I spent another restless night in my own private Purgatory, unable to make reparation for past sins.
One drunken remark shortly after we met doomed my budding relationship with Jessica Saunders.
I made the mistake of joking coarsely with her—treating her like every other woman, when clearly she was not.
So here I was, camped out with her on an archeological dig in Portugal with her asleep a mere few feet away.
So close, and yet so far—she might as well have been on the backside of the Moon
It was past three when I awoke from a fitful sleep—something disturbed me.
I looked over to Jessica’s tent and saw the lantern lit—but inside, I saw two figures. I rubbed my eyes, and looked back, but the second person had disappeared.
My breathing stopped.
At that moment, Jessica emerged from the tent and wandered down to stare at the river.
The Moon had risen and now turned the flowing water into a glittering stream of diamonds.
I saw Jessica’s body shudder and her shoulders heave in unmistakable sobs.
I wanted to console her. My arms trembled, torn between the desire to comfort and fear of offending.
After a while, she stopped heaving, and sat down staring into the depths of the river.
I lay on my pillow watching her until I fell asleep.
In the morning, she was aloof as usual.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask, or even engage in polite conversation.
The gulf between us widened again.
That night, we sat again in a sea of uncertainty and polite distance. Everything between us was formal and functional.
Finally, I could take it no longer—I’d risk making a fool of myself, but had to ask.
“Did you sleep well last night?”
She looked at me suspiciously as if I invaded her privacy.
“I slept well—why do you ask?”
“I saw you sitting by the river—it must have been past three.”
She bristled. I could feel a terse reply welling up—maybe she’d parry with a blunt question.
Are you stalking me now, Mark?
But she didn’t ask. She looked away, as if measuring a response.
“You’re right,” she whispered, “I did spend some time by the river.”
“I do that some times,” I reassured her.
“I doubt you do—at least, for the same reason.”
“I don’t mean to pry, Jessica—you seemed so sad.”
“Did I?” Again, there was a look of defiance in her eyes.
I wanted to back down, but didn’t. “You were crying,” I said.
She clasped her hands together around her ankles as in a fetal position and began rocking.
My heart melted for her.
“I know we’re not close,” I told her, “but sometimes, it helps to talk.”
She looked at me as if she’d burst out laughing.
I had no credibility with her. Any trust between us had evaporated that time I made my careless remark.
Sorry doesn’t help, I'd often say in situations like this. My own remark came back to haunt me and filled me with a grim self-deprecating despair.
I made my bed and now I’d have to lie in it—literally—spending the rest of my nights regretting a momentary lapse of judgment that cost me a chance with the girl who haunted my dreams.
