‘Imaginary Friends’

The December rain was pattering on the pavement. George Grover sat quietly in his booth, watching the late afternoon grayness slowly change to black. He was seated right by a window, where he could watch the city pass him by, and he was drinking thick black beer that made him feel only a little better. He could actually hear the rain hissing through the thick glass.

The bar was dimly lit, too, like the outdoors. It was happy hour, but the Wednesday night crowd did not seem to be the kind of people who would engage in happy hour. He liked the bar. He had been drinking there for some years, not exactly regularly as it wasn’t near where he lived, but enough that a few of the bartenders and waitresses knew his name. He always left before the night really got started and the younger crowd came in with their cell phones and their casual hair flips. George hadn’t liked that scene when he was young, and he liked it even less now that he was old.

He felt a chill; the door had opened and swept in some of the early winter cold. George hunched over his beer to protect himself and glared evilly toward the front. A gaggle of young women had entered the bar — six of them, he could see, all in their mid- to late-twenties. At least they weren’t out on someone’s twenty-first. George would have left quickly. They were all attractive in a thoroughly modern way — George knew standards of beauty changed, but sometimes he still couldn’t see why some women made themselves look ugly and everyone else though they were gorgeous. He snorted. He wasn’t even fifty-five yet, and he was thinking like an old man. He watched the girls as they trotted to the bar. Attractive? Sure. Maybe too into their looks, but they were young, and he couldn’t fault them for trying to find matches. Some of the men he saw come into bars were more ridiculous than they were. Nothing wrong with making yourself look nice.

He started. A memory came washing over him. He recognized one of the party. A blonde girl, shorter than all the others, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. Pretty, but in a subdued way, as if she was embarrassed by her looks. She wore makeup like her friends, as far as George could tell, but not as much as the others. He could not remember where he had seen her. He concentrated on the face. George always remembered faces, even if he had trouble with names. But faces … her eyes were wide apart, almost too much so, and thinner than he thought they should be. She had a small nose and a small mouth, and as she sat at the bar with her friends, it looked like she had trouble smiling when they laughed and talked. He sat back, sure he would remember soon, and took a sip of beer. Then it hit him.

She had once been his student. He thought back. Ten years ago, probably. She had taken calculus her senior year in high school. He remembered her because she always sat up front and worked very hard, even though math wasn’t her best subject. He was almost positive she got a ‘B.’ However, he couldn’t remember her name.

He sat watching her talk with her friends, drinking his beer and staying unobtrusive. He hardly ever saw any of his old students. Part of it was because he was no longer a teacher, but it was also because he tried to avoid any places where they might go.

George continued to watch her. She must have felt his gaze, because after a few minutes, she glanced over at him. A strange look crossed her face. It was probably the same one that had been on his face a few minutes earlier. She was trying to remember. Then, just as suddenly as he did, she knew. She tapped her closest friend on the shoulder, pointed in his direction, and got up. George blanched, feeling slightly panicky. What could she possibly have to say?

She smiled as she approached his booth. “Mr. Grover, right?” She held out her hand. “Do you remember me? Andrea Carlson? I took your calculus class when I was a senior at Millard Fillmore.”

He shook her hand, thankful that she had identified herself. “Andrea. Of course I remember you. I have a good memory for my students.”

“Can I sit down?”

He made a noncommittal motion with his head, and she slid in across from him. Up close, she was more attractive, less self-conscious. Maybe she was more comfortable not showing off to the world.

“I haven’t seen you since graduation,” she said. “I’ve been back a few times, but you’re not there anymore.”

“Yes.” He sipped his beer. She looked at him quizzically. “I don’t teach there anymore.”

She immediately asked what happened. He smiled and shook his head slowly. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she whispered, “It’s none of my business, right? Something bad?”

“No, not what you think. Nothing untoward.” He shrugged. “My wife died. I never went back.”

Andrea bowed her head. “I shouldn’t have … I’m sorry, Mr. Grover. I — I should get back to my friends …”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t. It was long enough ago that … don’t worry. You didn’t know.”

“You were a great teacher,” she said, grasping at straws. “I learned a lot. Math … I never knew it could be so … fascinating. You were so good at … making me see.”

“I recall you were often paying attention to the boys in class rather than the calculus.” He chuckled when she looked at him, a hurt look in her eyes. “I’m joking, Andrea. I remember you in class. You’re the kind of student who makes it worth the while. Not the smartest student, although you were intelligent. But someone who yearns for any kind of knowledge, in order to make herself better. A pleasure to teach.”

She smiled. She reached out and touched his arm. “That’s so sweet, Mr. Grover. I don’t … don’t know what to say?”

“Why say anything?”

She withdrew her hand. He was surprised that he missed her touch. “Are you okay?” she said. “I saw you over here, and you looked down. I didn’t know about … you know.”

