decide to go to a play. I know it sounds funny but we just want to give the theater another chance, and to compare notes, in a matter of speaking. She says that a friend had suggested one -- I suspect that she did some research because it ends up being fantastic. It's like a real slice of life on stage. Not about a wealthy czarist Russian family's troubles, not about a masterclass taught by an opera legend, and definitely not about the zany capers of a stowaway on a gay pirate ship. It was about a man who lost his hair and his woman who started to lose interest. It didn't really go anywhere but it did question our traditional notions of tolerance and taste. Plus it was funny. And it helps Vendela relate to my not-so-great looks and to her out-of-this-world looks. She tells me how hard it is to be pretty, blah blah, but this time, I actually start to believe her.

We see each other two more times that week and I decide it was time I invite her to a function with the gang. Stan and Lisa are having a dinner party and they're not going to invite me because they want it to be a couple's thing but after I tell them about Vendela, they find the extra leaf in their dining-room table and squeeze us in.

Vendela invites me over for six, which I thought was a bit strange since Stan told me to be there for eight. When I ring her buzzer at her flat on Sacramento, I hear a hurried, "C'mon up," and a brief buzz that I just manage to catch to let myself in.

She had left the door ajar so I sit down on the sofa and admire the double-crease in my pant leg.

She comes out of the kitchen holding two glasses of white wine. She has on a cream-coloured sweater that leaves just enough space for me to see the dark skin of her midriff. She gives me that same weird wink and offers me a glass. I take it. "A toast," she says, "to," quite surprisingly, "us". After just one sip of the chardonnay, she leans over and gives me a kiss. It's just a kiss to most but to me, of course, it is my first kiss. Since Felicity. It feels awkward and new but after a couple of sips of wine, and a couple of more soft kisses, it becomes more familiar. I sheepishly accept her invitation and we leave ourselves a mere twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and find a cab to go across town to Stan & Lisa's place.

I slept with her. With Vendela. Just like that. On our third meeting. That must be some kind of record right? One glass of wine and a little privacy. That's all it took to get all of 'that' out of my mind? Was it worth it? Yes. Was it good? Oh, yes. At least I thought it was. She's still smiling too so I guess it was okay. My thoughts race in the cab; still, I have the presence of mind to take her hand even though I don't say a word. Her dark skin intertwines with my fair skin at every finger, tan-line and all. It feels different. Better? Maybe. I feel sure of something. Not myself. Not the relationship, but something. Probably that all my over-dramatizing and 'I will never marry' talk was hogwash. There's that word. It freezes me. My hand goes rigid and cold. I'm disturbed by the mere association with marriage so I dispel it to as distant part of my brain as I can and concentrate on the moment, like Stan said. And I take a look again and I realize what I have. I lean over and I kiss her on the cheek and it feels good.

We ring the buzzer like I always do at Stan's but again I don't explode with some abrupt, "Open up," like I usually do. I just say, "It's Vendela and John." I like the sound of it. I know she knows it too. She can tell I relished saying it and chuckles and squeezes my hand but naturally lets go the instant before the door swings open.

Stan and Lisa, the perfect hosts, seat us very close to each other on one side of the table where there's nothing to look at except the other guests. We have a great time talking and joking and Lisa says to me as I help her wash up between courses, "What's gotten into you?" Paul remarks that I've finally figured out how not to turn red when I drink. I know they're just making passing remarks at my euphoria without talking directly about Vendela.

Much later on, once the group has found its legs, Lisa can't resist and starts grilling Vendela ever so gently. Rather than talk about the staid and often dangerous, "so where did you two meet?" line of questioning, she instead goes to something seemingly innocuous.

"Vendela," Lisa says with a pronounced literary elocution. "Is that an Indian name?"

"Tamil, actually. Well the name's from everywhere but I'm Tamil." Vendela handles the spotlight with ease. I think to myself that she looks just as good in a spaghetti-strap dress as she does in a leather jacket. I look around the table and I see the confusion: two people looking down, one person sipping their wine, Lisa smiling gently, Paul almost laughing, and Stan looking perplexed. I look over at Vendela and slightly raise my eyebrows and look at Stan. She gets it (it being our group's miserable mastery of geography) and continues, "I'm from Sri Lanka."

Vendela tells the story of how she moved to California when she was ten and I learn a lot about her father, his professorship at UCLA, her love of palm trees (just certain varieties that is), and her singular devotion to her family. She's an only child, she has a minor case of asthma, she has a propensity to laugh in interviews, and she used to ride a bike (motorcycle, we had to explain to Stan) until her doctor told her it was worsening her asthma. I'm hanging on every detail while the others just think it's a nice tale. They particularly like the story of her pledge of allegiance at the citizenship ceremony where she belted it out so loud so that the officials couldn't hear that her mother hadn't quite memorized it.

