Ten Tiny Love Stories Page #7

is already talking me up.

But if he hadn't said that,

if that guy had not said,

"I know you are going to leave me,"

we would probably

still be together.

So he made it happen.

It was his own fault.

And I moved on

to the neighbor.

The world never

stops turning.

The first time

I saw that puppeteer,

I thought he was gay.

His nails were manicured.

It turns out he manicures them

for his puppet show.

He makes these dolls

that are about this big.

They're beautiful.

Their faces and hands,

and feet

are made of porcelain.

And they wear these period dresses

that he makes himself.

They don't speak.

There's just music,

like a ballet.

And for the performances,

he doesn't use a stage.

He just uses a table

and he stands there,

right in front of you,

moving the dolls

on these little sticks.

Oh, he gets into it,

like a child.

The way he forgets himself

when he's working with those dolls,

that is what kills you.

He's like a girl, that guy.

It's the little things

that matter to him.

A gesture,

a word or a touch.

Girls are like that,

although I'm not.

It is not the little things

that matter to me,

but what's coming up next.

That's me. Who's next?

I was married once,

for almost four years.

My husband Albert was a mechanic

with the US Air Force

and he was 12 years

older than me.

We met through my cousin

Lisa Lepore.

He was a tall man, thin,

with a long neck

and a huge Adam's apple

thatjumped when he talked

and made it difficult not to look at it.

He was an awkward man and

he stooped like a large bird.

He had the eye

of a bird too,

but he was attractive.

He proposed after two months

and I wasn't surprised.

I saw it coming.

We had the wedding

and the whole thing.

We got married

on my mother's birthday

and had she been alive,

it would have mattered,

but it was

a coincidence.

At first, the marriage

worked out well enough.

I think I was realistic about

what two people could offer one another

and I never fooled myself

with high expectations,

like women do.

I was studying fashion design

at a community college,

and we had this little house

we rented from his sister

who was a cancer patient.

It wasn't a bad house,

but it was hot in the summer.

In the summer, I tried to stay

outdoors as much as I could.

Whenever I think of Albert...

it's not often...

always the same few things

come to mind.

First, his sister.

She died one month

to the day we were married.

I remember it

like it was this morning

when he took me to meet her

at the hospital.

By then, she had only one lung

and was still in chemo.

We walked into her room,

and she was as gray as a pigeon,

even in the morning light.

And she had these little tubes

going up her nose.

She looked at me and said something

I couldn't understand.

I couldn't hear it, she no longer

had the breath for it...

whatever it was

that she said.

Albert agreed

and smiled at her

and it made me feel a little uptight

to be out of the loop.

Albert talked

to her about me

like I wasn't

standing there at all.

And she just smiled

without turning to see me.

Her lips were trembling.

Her name was Genevieve, but

Albert said everyone called her Evie.

He told her

that we were engaged

and he asked me

to show her the ring.

So I put up my hand

almost up to her face,

and a ray of sunlight

must have caught the solitaire

and bounced into her eye,

which made her squint.

Albert didn't see it,

but I kept my hand there

for a few seconds,

just watching as the ray of light

bounced in and out of her pupil.

It made her other eye

look like a glass eye,

like the eye of a doll.

I don't think she knew

what was hitting her.

And that bony face,

she was more dead than alive.

That's the truth.

Albert sat there

and held her hand,

and I just stood there.

On the way to the hospital,

he told me

how their father

had abandoned them

and how,

when their mother died,

Evie had been

like a mother to him,

even though she was

only three years his senior.

Seeing them in that hospital,

looking into each other's eyes,

reminded me of an article

I had read once

about a brother and sister

who were separated at birth

and adopted

by different families,

who as adults

met and fell in love.

The families turned against them,

and a court of law ruled

that they could not

get married or have children,

so they committed suicide.

He shot her

then hung himself.

In those cases, it's never her

killing him first, is it?

I was thinking about that,

when suddenly

Genevieve went

into a fit of coughing.

Albertjust held her hand

and waited for it to pass.

I had never seen him look at someone

like that before or after.

They were close.

The next thing I remember

about Albert was our sex life.

Albert was the first man

I ever slept with.

I had dated

a few boys before him.

The last one, Saul,

was a beekeeper.

He wasn't very bright,

but he was a good kisser.

That I liked.

I stopped seeing him

when I met Albert,

and I heard

that he was crushed.

Anyway...

Albert was my first.

I always felt...

there was something strange

about intercourse.

And the thought of it made me

a little queasy as a child,

when I first started

to put the pieces together.

The first few times

Albert and I slept together,

only the pain mattered.

And when the pain went away,

I didn't know what

the big deal was about.

And then,

things improved.

The first time

I had an orgasm during sex...

I cried.

I felt it wasn't

the kind of thing

you should experience

in front of another person,

even if they are your husband.

It was too... private.

That's the truth.

Albert had this thing

that he did.

He was insistent,

even from the beginning,

that we reach

orgasm together.

He always made sure

he wasn't ahead of me.

He even went

as far as to ask me

how far along I was,

and it was difficult for me,

talking about it

during the act.

But I got used to it.

You get used to everything.

But then, after awhile,

the whole thing felt forced.

It seemed to be

about him caring about me,

but it wasn't.

It was hostile.

One time,

he did come before me.

That time,

he just couldn't hold back.

I said nothing,

but I held him very tight.

I embraced him and we just lay there

in bed for awhile.

And then,

I whispered to him,

"I love you."

That was the one and only time

I ever said that to him.

I don't know

what compelled me to say it.

He said, "I love you too,"

and it made me feel strange,

embarrassed by him.

Something about him was embarrassing.

The next thing

I remember about him

is the artichoke fight.

Albert told me

right off the bat,

the first night we met,

that he had gotten a girl pregnant

and that the woman

had had the child,

a girl.

Her name is April. He said the girl

lived with her mother in Vermont

and that he never saw them,

but he sent them money

once a month.

He said he didn't care much

about the woman,

but that he just wanted

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