“I’m fine. It’s not that.” He fell silent.

She twisted in her seat. “Look, I … should … my friends …”

“Andrea. It was very nice to see you.” He reached out his hand, and she shook. “I understand that you have other commitments. Perhaps we will run into each other again. Sometime that we have time to talk. I would like to hear what you have been doing.”

She looked down, grinning. “Mr. Grover … I live near here. Do you come downtown often? I like hanging out around here. I’m sure I’ll see you if you come to this part of town again.” She stood up. “It was great to see you.” She waved haphazardly and walked away. He wondered why he missed her so much already.

***

He found himself, in late January, back in her section of town. He had wanted to be there more often, but he didn’t have a reason and he didn’t want to give her the impression that he was stalking her. He spent Christmas and New Year’s alone, as usual, and tried to get through the wet Portland winter as best he could. But after almost two months, he decided to make the journey across the river and downtown to the Northwest. He told himself it was simply to get out of the house. He was sure he wouldn’t see her; the area of town she lived in was densely populated. The odds were against him.

He wandered through the streets, wondering when everything had changed. He remembered the Northwest as a quiet, out-of-the-way corner of Portland, where artists and musicians hung out bothering no one. Now, it was a gentrified nightmare, with trendy stores and rich yuppies walking around eating bagels and sipping espresso. George still loved the neighborhood, however, because it was still cozy. He thought briefly about moving to the area.

After five hours of strolling, eating lunch, stopping into bookstores and reading random copies, and ducking into cafés to escape the intermittent rain, he decided that he wasn’t going to see her and walked to the bus stop. It was on Everett, right outside a small grocery store, and he sat down heavily on the bench protected by a plastic and concrete overhang. He leaned back against the Plexiglas and sighed. What a fool. He was fifty-two, she was … twenty-eight, probably. What exactly did he want from her?

Then she walked out of the grocery store.

She was wearing overalls and a dark green sweater that was too big for her. Her hair was bunched up underneath a painter’s cap, and she projected a weird aura of sexlessness. He smiled when he saw her. In the previous six weeks, he had tried to re-acquaint himself with Andrea Carlson. It had all been memories and digging through his records. Now that he saw her again, his heart leapt a little. He shook his head, banishing childish thoughts. He wanted to talk to her.

He crossed the street and called her name. She stopped, looked around, puzzled, and saw him. She waved and beckoned to him. He trotted a little faster.

“Mr. Grover!” she said when he reached her. “I told you I’d see you again if you were over on this side of town. Here,” she promptly handed him the bag of groceries she was carrying, “you can be of some service.”

Her presumptuousness gladdened him. She expected him to be a gentleman. He took the bag without saying a word and followed her. She treated him like an old friend that she saw every day, rather than an old teacher whom she had seen once in the past ten years. They walked up Everett toward Twenty-Third, and talked of insignificant things like the weather and the Trail Blazers. He had not felt so happy in years.

She suggested a bagel shop along Twenty-Third, in order, she said, “to watch the people and really catch up.” They sat at a window table and gazed out into the chilly Portland winter. Both of them had smiles playing across their faces.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“You’re grinning like a kid at Disney World. So am I. Why are you?”

“You first.”

Andrea put her bagel down. “As I said, you were a great teacher. I never got a chance to tell you that. But this idea … that you would find me interesting enough to want to talk to me, to have a bagel with me … I guess, in some way, I craved attention from people who were smarter than me. I still do, I guess. Here we are.”

“I’m not smarter than you. I’m older.”

“Same thing, aren’t they?”

“How long have you been married?” George had seen the ring almost immediately after sitting down. She hadn’t been wearing it the night they had reconnected.

“Are you disappointed?” He was stunned that she was flirting with him.

“Ms. Carlson, if that is what I should call you, I think you have the wrong idea about me.” He saw a sudden sadness in her eyes. “Andrea. I’m sorry. I’m just happy to see you. As a teacher, a former teacher. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She brightened quickly. “I kept my name. Seemed like the new millennium thing to do. It’s been –” she squinted at the ceiling, “– a year and five months. We met in graduate school. Well, I was in grad school and he was — oh, never mind, I’m too nosy to talk about me. Now that we have shared a bagel, I can ask you about your wife.”

Images of Susanna flashed through his mind. It had been seven years, and he could still see her clearly. Andrea’s brashness had not offended him. He told her about the last few years of Susanna’s life, when pancreatic cancer tore into her, and how she died with a smile on her face. She had been a devout Catholic, and knew God has a plan for her. She had been ready for it. George had not been. He had left his job, taken all the money they had saved, which was enough for him to live on for a while, and left town. He had wandered throughout the country for a few years, revisiting all the places he and Susanna had been to in their younger days. Then he had returned to Portland, because that had been their home.

“I’ve been back four years,” he said. “I still have a good amount of money. I write some articles for magazines for some extra cash. I live in a small apartment building out in Menlo Park. I collect Bibles.”

