My Perfect Mate

My Perfect Mate

         When I first met my perfect mate she had a fall of dark red hair that hung halfway down her spine, a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose and laughing Irish eyes so green and sparkling they spoke volumes of her humor and mischievous nature.

         She smelled of a gardenia-like perfume called "White Shoulders," and I will forever associate that scent with her. She was only sixteen. Sweet sixteen. Glorious sixteen.

         I loved her from the moment I first saw her, based solely upon her physical beauty. But she did not return my feelings. Ten years her senior, she thought me terribly ancient and dull, but a blind date is supposed to be a disappointment, isn't it?

         A movie, dinner, then home to the apartment she shared with her best friend. No invitation to come inside and, when I leaned forward to kiss her goodnight she turned her cheek toward me. She demonstrated no connection, no rapport, no interest and certainly no indication I should ask for another date.

         I drove the twenty-five miles home wishing I was twenty again. Or, better still, eighteen. When I entered my house the telephone was ringing. Answering it, I heard her voice, whispering, shaking. "Dan? Can you come back over?"

         What's wrong, Jodie?" I asked, concerned at the hint of fear in her voice.

         "My old boyfriend and two of his buddies are outside the door. They . . . they're threatening to kick it down and . . . you know."

         "Have you called the police?"

         "No! If I get in any trouble my mother will make me move back in with her. I can't call the cops."

         "I'll be there as soon as I can," I promised, wondering what I was getting into. I covered the twenty-five miles in fifteen minutes, weaving in and out of slower moving traffic and praying a policeman wasn't sitting in the dark with a radar gun waiting for me.

         Sliding into a parking space with a squeal of rubber, I jumped from the car and ran up the stairs to Jodie's second-story apartment. Three long-haired, scruffy-looking boys turned when they heard my pounding footsteps on the stairs. They were all around sixteen, painfully thin and half a head shorter than me. "Get away from the door," I told them. "And leave her alone."

         They spread out, blocking my way. The one with dirty blond hair cursed me and pulled a short knife from the pocket of his jeans. He flicked it open, grinning with bad teeth.

         I'd never been in a fight in my life. I didn't run with the type of people who settle things with their fists -- or knives. But, when the kid wielding the blade described what they were going to do to the green-eyed pixie who had already won my heart, well, time sped up, blurred, and, before I realized it, I had somehow managed to eject all three boys down the stairs in a tangle of arms and legs and I held the knife in my right hand. I guess they decided that three against one wasn't good enough odds, because they took off running.

         I folded the knife, stuffed it in my pocket and started to knock on Jodie's door. Before I could, however, she flung the door open and threw herself into my arms, shaking and crying. I patted her shoulder. "You're OK, now. They're gone."

         She looked up into my eyes and my heart nearly stopped. Never had anyone looked at me with so much unadulterated worship and affection. "I know. I was peeking out the window. You just threw them around like they were nothing!"

         I shrugged. "I'm bigger, older and, hopefully, smarter."

         Her eyes were still dreamy as she stood on her toes and kissed me long and well. When we parted, she smiled and said, "You're not so old."

         The White Knight had rescued the Princess and won her love -- or at least her respect.

         Fearing the boys might return, I had her gather up a few things and spend the night at my house. She never returned to the apartment except to pack the rest of her belongings.

         She stayed with me, and I marveled a little more each day at the sweetness and kindness she possessed. Never before or since has anyone been so thoroughly, all-their-heart in love with me. She would comb and re-comb my hair as we sat side-by-side on the sofa watching television and, as unromantic as it may sound, she would often straddle my back as I lay in bed on my stomach, and sink her fingernails into my flesh, taking some gross delight in extracting any blackheads she might find.

         We were married three months after our first meeting. She kept the house spotless, cooked up a storm and treated me like a king. I returned her love in full. When she was nineteen she gave birth to our son and I defy anyone to have a better life than we had. We fit together in so many strange and wondrous ways I knew we would be together forever.

         "Forever" only lasted twelve years, however. Too many hours away from home, working, and the ten year difference in our ages caused a rift. She began to feel that she had missed out on something, having married at such a young age. And, though we had never even had an argument in our twelve years of marriage, we divorced, sharing joint custody of our son. She met a younger guy and remarried almost immediately. I worked and tried to be the best part-time father I could be. Dating was the last thing on my mind. I'd had the best -- anyone else would fall short of the mark by miles.

         Then, six months later, I received a call from Jodie that brought back memories. "Dan? Can you come help me move? It isn't working out between Tim and me. He . . . he hit me."

         The White Knight mounted his trusty steed, in the form of an orange U-Haul rental truck, and hastened to rescue the damsel in distress. At her suggestion, I moved her back into my place. Over the next three months Jodie divorced Tim (I never even knew his last name), and we remarried to the delight of our son, and in-laws of both our families. All was right in the universe again.

         The universe disintegrated thirteen years later with another amicable divorce. We loved each other dearly, in so many ways and on so many levels, but Jodie wasn't in love with me anymore. The White Knight was turning gray.

         She found someone else in a heartbeat. Again, I didn't bother to look. Almost a year to the day after our second divorce the telephone rang late one night. "Dan? I miss you," Jodie's familiar voice came through the receiver. "I love Lloyd, I think, but he isn't you. No one is you."

         "I'm not sure I'm even "me" these days, Jo-Jo," I said.

         Hesitantly, she asked, "Would you want to give it one more try?"

         I couldn't say no. This was the girl I'd loved, who I'd almost raised, for the past twenty-seven years of my life. We moved back together and, for awhile, the old flames were rekindled. We spoke of taking our third trip down the aisle. But something was missing. We both knew it and, as much as we truly wanted to be together the fact still remained: Jodie was no longer in love with me in a romantic way. She drifted back to Lloyd and they have been married for four years.

         But poor Lloyd. He has had to accept the fact that his wife loves someone else, and that someone else loves her. Jodie and I talk several times a week and we still consider each other the best sounding board when we are troubled. All of our extended family, mine, Jodie's and Lloyd's, share Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and Lloyd and I are good friends.

         And, although he is eight years younger than me, I plan to outlive him. And one day the telephone will ring and the White Knight, perhaps rolling himself in a wheelchair, will answer the damsel's call for help again.

         She may no longer bear any resemblance to that red-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced waif of sixteen any longer, but she is, and always will be, my perfect mate.

The End