Fiction: No Closer Than This

She must have loved him all of her life, she thought, it was a sure truth, as sure as wind as sure as the breath in her lungs. They sat, the two of them, at a table by the window in the cafe that looked out on Clement street. The lowering sky was gray streaked with colored lights as unseen, the sun set over San Francisco. She had seen it all before; this street, this sky, from this seat. She had even sat with him a few times like this. Always like this. Her eyes on the street, knowing his eyes were on her.

Just like this. Today would be the last time. They were close. The tables in these places are always so small. She had to angle her knees to keep them from brushing his, draw her hands close to keep their fingers from touching on the table. But still they were close, even settled back in her chair she could still feel the heat of his body, leaning toward her. Very close. But a million wintry miles apart, separated as if a sheet of thick cold glass formed the barrier between them and not the ice in her own heart.

A month ago, she had been warmed by his regard, charmed by his school boy smile and gentle manner. He was everything he should be; exactly right. And she was more than prepared to love him until the end of her days. Or so she'd thought. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to be with her and this was good, right? So why could she not move beyond this? This . . . sitting in this chair, overlooking this street, watching the sky? At first meeting, he'd found it interesting, stimulating, that she wouldn't give him her address, or phone number. That she refused to `date? him, challenged him, brought all of his masculine mating instincts online and she could see he was prepared to enjoy wooing her. During that first meeting, she'd even thought she was prepared to enjoy his wooing.


That was when she'd still had hope. By their third meeting, she began preparing herself to end it. As afternoon faded into evening they talked for hours, as coffee drinks and scones gave way to the dubious pleasures of pear ale and a shared dinner of pizza with artichokes. It was lovely, but she could see the occasional flashes of uncertainty that grew in frequency as their time together drew to a close. He felt her withdrawal from him and anger made his movements jerky as he waved off her money and paid their tab. She saw his confusion and frustration when he realized she would allow him to come no closer, gently refusing him a `date?, her address, her phone number. She saw the pain he tried to hide. And that somehow he still believed her reticence would fade or could be overcome. She knew differently.

And now the future she had always feared stared at her in her ephemeral reflection on the window. As much as she loved him. And she did -- love him. As certainly as she'd kept him secretly in her heart all her life; she knew that she could not bear to let him love her. The idea of being so, close of his needing so much of her felt like suffocation, like death. She could not bear the claustrophobia of the two of them, together forever, building a life. Would there be any room for her, herself as she was now in this new life of theirs? Would that essence which made her herself be eroded over the years or would she abandon it willingly right from the start? She feared intimacy with someone so wholly apart from herself, feared his unknown, alien agendas, reactions and needs. And though she could feel her love for him as relentlessly as an oncoming tide, she was much too cold, her heart too frozen to be loved . . . and to love in return. She would be alone, loving him for the rest of her life. A whisper of pain in her heart, she allowed her fingers to brush his; no closer than this.

Stephen Tulloch's New Home

****The New News****
Just sent off the first round of individual fundraising letters. Dear -- celestial toads! It took forever. I kept writing and scrapping and then rewriting and scrapping at least half a dozen drafts. Sometimes I get so much in my head that I lose all perspective. Finally I just had to sit down on Wednesday and say to myself, "Self. This is it. Today is the day. It's a fundraising letter, not a sonnet. It is essentially what 9 out of 10 people will consider junk mail not a first edition draft of Shakespeare's sonnets. It doesn't have to be perfect; there's no such thing. So. Chill. Write the dang thing and send it out. TODAY!!!

And so I did. At least I sent out eight of them. The rest will have to wait till I can buy more stamps and a new printer cartridge.

But the point is: The letter, she be done.****The New News****


From StephenTulloch.com:

Artist Statement
"Human nature naturally reaches for a higher consciousness and in this search we return back to the foundation of nature - the endless cycle of life." Stephen Tulloch

As with most artists, My artwork is a reflection of both the inner world and my philosophical take on the outer world which we all share. Technique is everything - it realizes on the physical plane the complex imaginings of an inspired mind.

Yay it's here! Stephen Tulloch, the marvelous artist (and nice human being) who has graciously allowed us to use an image of his pen and ink Cyrano de Bergerac as our logo (check out the front page) has arrived on the web with a brand new website. You'll find some beautiful work there, more ink drawings and oils as well as some mixed media work. My favorites so far are the Water Jesters diptych and Deception.
At any rate you'll want to check him out. P.S. he also designs web sites.

Travel -- By Edna St Vincent Millay

THE railroad track is miles away,

And the day is loud with voices speaking,

Yet there isn't a train goes by all day

But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,

Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,

But I see its cinders red on the sky,

And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I'll not be knowing;

Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,

No matter where it's going.

Edna St. Vincent Millay