She was silent for a long time. She didn’t cry, but George could tell she had regretted being so flippant about his wife, even though she knew Susanna had died. He saw that she was wondering if she should reach out and touch him, but then she decided against it. She took a bite from her bagel and chewed thoughtfully.

“I really can’t say anything,” she said. “I should go. I should …”

This time, unlike at the bar, he reached out and touched her arm. “Andrea, I would like to see you again. I have few friends. You are unlike the people I know, probably because I knew you before you were … fully formed, if that’s correct, and now you are grown. It is a fascinating transformation, and I have been thinking about the girl you were and the woman you are. I want to be your friend.”

She stood up. Her eyes were narrowed. “My husband would have some thoughts about you, Mr. Grover,” she said. She rummaged in her purse and took out a business card. “Here. Call me sometime. I like being fascinating.”

“Please call me George.” He took the card and pocketed it.

“I hope you don’t disappoint me, Mr. Grover.” She spun gaily and strolled out into the dusk.

***

They were walking along the river in early April when Andrea stopped and looked out over the water. They had been talking about her education, a subject George never tired of, but suddenly, a change came over her, she had halted, and was now staring at the waters of the Willamette with a dreamy look on her face. He leaned against the railing next to her and asked her what she was thinking about.

She pulled wind-blown hair out of her mouth and smiled. Every time he saw her, he decided, she looked more beautiful. He noticed small things about her: the way her mouth was always quirked up into a semi-smile, as if she knew secrets about everyone; the way her hair simply refused to stay tamed; the way her hands fluttered across her body nervously, as if unsure where to go. He remembered some of her character traits from a decade before, but had largely forgotten her physical presence, recalling instead her intellectual abilities. Now, he was noticing her body. It made him uncomfortable and giddy at the same time.

“School,” she said. “I mean. You’re a teacher. You want to know what I’ve been doing in the past ten years, and I’ve told you. College, grad school, meeting Jason, working at the ad agency … it’s what you do. Life, you know?”

” ‘Life is what happens to you when you’re making other plans.’ ”

“John Lennon. Yeah, I know. I was just thinking, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but what are we doing? We bump into each other by accident, then you come and find me — I’m not stupid, Mr. Grover, you were looking for me that day in January — and now we’ve had a few conversations, and we’re making tentative steps toward friendship.” She took a deep breath and looked at him peripherally. “Are you angry?”

“You didn’t actually say anything to make me mad, did you? You reviewed the past five months, but so what?”

“What are we doing? Is this normal? You’re twice my age, I’m married, I’m happily married, you’re my teacher, my ex-teacher, I guess, and we shouldn’t have anything in common. Why do I like seeing you? Why do you like seeing me?”

“Does it matter?”

She sighed and looked back over the water. “Did you ever have an imaginary friend?”

“I suppose so. I talked to myself for longer than was probably healthy, if that’s the same thing.”

“That’s what you are. My imaginary friend. I haven’t told anyone about you. Not even my husband. I have plenty of friends, but none of them know about you. If they saw us together they’d think the worst. Why haven’t I told Jason about you?”

“Why don’t you?”

“Every time I think of it, I also think: I want this to be my secret. It’s pretty childish, if you think about it.”

He placed his hand on her arm. Touching had become easier between both of them. He didn’t say anything. She pulled her hair out of her mouth again. “Do you still want to be my friend?” she said. “I mean, I’m kind of messed up.”

“You’re not messed up. I like you, Andrea. You’re interesting. I don’t there’s anything wrong with it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with keeping it a secret.”

She left the railing and found a bench. He followed slowly. As he sat down, she began speaking rapidly, more quickly and more personally than she had yet with him. She told him about high school, and the unbelievable pressure she had been under. She knew everyone was under pressure, but she couldn’t handle it as well as others could. George had heard similar stories over the years. Her parents had split up when she was twelve. She lived with her mom, who spoiled her to show her love. Andrea told him about trying to raise her small brother and give him a proper role model, because her mother never punished them or gave them any direction. As George listened, Andrea told him about college, and endless nights of partying because she could, and anonymous sex in dark and lonely places, and trying every conceivable way to get out of the mess she was in.

“I tried Jesus,” she said. “Really, I did. I believed fervently. You’re a Christian.”

“Yes. I was raised Catholic.”

“Then you know the drill. By my senior year I was fine. Clean, no more alcohol, no more casual sex, a nice — chaste — relationship with a nice guy. I thought my problems were over.”

“Obviously not.”

She ran her hand through her hair. Her boyfriend, her mother, and her brother all died within three months of each other. Her boyfriend was in a car accident on his way to church, her mother died of lung cancer from years of cigarettes, and her brother — who had joined the Army — was killed when he was caught in an explosion of live ammunition.

