Life After Death

She was petite and wide-eyed, dressed smartly in bell-bottom jeans and a white sweater. We caught eyes a few times at the party before I finally got the nerve to talk to her. I thought we made a connection, so when she said she was leaving I asked if she wanted to have dinner sometime to continue our conversation. She joked back that she didn’t like to eat and talk at the same time. I said that was okay—that we didn’t need to say a word to each other if that meant her going out with me. I remember she looked at me, hard, for a few moments, and then stuck her hand out to shake as if making a deal. And I guess that’s what we did. We agreed to meet up a few nights later at a Moroccan restaurant that featured belly dancing and Tagine De Legumes, a delicious vegetable stew. Her name, by the way, was Sylvia.

We met outside the restaurant and Sylvia reiterated that once we sat down, no words were to be spoken between us. I had not forgotten my promise, but I was surprised she meant to follow through on it. But I was game and found her even more attractive in the yellow paisley dress she wore that night. We sat down, and a waiter gave us menus. It was hard to suppress the urge to explain my enthusiasm for the food, the belly dancing, to showcase how creative I was to pick such a spot to dine. I was dying to impress her but constrained by silence. To compensate, I made a point of being overly polite and precise in my movements, spreading out the napkin like an English butler on my lap, daintily sipping from the water glass, perusing the menu with a thoughtful calm even though I knew what I wanted.

When the waiter returned, I nodded to Sylvia, indicating she should go first. She shook her head and then turned toward the waiter and said: “He’ll order for us.”

I exhaled, relieved that the no-talk rule did not extend to everyone else. But then I got nervous, not sure what Sylvia would like or not. I decided to go with two Tagine De Legumes and, to start, a sampler of appetizers that seemed to touch on every food group. I also ordered a bottle of wine, but she shook her head again and pointed to her water glass. I decided to forgo alcohol as well, and when the waiter left I began to feel uncomfortable with our silence. Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed at ease, alternating between looking around the room, sipping water, and smiling at me.

Then the appetizers came. A server helped the waiter, and the two of them placed dish after dish onto the table, until what lay between Sylvia and I looked like a culinary minefield. I was happy, however, because Sylvia appeared to enjoy the work of the waiter and server; her eyes sparkled when they finished, and she looked over the feast. I used my hands to indicate she should start. She returned the gesture, but I held firm, determined to be the complete gentleman. Finally, she reached out, took a piece of pita bread, and dipped it in hummus. She held it up, as if inspecting it, and then consumed it in one bite. Laughing, but without sound, I mimicked her method with the pita and hummus, and with that ice broken, we dove in until we finished all the appetizers.

Once the stew arrived, I was no longer nervous about keeping silent or wanting to impress Sylvia. Something had passed between us during that initial frenzy of eating, and not just a shared love of ground chick peas and lamb skewers. I’d like to think it was a recognition of kindred spirits, of two people who would go through with such an odd date. There was also a connection in our movements, the way we used our forks and spoons and knives, the way we wiped our faces with our napkins, the way we lifted our glasses and drank. If I knew I liked her at the end of the appetizers, I was falling in love after the stew.

When the waiter came to ask about dessert, Sylvia lifted her napkin in surrender. I signaled for the check. But before it came, a woman emerged from the back room and strode to the center stage. She was tall and thin, draped in silk, and looking for the world like a genie. She had straight black hair that hung to her waist, and silver slippers adorned her feet. She was the belly dancer. Without music or introduction, she began to move, starting with pronounced circling of her hips, and then progressing to fast gyrations, dizzying in the speed, dazzling in the line. When she finished to loud applause, I saw that Sylvia was crying. Silent tears, of course. But they flowed free and easy down her face. Seeing her cry and being so moved by the dancer, my growing ardor for Sylvia, all and everything I felt at that moment, I cried too. And together we walked away from the table, with me leaving behind cash for the bill plus a larger tip than necessary, arm and arm, weeping without sound, until we got outside. Sylvia spoke first.

“I enjoyed this so much,” she said, pulling her arm from mine and wiping at her tears with the back of her right hand. “Too much, I’m afraid.”

I didn’t hear, or didn’t focus, on her last words, so glad to hear she had a good time to think of anything else.

“I’m sorry,” she continued, “but I can’t go out with you again.”

This I heard.

“What?”

“I can’t see you anymore.”

“But we had a good time. I mean, we didn’t even talk, and it was great.”

“I know, but that’s the problem. I already have feelings for you. If we go out again, and talk, and they deepen ...”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that? I have feelings for you already as well.”

She nodded her head, as if affirming an interior thought. She was no longer crying.

“That’s even more reason to end this now.”

“I don’t get it.” I reached for her arm, but she dodged it. “Help me understand.”

She inhaled deep, held it, then exhaled.

“Not tonight. I can meet you tomorrow, for coffee. There’s a café one block away. I’ll be there at noon if you want to meet me. But it’s not a date. You can’t think of it as anything but me giving you an explanation.”

“Can I talk?” I asked, anger and hurt making me snippy.

“Of course. But I won’t change my mind.”

“But …”

My word fell flat on an empty space. She had turned and was walking away. I watched until she was out of sight, and then I walked the other way, back to my apartment and my swirling thoughts.

