Elly at home

This story continues from the post “Hil at home”.

 

Two days later, after more meetings plus an afternoon of beer with former colleagues (and dinner with a new one), I left Germany. But instead of flying directly home to America, I stopped over in the UK to visit Elly. Now Elly and I were never romantically involved either. Twenty years ago we were colleagues, at another company. Then for a while I worked for her. Elly is sweet and not terribly aggressive, but she’s smart and systematic. These days she works as a technical writer; but back when I worked for her there were a hundred others who did as well and she managed annual budgets near a million dollars. A few years ago I started e-mailing her again, and these days (she says) she and I write each other more often – and at greater length – than she and any other ex-colleague from that company. (For many years it was a small startup, so on the whole we were a very close bunch. That’s where I met Debbie too, come to that.)

 

I said we were never romantically involved. But in fairness I have to add that there was a time – recently, I mean, while we have been e-mailing – when I was trying to flirt with her. The flirting was subtle, so that I could always deny it; but my idea was to see if I could nudge her in a physical direction. I never really wanted an emotional relationship with her; besides that she lives on the wrong side of the Atlantic Ocean, so the whole exercise was always kind of theoretical. But back when I worked for her there were certainly plenty of nights when I whacked off to thoughts of her, and for a couple of years now (before Marie came back on the scene) I’ve been without somebody. So it was a private game – and as I say. I never said anything to her that couldn’t have been taken innocently – but there’s no question that I entertained a couple of lascivious fantasies in the back of my head.

 

At the same time, it was always really clear to me that they were fantasies. I was trying to nudge her in a physical direction, at least in her mind, but she remained resolutely un-nudged. This is in contrast to (for example) Marie, who proved remarkably easy to nudge. I assume Elly never noticed that I was trying to nudge her; in any event she never showed the slightest indication that she had noticed. My two-sided comments just went sailing past her.

 

Still, we hadn’t seen each other in something like 15 years, and here the company was prepared to send me as far as Germany – clear across that Atlantic Ocean. So why shouldn’t I stop and visit?

 

Actually I had thought of that originally a year ago, when I had another trip to Germany to make. But there wasn’t time to make the plans and she had other things going on. Then I was supposed to go in the fall, let her know, she made time in her schedule … and the trip was cancelled for budgetary reasons. So with this trip – thirteen months since I first floated the idea – she made sure to clear her schedule. Even though I was arriving the weekend of Mother’s Day (that’s in March in the UK) she arranged for her ex to have the kids so she could spend the day with me. It was flattering.

 

Elly met me at the airport. Middle age doesn’t make any of us look better – the skin around her face sags today and she has a pot belly – but it was clearly her and she was in a good humor. “Gosh, Hosea, you sound so American – haven’t you lost that accent yet?” We made our way to the airport hotel where I had reserved a room, left all my luggage there, and then found her car. In all our pre-visit discussions we never quite figured out “What should we do with the time?” so she drove me back to her place. And as we were leaving the airport and about to merge onto the highway, we were rear-ended.

 

It was a low-velocity impact; probably neither of us was going over 30-40 miles per hour. And we were traveling the same direction. But it was a real jolt, and Elly had to get out to exchange insurance information with the other driver. Our conversation was a lot more subdued after that, until we got to her house. Then she went into the bathroom to throw up. She came out and offered to make me some coffee, but was clearly jittery. “Elly, it’s OK. You can relax now.” I touched her shoulder. “I think I need a hug.” “I think you do.” And so I held her for a couple of minutes.

 

It didn’t get any steamier than that. In fact, that was probably the tenderest moment of the visit. But it was good. After that she called her insurance company. Then we walked to a local pub for a late lunch and a beer. We talked about our kids, our divorces, and the coworkers we used to share – who’s doing what now, who’s still in touch, who’s disappeared. We took a long walk through her neighborhood on the way back, still talking. A few hours later we drove to dinner, and then she sent me in a taxi back to the airport – not wanting to risk that particular drive again the same day. I gave her a kiss on the way out the door, but demurely on her cheek. I texted her when I got to the airport, and she texted back that she had had a wonderful day.

 

I’ve said nothing about her house, but in fairness I have to. When I talked about Hil, I suggested that the state of your living space is a mirror of sorts, that it says something about the people who live there. Elly has primary custody of her two children – an autistic son and a daugher, aged (I think) 16 and 14 respectively. So it’s not just her who lives there. And – unlike Hil – she didn’t know we were goi ng to end up at her place. But it was even more cluttered than Hil’s house. The dining table was covered with papers, old dishes, and empty (but unwashed) food containers. The sofa had things all over it: some were papers, some were in bags, … I don’t remember what all was there. The counters of the kitchen were covered with dirty dishes. I don’t know quite what I expected, but that wasn’t it.

 

Some of my expectations were met. As in Hil’s house, there weren’t a lot of books: I’m fond of Elly and can fantasize about her sexually, but she’s no intellectual. She’s even smart, but she doesn’t live in her mind and her ideas, the way I do. That’s part of why I can imagine sex with her but never an emotional commitment – we don’t speak the same language. We don’t live in the same world. In the longest run we would always focus on different things. And so we can be friends – even good friends – but never real friends, not in the deepest sense.

 

There were movies – Elly likes movies. Tellingly, her taste is more like that of Son 1 and Son 2 than it is like mine: she likes James Bond and Star Wars – adventure movies – but doesn’t have much interest in art house movies. I recommended “Brooklyn” to her months ago, but she hasn’t seen it yet. “Carol” or “The Danish Girl”? I didn’t bother to ask. (Now actually I like Star Wars too; but I’m at best tepid on James Bond.)

 

Elly had cupboards full of nice dishes. I didn’t see anything similar at Hil’s place, though it’s possible she kept them elsewhere. But then, I would have expected Elly to like nice things. She also had alcohol: bottles of wine sitting out, cordials, gin in the cupboard. Beer.

 

But the dirty dishes with old food scraps? I don’t know what to make of those. Elly recently took a new job, one that is demanding crazy long hours from her. And she is a single mother. But her job, for all that it is demanding, is at nothing like the level she where used to work. She dresses more sloppily than she used to. I wonder if she has given up, … or is starting to give up?

 

Sometimes I wonder the same thing about myself, especially when I think about my career. I don’t dress like an executive – even an executive wearing casual clothes. And the barenness of my apartment cannot look any snappier than the clutter of Hil’s house or Elly’s.

 

But maybe I can make a point of doing the dishes a little more regularly.