Was her name Kedra, or was it Drake before it became Kedra? There is a story, told to Sam much later, that she was a he at one point many years ago. To Sam’s eyes and to his touch, there was no evidence of a prior person, but he could not help thinking, ‘was he as attractive then as she is now?” Maybe he was a dancer, or maybe there was a dark side when the need for money put him on a gay porno channel.
Should I have researched her past before we moved quickly from the bar to the upstairs room. As absurd as thinking she should have done a deep dive on me, Sam thought, but only briefly. He was too transfixed by the existence of Kedra, how she felt in his arms and, soon thereafter, intertwined with him in bed that one night of bliss before she disappeared without a good-bye.
And then Sam was unwillingly returned from fantasy land – the thought of many such nights with Kedra– to reality. He looked at his calendar, three days to departure. A groan slipped out, with no prompting. He did the math: 72 hours, 4,320 minutes, 259,200 seconds.
Could the time be absorbed, the trivial subjects reacted to, and admittedly initiated as well, without suffering adverse physical and mental consequences.
Was there a similarity to what an exceptional woman feels when trapped in a marriage, her partner with no aspiration beyond the maintenance of his satisfactory job. Or is it more akin to having an aspirational list stripped of validity by the demands of three children, each more lovable than their mother ever could have imagined.
The image came out of nowhere, Kedra in full figure dominating his vision and his mind, when he was supposed to be commenting on – the weather, the outlook for the local football team in the upcoming season, the quality of the roast beef – there was a long list of mundane subjects unable to replace the unreal Kedra.
What is it that Sam wants, other than a speedy return to his solo existence, aka his comfort zone. He already has control, the type that comes with enough financial independence to throw away the restaurant credit card receipt.
Sam, neither young nor old, periodically looks at an early retirement checklist and then deletes it from his laptop. Occasionally he reads for the umpteenth time a piece of writing now decades old that describes his ideal partner. Maybe it was always a fantasy.
Saying “whatever” is flip. It is also an accurate summation of what apparently is not to be.
Does Sam have a list of societal grievances he wants to bring to physical life in order to eliminate them from his lawn? Doesn’t everybody! And aren’t there perpetual questions for anybody with an examined life: where I am going and why?
Another relapse, another unavoidable intrusion that replaced nothingness with Kedra. What if it was true about Kedra being a remake of Drake. Did that mean he was an unconflicted gay man, able to come out with a total do-over. Deep down in Sam, was thinking about Kedra/Drake an indication of sexual ambivalence on his part.
The radical nature of that thought, heretofore never articulated, gave Sam a sudden start, noticeable to those still gathered around the dinner table as dessert was about to be served. He quickly responded to the question, “Sam, are you okay?” by shifting his attention to the matter at hand: cherry pie or apple, with vanilla ice cream or not, with cheese?
Will Sam wander through the many years before his inevitable demise. Will his diverse activities be met with, “I see you’re keeping busy,” a phrase that in his mind devalues what is being done, equating it with eating time rather than moving the needle forward, especially in someone’s life.
Is relaxation attainable. Absent that happening, can Sam say “I love you” as he walks out the door to a different life, abandoning the very people he just said he loves. Can it be an act of selflessness, his absence forcing others to think, act, live as independent persons. Or is it pulling the plug on that relationship which has kept it all afloat, the outcome perhaps being a collective drowning.
Is there a page to be turned, or a chapter, lengthy in number of words yet only a single entry in the unfolding book.
Sam has no more, no less of the imposter syndrome, a cloak quickly donned in moments of despair. Always there is the feeling of not being fully developed, of being uncomfortable with both reality, including his addiction, and perception.
Will the changes that Sam is destined to experience be voluntary or forced on him by the uncontrollability that is life? Will he periodically return to the setting of his frustration – undoubtedly. Will the frustration dissipate – unlikely.
Will Kedra haunt Sam’s dreams occasionally … or perpetually.