I got to the café ten minutes before noon. Sylvia wasn’t there, but I got a latte and found an empty table, sat down, and stared at my phone until she walked in. She was wearing the same outfit she wore when I first met her, but there was something different in her appearance; she didn’t seem as shiny, as precious, but more worn and weary. She sat down and smiled, but it was without sparkle.

“Do you want a coffee?”

She shook her head.

“I’m too tired for caffeine. It will make me jittery when my body wants to shut down. Not a good combination.”

I sipped my latte, more to gather my thoughts.

“You have something to tell me?”

“I do.”

“I’m listening.”

She bit at her lower lip and then released it and blew out her lips before speaking.

“I never should have gone out with you.”

“I’m that bad,” I blurted out defensively.

She reached over and put her hand on mine.

“No, not at all. I don’t mean anything about you. You see ...”

“What is it?”

She pulled back her hand.

“I’m married.”

I recoiled, as if punched in the face.

“I know it was wrong to go out with you, but I was so lonely. When you said the thing about not talking, it seemed so strange but in a safe way. Like I wasn’t cheating.”

“If it’s that bad, why don’t you just leave your husband? Then you can go out like a normal person.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? People divorce all the time. He can’t make you stay in the marriage.”

“No, you see, he left me. Six months ago. He fell in love with someone else and lives with her. But we’re not divorced.”

“But you’re separated,” I said. “And he left you. You’re not cheating on him by going out with me.”

“I know that. But I’m cheating on me. I’m still married, and I still haven’t cut that bond, legally or emotionally. It’s starting to chip away, fray at the edges, but it’s still there. I think going out with you took a big chunk out of it. But it’s still in place, and if I keep on with you, I’ll start rushing things and feel pulled and prodded toward love.”

“Good,” I nearly shouted. “Don’t you want to know if we have that capacity? I know I do. I like you. I spent a whole night eating dinner with you without saying a word, and I had the best time in my life.”

She bit at her lip again.

“Remember when I cried?”

“Of course,” I said. “I cried too.”

“It wasn’t because of the belly dancing, or you, or anything connected to last night.”

“So what was it?”

“A poem. Do you know ‘Life After Death’ by Ted Hughes?”

“No, but it sounds cheery.”

She blinked hard at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just upset at what you’re telling me. What is it about this poem?”

Her face softened.

“My father is a huge poetry fan and loves Sylvia Plath,” she said. “I’m named after her. She was married to Ted Hughes. He wrote the poem after she committed suicide. It’s about his living with their children after her passing—how she’s gone but still there.”

She paused, and I gave her time to continue.

“I have the poem printed out, near my bed. I read it often because I feel just like him. Like my husband is still with me, but he’s not.”

I started to see where she was going. But I was not ready to concede her to her grief, even if that was the path to her healing.

“We don’t have to date or be a couple,” I said. “We can just hang out as friends. I don’t even mind if we don’t talk. Just being together is good.”

“I told you, I’m not changing my mind. This is right for me, and for you.”

“Why don’t I feel the same?”

“Because you’re not taking the gamble.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like nature, like right now, early spring. Flowers are sprouting, birds are coming back, things are coming alive. But everything is so fragile, and so tenuous. A cold snap, a surprise snow, bad weather can wipe them out, kill their chances to move forward, to live. The ones that come early, be it bud or bird, are taking a risk. If the weather is good, they are first in and thrive and beat their competitors. But if not, then they are doomed, and the ones that come later will succeed. You see, if I go out with you, I’m taking that risk. Do you understand?”

I didn’t, and I did. I tried one last time.

“I can wait. Take time and then we can get together again ... when you’re ready.”

“It doesn’t work that way. If I think you’re waiting for me, I will want to hurry and get to you. Please, just let it go.”

She stood.

“Take care of yourself. And thank you for going out with me and being silent. It means more than you can know.”

And she was gone.

The next few days I hurt. I felt I had lost a potential soulmate, a chance for lasting love. I could not eat and could not sleep. I took to taking long walks at night, sometimes nearly to dawn. I even bought a book of poetry by Ted Hughes that had “Life After Death” in it. I read the poem as if it was a glass of wine, sipping the words, taking my time, trying to find the meaning that meant so much to Sylvia. But the only lines that stuck were about wolves, about their mournful howls into and under a falling snow, voices that invite others to accept with them the painful truth about life and death.

I understood. I felt like a wolf, wailing into the silence, pining for Sylvia and nursing my romantic wound. One night, it all came together. I had been walking for hours, and had ventured far from the city limits, to the edge of a wild preserve and rows of tall poplars that shaded the forest within. It was a clear night and cold for spring. But then it got colder, the wind kicked up, and the sky changed from clear to gray and then white. Snow began to fall, first lightly, but then with spirit, until it was near-blinding conditions. I thought about what Sylvia had said about gamblers, and the new buds and early birds and all the living things jeopardized by a late season storm. It made me connect, finally, to her pain, to her reasoning, to her logic. I felt like crying, and I might have, except I lost my breath when a wolf emerged from the trees and came towards me. I did not run as it approached. I was not scared. I was willing to gamble, to take a risk, that it might free me from my torment. One way or another.