Paths

Everyone talks about young love, but the greatest loves of all are the oldest. The ones that stand the test of time. Body or mind it doesn’t matter; when two souls have found each other, you know. My love began, as everything does, with a first.

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Though accompanied by a checkered red and white blanket and swollen wicker basket, he lay beside it, skin to earth, with only his right arm propped beneath his head. Gazing to the middle of the crowded field my eyes kept being pulled back, as if I were spellbound, to the same spot I’d left them; the broad looking torso sunbathing on green blades.

Initially I was just jealous that someone could look so content in their own company. Confident enough to go out alone in the midday sun and just be; laying in the middle of hundreds of friends, families, lovers and the like.

I began my regular inquisition, I had them all the time, it was my thing. Once I found someone intriguing in a crowd, my eyes would follow them, imagining their story, their career, where they were going, to see who. But this man was different. Magnetic. And in that moment I knew I wanted to follow his little life until it’s path left mine.

Until then our worlds were connected as far as I was concerned, and more importantly my eyes were connected to his movements.

A Lawyer? I mulled. It was a lovely old school basket, squinting I saw at least 4 bottles of wine entrapped, in fact, it looked like their was only wine in his little wicker boat.

Too much wine for a Lawyer alone I decided. Journalist perhaps? Drinks for creative inspiration? Running my eyes around the blanket perimeter and his toned body I tried to catch the rectangular cut of a notepad. Nothing, but I did make sure to double check his torso.

Not a writer then.

Moving though the stereotypes in my head I picked up a Blade of grass and began to split it like my dad taught me to make a bird song. What profession allows someone to be comfortable enough to lull in the afternoon sun, confident enough to be alone, and relaxed enough to allow them to carry 4 bottles of wine?

Pulling the blade apart so I could see the inner body of the grass I put it to my lips and continued my line of questioning.

A lottery winner? A banker? I ran down the line of occupations until my eyes softly refocused on the spot where he lay. He wasn’t there. I took the blade of grass out of my mouth just in time to feel a cool shadow engulf me and looked up.

Grass blade suspended, floating just above my gold St Christopher, I spurted out “you’ve left your picnic”.

A warm smile with no hint of an ego or cockiness grew on his face. “I could feel your eyes burning into me stronger than this sun.” He playfully looked me up and down “I was wondering whether to come over when I heard your song”.

What Song? Did he mean my grass whistle? Well, at least we could cross musician off the list of mysterious occupations with ears like that. Before I could further my thoughts, he added;

“Would you like to join me, Little black bird? Although it may seem like it, I don’t like to drink alone.”

So, he does want company, not as confident as he seemed then. My eye’s locked on his, and the warm hazel brown made my stomach flip. The “No” that was forming on my lips turned into my hand extending so he could help me up. As our fingers slid into one, I felt electrical and peaceful all at once. His firm grip assured me, whilst his hands soft and smooth fell into all the right angles, perfectly fitting mine. I could feel his gentleness.

Atop the picnic blanket I watched him slowly start to uncork the wine bottle he had picked. Every twist seemed to control my stomach as I watched his hands expertly slide round the cork. “So, mysterious sunbather, what’s your name?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t even remembered the absolute basics. “Merlot” he said, smiling wily.

I rolled my eyes, “Your name, not the wines name” I said, picking up the glass he had offered me, “Although you being ‘a wine’ isn’t much less feasible than you being a lawyer or artist” I teased, shooting him a playful look.

He laughed “I am guess I am quite feasible then”, he replied with a wink. My stomach danced again as he held my gaze.

“Thomas merlot.” He stated bringing his glass toward mine so the edges met with a gentle clink. “Merlot was my great great great grandfathers grow of choice in Bordeaux, and back in the 1700’s.”

How was I supposed to guess that profession, I thought, along with a million other simultaneous things. Realizing I hadn’t moved my glass or eyes since our cheers I blushed and looked down. “So a Merlot, drinking Merlot. A man with consistency I see” Chancing a flirty look up, I saw his smile widen.

“Even more consistent than you may think“ he laughed. “I saw you were watching me because I was watching you earlier; however, I was too shy to come over.”

He slipped closer to me and wrapped his free hand around my glass, covering both the glass and my hand, and began to guide me in slow circles, swilling the wine causing little mountains to form on all sides.

“But then I heard you make a bird song, your whistle with the grass. My grandad always told me that the people of Bordeaux could tell a good grape when the blackbirds came to eat it off the vine and sung. Since you were singing I thought I’d test if I was a good grape…It seems like I am”.

His hand slowed the swill and pulled me closer. His hazel eyes penetrating mine hotter than the golden sun. “Merlot also means little black bird…” he hushed moving closer still so our lips hovered achingly close “…but since I’ve already one name, you’ll have to take the other”.

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“Little blackbird” Tom wheezed from beneath the oxygen mask, using all his strength to wink at me, exactly as he had done on our first date over 40 years ago, “I’m so glad I heard your song”.

Taking both his cold blue hands in mine, I laughed. Nothing had changed since that sunny field. Our love, like fine wine, had got better with age. My lovely Tom, my husband, lover, father to our children, and best friend. My mind stalled as I heard a sharp elongated beep and my laughter turned into uncontrollable sobbing. Tom’s eyes fell shut and tears flooded my face, jumping the lines made by time, only being interrupted by hysterical gasps. 47 years of love, pain, births, deaths, laughter, and sadness soaked the hospital gown as my face borrowed into his side. And I thought, weeping, that just like on that first date;

I’d kept my promise; to follow his little life until his path left mine.