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26 June 2007 @ 03:16 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 183: Question 183  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 817


Tell me a secret.


Tell me a secret,
Give me a smile
Collect up the stars,
Please stay for a while


My wife was a person of two intelligences, so apparently. In one sense, she was of an efficient business intellect, and of another, she was a devious, creative person of an extremely free and boundless will. It sometimes puzzled me she chose to delve into the more businesslike side of things, but really, it very much makes sense, for she was a highly intelligent woman, someone who thrived on control and at having a certain type of controlling power at her fingertips. She liked to be able to wield her mind in a way that showed up in numbers and figures, in reports and the like, simply because, I think, it satisfied her. She was a good drawer, someone who was musical, and even dabbled in painting, but she reserved those things for hobby like pleasure, because that was where she felt they belonged.

Decades ago now, she left this poem in the front pocket of a leather satchel of mine. I was a Chef by then, but also working steadily towards more medical things, and being well seat into that second professional seat, I was off to a medical conference to read a paper I had co-written with someone. It was something minor, something on a heart condition and drug treatments, but nonetheless, it was a nice hotel, a nice ride on a plane. This was before we had children, and she was off also, on a conference of her own, all her colourful charts and documents ready in advance and stored away. Marianne had a certain appeal, both bodily and mentally, and so, when the occasion happened, she would be a favourite to persuade some person or company, or investor, whatever it was the people she worked for wanted, really.

She left the poem where my wallet was, where she knew I would find it when I was waiting for my flight to leave. I was waiting for a connecting flight, so I bought a coffee, and found this scrap of paper there while looking for spare change. Marianne, being that devious, crafty woman that she is, left me a riddle, something which I understood, really. After spending so much time with someone, living with them, loving them, you get to know when they are being silly, and when they have hidden intentions by whatever they have left you behind, an empty coffee cup to be filled, fresh bread and ham so you can make them lunch if you get home early.

I don’t know exactly how long she had spent at the airport before me, because we had caught different flights, only to end up, by chance, at the same place. Either way, I round up at a newsstand, buying a tabloid magazine forced upon me by a widely smiling British man. This brings the next clue, but she had grown impatient by then, and approached me directly. Time was of the essence after all, we both had had flights to catch, all soon enough on that day. We ended up having certain, but entirely pertinent relations inside an airport bathroom, enjoyable ones, needless to say.


I suppose, though, you may want a real secret, and not just the deviations of some wily Medical Examiner. People ask me, people who know tragedy has happened in my life, sometimes they ask me if I am alright when I look down, how am I managing when I look especially sad or frustrated. I am much better and happier than I once was, but these comments, these inquiring inquiries are so often said as if I am expected to just, be ok, as if I am meant to leave them behind, as a moment in my life that is no more. Well, by those not so close to me they are. The truth though? The truth is that I doubt whether I will ever pack away and put into storage all the things left from my supposedly old married life, the one where I had a wife and two sons. I doubt whether I’ll ever remarry, because, ah, Marianne was the one who could make basic riddles into perfect sense. My secret? I manage more than I used to, I am happier than I used to be, but I don’t think, in the depths of my heart, that I’ll ever have the same kind of life as I used to, or even anything, anywhere, remotely close to it. Love is good, maybe I could have a relationship, maybe I could love and feel appreciated and give that back, sure, but Marianne was a step above that, she was something else. I don’t think I’ll find that again, and nor should I be expected to. That is the simple fact, the basic, honest, true truth of the matter, yes it is.
 
 
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