The Wounds I Carry

First date I’m on in almost two years.

At a rustic but high quality Italian place.

Her eyes are a soft brown laced with kindness.

I wonder what my eyes look like to her.

Black empty and sad.

She orders a glass of the house merlot to start,

I go with gin, lime, club.

“I used work for an organization where we focused on saving whales, stopping the killing of whales and that sort of thing. I did a lot of travelling. I decided to go back to school for nursing though, so I’m managing a small female retail clothing store, just until I finish up school.”

Her name is Lillian. Lily for short. Shy, small, thirty-two years old. Dyed red hair with high cheekbones, small shoulders. Her empathy seems to emanate from her words.

“I’m a contractor. I have a big crew though so mostly I do the business end though. I still will personally do really expensive bathrooms and kitchens just because when you spend a certain amount, you expect perfection. I expect perfection too, frankly.”

I’m thirty eight. Five foot ten. Stockier build, thick jaw. I’ve leaned out a little bit, in an unhealthy way.

Stress.

My wife got T-boned by a drunk driver one year and eleven months ago to the date.

Broke her neck.

A young widow. I didn’t tell Lily.

I am thoroughly convinced that the stress and sorrow has taken a decade off of my life. My heart is forever frozen in eternity, but this pain has also caused me to surrender myself to everything. When you deal with something so inconceivable, your mind is forced to surrender. The pain is simply a force, you can no longer fight it, and at that point you become simultaneously confused and astounded that the human spirit can keep moving through time.

“So why nursing?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Well, practically speaking there is always work. Mostly I just like to help people though. And I can handle a lot, I’m not sensitive to certain things. Ultimately I’d like to travel for a year or two also, going to third world countries to help with medical care.”

My wife was a nurse.

It’s odd because I sense that same selfless desire to always give give give.

Some people have it in their soul, you know. It’s like if they aren’t contributing to the betterment of humanity, they are in a constant state of suffering.

I picture undressing this woman in front of me,

Her soft, pale-ish skin, small breasts.

Feeling her warmth.

“That’s admirable of you. Honestly. Sometimes I wish I was a better person.”

“We all contribute in different ways. I could never build a house or a bathroom, so we all fit in society somewhere. You serve the world in your way.” She smiles, lightly. Sips her wine.

A tattoo on my chest spells Kate.

I am so alone in this world.

My eyes well up.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

Lily looks confused and hurt, not understanding, and her shoulders hunch inward as if to protect her own heart.

“My wife was killed in a car accident two years ago. Um. She was a nurse.”

Her gentle eyes widen with sorrow but understanding. She takes a small sip of her merlot.

“This is the first date I’ve been on since.”

“I’m so sorry. We can try this another time if you want.”

Now tears started to flow.

I threw two hundred dollars on the table and apologized.

Lily looked disappointed, but understood. I think she was embarrassed.

We didn't even order food yet.

I’ll call her again.

I drove home and thought about taking an entire bottle of Xanax with bourbon as a chaser.

But I decided not to.

For me. For Kate.

I'm scared to have feelings for another woman, but Lily sparked a brief glimpse of that feeling in me.

I texted Lily,

"We can try this again if you want. I'm so sorry."

For a minute, I wished I was dead. I wanted to drive one hundred miles an hour into the ocean and let it swallow me, let it swallow the horror I have inside.

Lily texted back,

"I'd like that."