Walking out that night, Stan holds me back and shakes my hand. He doesn't have to say anything.

I mutter to him, "I thnkmnlv."

A few days later, I'm still thinking about it, what seemed like a half-joke was actually mostly true. I feel the same longing to be with her, the same unacceptable pout when she says she has to see her parents over the weekend in L.A., the same joy when she surprises me at work and takes me to Darbar for Indian food. It feels like a rush.

***

I find a poem Felicity wrote for the one and only birthday we spent together as husband and wife. It's the one and only poem, the only tangible evidence I have (other than my ring) that she ever loved me. And the poem, in its somewhat sarcastic tone and clever wit, delivers the emptiness and joy back. It brings me to tears. How can two people think they love each other so much when they really don't?

***

A few weeks after Vendela and my one-month anniversary, after our first successful weekend away, we're driving back and Vendela shouts out, "Let's throw a party."

I laugh and stupidly say, "For what?"

"No reason. It would be nice. A way to thank Kate for getting the two of us together." That wasn't exactly how I remembered it but I was game.

Ironically, we end up sticking with the "Thank you, Kate!" theme. We print out invitations with her picture and even buy a cheesy sign, but the whole first party ordeal almost splits us up. Thank you Kate for giving us an excuse to have this party so that we can realize how we could never live together! Thank you Kate for introducing me to this woman who is so detail-oriented that she makes Boeing's engineers look careless. Thank you Kate for sitting next to this leather-jacketed stranger in a café who feels the need to impose her love of heavy metal biker music to all her guests. Our disconnects turn into squabbles and into fights until finally Kate comes by two hours before the party to help us.

When she rings the buzzer, I am on a stool putting up a poster we'd just fought over. Vendela yells, "You get it. It's your apartment."

I get off the stool, run down and let Kate in. She instantly spots my frustration and notices Vendela's hair's getting frizzy and says, "Trouble in paradise, kids?"

I never thought of Kate as the type of woman to call me a kid but she's been there before. She's five years older than me, has already been divorced, had an abortion at sixteen, and just got sorted one day when she found her talent for hair colouring. "What's up?" Kate repeats.

We talk to her for almost half-an-hour, and we all agree that we're both trying too hard to make a good impression on all our friends. Pretty obvious, eh? We stop being fussy, call a truce, sort of hold each other for a bit, and invite Kate in for a group hug. It feels wonderfully good -- surprisingly so since I thought I was going to lose it a few moments earlier.

The party is great. Only one person calls Vendela 'Felicity'. The dip is a hit. People love the attention to detail. (Yeah, I know I was wrong.)

***

Vendela moves in a little while later. Her two day-a-week contracts aren't bringing in much money so she decides to jump out of her expensive Laurel Heights flat and starts mooching off me. I really don't mind because I have so little attachment to space and I'm used to having someone around. Also, there's an understanding that it is a trial and that it's still 'my' place.

Then it happens. Felicity visits. She just wants to drop off some books she knows she doesn't want but knows I love dearly.

Luckily, Vendela isn't home. Unluckily, I have to invite Felicity in for a drink because it is a really hot day and I could tell she is thirsty. I couldn't not do it. But maybe I shouldn't have. I'm prickly with nervousness but I figure I might make it when Felicity finishes her glass and gets up to leave. Walking past the bedroom, she glances in and sees an old green suitcase. She knows it isn't mine. Worse, it's wide open. She figures it out because she was always the smart one of the pair. The scene turns from cordial to nightmarish.

She is embarrassed and angry. She tells me so. "How could you? How could you? It's only been four months. How could you?" First of all, it has been eight months since we split up and I guess, four months since the papers went through. Second of all, she is right. I am too quick. And I shouldn't have let her find out. That's the whole reason she moved to Sacramento in the first place-so she wouldn't have to deal with John's speedy recovery.

When Vendela comes home later, she can tell I was gruff.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But…" she tries.

"Trust me. Please." I sit on the couch and mercifully, within five minutes, Paul comes in to get me. He takes me out to that same dusty bar and we talk about what happened.

"She was bound to find out sooner or later," Paul says.

"Cliché, Paul." I'm still smarting. "I could have avoided it. You know how upset she gets. She never was good at surprises."

We let the time pass and then Paul says, "So you have mentioned her? Does she know?"

I know what he's hinting. Don't make Felicity guess, Johnny. Come clean. "She found out the first time we met."

"But does Ven know what happened?" Paul persists.

