“Where the hell is he?’

My body language was a dead giveaway; arms crossed, pacing back and forth.  I even went across the street to window shop at one of the boutiques on St. Marks and 1^st Avenue.  All the while I looked up the block to see if he was coming. 

Some guy who looked to be in his twenties, sitting on the steps had been watching my exercise in impatience.  He couldn’t help but remark, “Boy, you’re angry at someone.”

I was taken aback by this invasion of my private rage but the former actress in me, always looking for audience, replied, “I’m not angry yet, but if he’s not here in ten minutes, stick around for the fireworks.”

Just then I saw him coming; I recognized his walk.  For a tall handsome man approaching fifty, he still had the stride of a gawky teenager.  He was smiling as he approached, carrying shopping bags.  I assumed they were gifts for his children.

Ferenc was visiting New York from his native Hungary where he now lived with his wife and family.  It had been eight years since he left New York and two years since we had last seen each other.  That evening had been strained; there was too little time for all that catching up; after an hour of flirting, I finally blurted out that I learned from a mutual friend about the existence his wife and young daughter.  During the rest of our dinner, he became rather somber and I assumed I would never hear from him again.  Needless to say, several weeks ago, I was shocked to get his voice mail with the cryptic message, “Vicki, I vill be in town at the end of next veek.  I vill call you back.  I vant to see you.”

I had picked the café Yaffa because of the garden in the back.  Also, it was far from my  uptown apartment;  less temptation.  As he approached, I walked toward him, smiling.  I gave him a hug and couldn’t help notice my “buddy” sitting on the steps grinning. 

It was a warm October night, so we sat outside and after a few sips of wine, loosened up, our voices losing that shaky nervous quality.  He reached across, touching my shoulders and stroking my hair.

“You never change,” he said in his sexiest foreign movie voice.

I could only smile back thinking if “change” mean “evolved,” I guess I hadn’t because I should have told him to take a hike when he called.  But here I sat, mesmerized by his good looks, despite his dark blonde hair grayer than two years ago.  He mentioned vacationing in Turkey over the summer and he had remnants of a tan; I noticed his eyebrows were platinum from the sun.

I forged ahead, exploring the most difficult territory.

“How’s your family?  I heard you have two children now.”

“Yes, two girls; five and a year and a half.”

I couldn’t resist this segue.

“Wow, all these women in your life.  Well Feri, when they start dating, you better make sure they don’t go out with anyone like you.”

I punctuated my remark with laughter, keeping it light.

He got the joke and agreed.  Then he really stepped in it.

“I wasn’t so bad was I?  After all, we were together three years.”

There was no turning back.  Yeah, I had evolved; but he was now about to be cured of his selective amnesia and meet the new me.

I put both my hands on top of his.

“Ferenc, you were the worst relationship I ever had.”

His blue eyes stared back.  It seemed like an eternity before he blinked.  He slid his hands out from under and on top of mine.  As he started to speak his voice was hoarse.

“I’m sorry.  What did I do?  Vicki, I never meant to hurt you.” 

“Oooohh, yes, I think you did.  I actually think you enjoyed it at times.”

“No!” he affirmed, pressing down on my hands.

“Look at it this way,” I insisted.  “On a scale of one to ten with ten being the most horrendous, would you like me to tell you something that was perhaps a two?”

He nodded and blinked once.

“One night, we were going to the movies.  We got out of the car and when I took your hand, you tossed it aside.  It was so deliberate.  I was crushed; it hurt me so much.  Now, would you like me to give you an example of a ‘ten?"

He didn’t nod, but held my hands very tightly.  This time I wanted to disengage so I could take a sip of wine.

“You were living in New Jersey and we were standing outside on your terrace. You began to go on and on about the day when you would be married and have a family; your father had waited until his fifties to have children so you weren’t concerned about hurrying.  How could you be so smug when you knew I couldn’t have children? ”

Three years before I started dating Ferenc, at the age of thirty-one, I had been diagnosed with invasive cervical cancer and had to have a partial hysterectomy (my ovaries were left intact). Feeling like damaged goods, I couldn’t believe my good fortune when this handsome, highly educated research scientist found me attractive. His cavalier remarks about his infinite ability to sire children were a source of pain for me.  I knew that I would eventually be left behind, yet I was not strong enough to set him free.   I had become one of those emotionally abused women on talk shows screeching, “But I love him!"

He squeezed my hand, and went for his wineglass.

Just then our waiter arrived with our food.  I could feel a Hungarian Rhapsody coming on; he just stared at his pasta.  My catharsis had given me a ravenous appetite and I dug into my stir- fry.

Once again he was sulking.

“I hope you’re not going to sit there with that wounded look on your face.  I had to tell you this.  If we’re to have any kind of friendship, even one that means we see each other every few years, we have to be honest.”

“Vicki, let’s go back to your apartment.”

“A simple ‘I’m sorry’ will do,” I replied, munching on a carrot.

“By the way, Feri, how are things on the home front?  Does your wife mind you being in New York alone?”

“My wife is a very difficult woman.  We lead very independent lives.”

I thought, “Independent lives; what a joke!”  Was she aware of her “independence?”  No wonder she’s difficult.  If I suspected my husband was cheating on me, I’d be a bit snippy, particularly if he was trying to spread himself thinly across two continents. But I didn’t say anything.  As in the past, I held my tongue trying to enjoy the moments we had to spend together fantasizing about what he looked like naked.  Did he have “love handles?”  What would the sex be like?  Suddenly, the image of two little blonde girls waiting for their father shifted my focus.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.  Things are very good for me professionally.  When I was in New York two years ago, I didn’t have such a good time.  I didn’t miss it.  This time, I’m really having fun just walking around.  I miss it here.  I miss you.  I still have all the music you gave me on cassette tapes years ago.  I play them in my car.”

Between the wine and memory lane, I was beginning to think naughty thoughts.  It was time to get the check and take a walk.

We headed toward Broadway and the Virgin Record Store where I talked him into buying a CD by Virginia Rodrigues, a Brazilian mezzo I knew he would love.  All the while, he held my hand.

We ended up on 17^th Street; the block of his hotel.  We kissed and as I got into the cab, I told him that when he listened to the CD, he should think of me.  He smiled and kissed my hand.

I’ve since received several emails from Ferenc.  He tells me he misses me; that he plays “our” CD all the time.  His messages are filled with remorse and “what should have beens.”  Our years together were built on a foundation of fantasy; a romance, not a relationship. I had fallen in love with his potential; he was the Ferenc of my dreams, not of my reality.

There’s something bittersweet about all this.  A man who can lavish affection when we were an ocean apart couldn’t hold my hand when we were together.  A man who quotes things I said to him years earlier has no concept of who I am today.

The years have reversed our roles and I’m much happier with him as the deluded one.

---