“When I asked about your wife,” she said, “I know I sounded callous. But I know.”

“How did you recover?”

“I almost didn’t. I was very suicidal for a while. I guess I never had the guts to go through with it. I was out of college but had no real direction. I threw myself into graduate school in order to keep out of the real world. Grad school is good for that. Jason saved me.”

She had not talked about her husband very often with him. She told him how she had met Jason through a mutual acquaintance. He had been immediately attracted to her, but she had ignored him.

“Maybe this sounds stupid,” she said. “I thought love was something I had no use for. Everybody I ever loved had died. I didn’t need it.”

“What changed?”

“He was persistent. Romantic, huh? I don’t mean it in a bad way. He just refused to let me wallow in self-pity. Months of taking me out, ‘as a friend,’ drawing me out, listening to me whine about how hard life was.” She glanced at him with her little grin. “I never even thought to ask him about his life. Funny, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“How small tragedies affect us all. How we all carry within us memories of horror. I thought I was so unique. We all want to feel unique. But we’re not. It makes love easier, I guess.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered slightly. He resisted the urge to put his arm around her. She said that Jason revealed his own tragedies to her, and she realized that she wasn’t special. She was then able to fall in love with him.

“So there. A grand story. It’s like Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

She stood up. “I have to go. I’ll call you. Thanks for listening.” She walked away. George sat for some time after, watching the river flow north to the sea.

***

It was raining in early May. George sat in his apartment and read as dusk settled on East Portland. The windows were open and there was a chill in the room. The doorbell rang.

Andrea stood at the door when he opened it, drenched. He could tell she was crying.

“I love my husband,” she said. Then she reached out and grabbed him, kissing him hard. He pulled away, startled. She hunched over, shivering. He took a step toward her and put his arm out. She fell into his embrace and followed him into the apartment.

***

After he made coffee, he avoided her. She was sitting in the nicest feature of his apartment, a bay window in the living room, where she could look out and watch the rain. The night had come and she could see very little outside. He tried not to stay in the living room, preferring to give her space.

An hour passed, and he didn’t hear her quiet sobbing anymore. He walked into the kitchen, where he could see her still sitting in the window. Her face was no longer puffy with emotion, and she seemed smaller than when she had arrived. Her eyes were still sad.

She felt his look and turned toward him. He felt his heart break. He hadn’t seen anything as beautiful since his wife died. He also knew she was going to leave him.

Andrea stood up and moved toward him. George got nervous, because he wasn’t sure what to do. He had fantasized occasionally about her in a sexual way, but had always dismissed it quickly. She was his friend. The memory of her kiss burned in his mind, not because of its passion, but because of its desperation. It was not a kiss of desire, but a kiss of anger. Now Andrea looked different, and he was not sure what she wanted from him.

She smiled. “You’re uncomfortable,” she said, the first time she had spoken since she had told him she loved her husband. He felt himself backing away, but he backed into the refrigerator and had nowhere to go. She stopped about two feet from him and twirled her damp hair around her right index finger, a gesture charged with eroticism.

“Andrea …”

“George …” she whispered. It was the first time she had called him by his first name. “I love my husband, you know.” Suddenly the tension was gone, and he chuckled. She was playing with him. He knew that.

“I’m sure you do,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Her smile had changed from playful to wistful, and she leaned back against the counter. Her gray sweatshirt, darkened by the rain, hung on her like a sack. “I’m sorry I kissed you,” she said. “It was … spur of the moment. Stupid.”

He nodded. The taste of her lips was still with him.

“Jason hates it here,” she said. “He got a job in San Diego. We leave in a month.”

“There’s nothing for you her, either.”

“I know. I thought … never mind, it’s not important. Say you love me.”

“Andrea …” He allowed himself to reach out and stroke her hair. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward his hand. “Of course I love you.”

With her eyes still closed, she said, “But that’s not the point. But it’s enough. Now I can go.”

She stepped out of the kitchen and walked slowly across the living room to the front door. When she put her hand on the doorknob, she turned. “I would have, you know. Despite everything. But he …”

“Goodbye, Andrea.”

She nodded. “I love you, Mr. Grover.” She slipped out the door and closed it behind her. George stood in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the rain patter on his window.

**********

[This is the last story about two people who love each other but don’t have sex. I told you I’d have more of them! I like this story – I find bittersweet romance interesting, especially when sex isn’t involved. There are so many different ways to love someone, and too often sex is the only way it’s expressed in fiction. Which is boring, to be honest. So I hope you like this, even if the age gap between the two characters is a bit wide. I thought it might be a bit too weird if the characters were the same age, because perhaps the temptation to have sex would be too great. The temptation is still there when there’s an age gap, but there are different things keeping it from being the first thing to spring to mind. At least that’s how I see it. Anyway, next week: A fun one? Or a depressing one? Only time will tell!]