"Nothing happened." I know I won't get away with this. "We just got divorced. Irreconcilable differences."

"John," Paul says in a Bob Newhart deadpan.

Paul never calls me 'John' so I know something's up. "What?"

"You got divorced after only nine months. After six months, it turned into a disaster. You were in a really tough spot."

"It wasn't that tough. There was nothing really wrong with her. You know that." I start trying to convince myself that there was actually something wrong. My mother knew. There wasn't. "It just went sour. Fast." You could have done something Johnny. She asked for help. You couldn't even let her see what was happening. "The love evaporated. All of a sudden, we went from holding hands to avoiding each other." More like you finding your own life, Johnny. More like you making your own happiness and not sharing it with her. You just being selfish and expecting her to find her own rhythm, without you, just because she had a great career and a lot of smart friends. You just being complacent. Indifferent. "I went from happy to miserable. She didn't understand how bad it was. She was locked into a dream." I need some water. After all those excuses, strung together like feeble candy beads on a string, I know I just need a quick dose of reality. All of a sudden, the excuses disappear and the emotions hit me. I start getting misty but I hold back. "She didn't want to admit that she didn't love me. That she picked the wrong guy." One single tear escapes. Paul's pretending not to see it. I know he thought I was over it. He hoped I was over her.

"That's what you have to tell Ven..." Paul's face changes, "your Sri Lankan beauty you bastard."

He knows what to say. Brothers do. ( I know. I know.) And I am lucky.

***

Vendela and I have the talk although she doesn't want to hear too much. I attribute this to one of three things: one, she doesn't want me to divulge this because she doesn't want to be a serious girlfriend; two, she thinks not enough time has passed and she doesn't want me to go back to Felicity; or three, she, like Stan, wants me to live in the present and won't tolerate long-winded forays into the melodramatic past. The whole episode ends with Vendela demanding, in a joking voice of course, to see a picture of Julia Roberts. I oblige. She sits examining it and says, "Why are gorgeous women so attracted to you?" We laugh and we make love and all's well.

A week and six shags later (I picked that up from my Scottish cousin), Vendela plans a trip to see her folks. She invites me along. I grumble that I'm not ready and she's okay with that and lets me off. Problem is, she's gone for a while. Seventeen long days and seventeen even longer nights. Night three, I help myself. Night ten, same thing, except she's on the phone with me at the time. Night thirteen, I'm out with Paul who's recently bachelorized (which for him is his normal state, emphasis on the word recently), sharking for women (again, accolades to my Scottish cousin). We're at a night spot filled with attractive women when we bump into Denise, Lisa's sister.

"What are you doing here?" I say very cheerfully. I'm actually happy to see her.

"John Doe." She chuckles. She's a bit tipsy. "Nice to see you." She takes my head and plants a big kiss on my lips. Her grip is strong so I can't break away easily.

"Denise," I chide her. "Now, now."

She struts back and forth. "I did actually like you Johnny. Well, sort of. Maybe not at all but it's good to see you." And she walks away! Back into the crowd and out of sight.

Paul sees what happened. "What was that?"

"Denise."

"That's Lisa's sister?" Paul says incredulously, drooling (somewhat figurative).

I shouldn't feel guilty so I don't but when Vendela gets back, there's just a slightly less enthusiastic John waiting to see her. She doesn't notice it; but I do and I know it's dangerous.

***

Vendela's new job starts picking up steam. A development in Morgan Hill, over an hour South of my little flat in the City. Two nights a week, she stays over at work. Soon it's three nights. She's busy with work-- really busy -- and my product launch is keeping me away from home too. We make the executive decision to get a cleaning person to pre-empt the 'this place is a mess' fight.

We still have great nights out with Stan and Lisa and Paul and Kate and we still see one play a month. It's still nice, but there's less of it.

***

Felicity sends me a birthday card. In it is a simple apology for freaking out. She also wishes me well and hopes I find love. You know, other than my mother, I have no greater well-wisher in this world than Felicity.

I hear through Paul that Felicity's seeing a graduate student at UC Davis. Anthropology or something. He can't tell me if they're happy, whether he's good-looking, how funny he is, how much hair he has; nothing. Still, I cope and don't think much about it. Not too much anyway.

***

Vendela's project is going great. Too great. She forgot to call me the other day. It was the first time in the six months that something like this happened. She said she was working on a crisis. I believed her. I have to. What else could be in Morgan Hill?

Her birthday comes and her parents surprise us and come up to San Francisco. They book Aqua and take us out for a very formal meal. Mr. Anandil is incredibly bright. He's brilliant actually. And he's funny too. His wife, Vendela's mother, is also charming. An associate professor in English, she is. The evening goes like clockwork. I give Vendela a locket that night when we get home. It's an antique from her grandmother's village. I contacted Paul whose father is an importer and voil. She loves it. She says it over and over again. Then she says how much she loves me. And for a change, it doesn't scare me away or encourage me to go ring-shopping. It just is.

A week later:

"Honey, where'd'ya put the peanuts?" I ask.

"In the fridge."

"You don't put peanuts in the fridge," I'm sounding patronizing.

"Americans."

I walk into the living room, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't assume what I do is wrong," her voice is getting louder.

"I don't." So is mine.

"Then why did you tell me that the 101 is slowest in San Mateo when you know I go all the way through San Jose." She omits the 'every day'. "Everyone knows it's a bear."

"Sorry," I say.

"So why did you tell me that the English language is precise when you say things like 'where'd'ya'?"

I'm quiet.

She continues, "And don't always think you're right."

"I am," I say in a somewhat conciliatory, self-mocking tone.

"Then why did you get divorced?"

Again, I'm quiet.

So is she. Without a tinge of remorse for what she said.

A month later:

"Can we not see Kate tonight?" Vendela says one night after a long Sunday of putting up with the NFL.

"We have to," I say sternly.

"We don't have to do anything. I just want to spend some time with you alone. With the TV off." Vendela clearly doesn't have Felicity's love of football.

I don't. "But Kate…." I smirk. "We have to thank her."

"I'll open some wine," she offers.

"No," I say softly, "please can we go?"

"OK, Johnny."

A week later:

"What is it?" Vendela asks.

I'm looking through my sock drawer and I find a cute old picture of Felicity. I guess I'm staring at it for a while. "Nothing."

A few days later:

"Can I come in?" Vendela says as she walks into the bathroom.

"Close the door." I'm in the shower and the air feels especially freezing. "It's cold!"

"Sorry," she says and she walks out.

I get the sense that she wanted to join me but my words changed her mind.

***

I feel it happening again. Vendela's working too hard and she and I are starting to share less and less. I'm getting more and more gruff (it's actually an old nickname of mine) and I finally let her know I'm not fully happy.

It seems to shock her. She stays away for a week. Then she comes over, we chat for a while and she's away for another few days. She calls twice, once in tears. I was at work and didn't respond as I could have. 'I don't love her any more.' 'I'm better off alone.' These thoughts start appearing in my head sporadically enough so I can dismiss them but after about the seventh day of not really missing it, I know it's probably true. I don't love her any more. Thirty years-old, divorced and alone and pretty satisfied with my life. Vendela comes back once more, we talk, and she moves out. She cried a bit, Kate said. I don't.

***

"Should I feel bad?" I ask Paul.

He doesn't respond.

I keep walking with my head down. "I know I'm happier now Paul. I know it."

"So who are you trying to convince?" he snaps.

An hour later, I have Stan and Lisa over. They're not really trying to comfort me. I put up a front. A wall of steel. I don't think there's much vulnerability behind it anyway.

"We're expecting, Johnny," Lisa says to me out of the blue.

"I'm…I'm…speechless! I'm so happy for you." I jump up and hug them both and rejoice with them. "That's why you were in a rush to see me."

"Yes," Stan beams. "Isn't it great?"

***

A month later, I'm walking alone on Polk Street when I stop in a card shop. I haven't given anyone a card in ages. Felicity's last birthday probably. I can't remember if I even gave Vendela one with her locket. It bothers me.

I keep walking and I see a woman in a red V-neck sweater. I smile at her. She scowls back. The same thing happened at a Stan & Lisa party a while back.

I venture into the newspaper shop and I buy the Merc and the Times. I walk home and settle in for the morning. The phone doesn't ring for thirteen hours. And then, it's a wrong number.

***

I run into Paul in the street outside work.

"There you are!" he exclaims. He looks healthier. More happy. Much. "Haven't seen you in what? A week?"

"Almost three," I say quietly.

"Can't let that happen again. Let's see a movie this weekend, okay?"

"Okay."

***

I miss her. Felicity probably still misses me. I know I was wrong now. What I suspected as the fizzle going out was just the love settling in. That's what it's supposed to feel like. I know now that she loved me. That she never stopped. Even when Stan was methodically drawing up the papers, she'd sit across from me, seemingly professional and sure of it all, and she loved me. And I loved her back but my impatience for more of whatever it was I 'thought' love was had it its toll. I'll never forget the look of horror on her face when I asked her for a divorce.

I just had a thought. What if I was wrong? What if it was just a big mistake? The biggest. Maybe I should have left well enough alone.