First Love

The love affair started when he was just a boy.  Her aroma intoxicated him; he said that she smelled like honey and he loved her taste.   She was thin and pale and Alex would do anything to be with her - even lie to his mother. He’d sneak out of his house to spend five minutes with her.  He felt like an adult and used her to impress friends.  He grew up. We met and married, but the affair continued. Old movies taught that a good woman’s love could save a bad boy.  They lied. She was demanding and expensive; through guilt stained teeth he promised to leave her but it never lasted.  Alex was totally hooked on cigarettes. 

I refused to share my home with her so when we lived in Boston stood outside puffing his way through snowstorms; he smoked in our Minnesota garage during minus 30 degree winters and the  rain of Vancouver had him huddled under our overhang.  Through cold, snow and rain he smoked outdoors while I stayed warm and smoldering indoors.

Fourteen years ago we bought a small house in La Paz. The climate is almost perfect.  We tossed out ties and pantyhose and threw open doors and windows.  Paradise?  Not quite.

Our patio is tiny and walled.  Our bedroom is within puffing range.  Each morning I woke to the stench of cigarettes. Paradise is gardenias not Marlboros.   I complained.  I nagged.  I begged.  Finally, I closed the doors and windows.  Once again I stayed indoors while Alex spent most of his days on our patio watering plants, reading, enjoying the weather and smoking. 

All that changed four years ago when Alex got pneumonia. Trying to smoke became so painful it was like swallowing a volcano. He quit.  He now claims he hates the smell of tobacco.  I’m thrilled.  For his health.  For the money we save.  And because I no longer smell Marlboros 50 times a day.  I love our patio filled with flowers, hummingbirds and, in the evenings, the kissing sound of geckos. But it’s odd how unexpectedly things work out.  Most of the time I’m alone.  Alex stays indoors using the computer or reading.  He says that it’s so sunny that the glare gives him a headache.

Is he avoiding me? No, he’s happy when we’re inside reading or chatting. It was in deference to me that he spent his time outdoors and I appreciate it.  So while Alex waters the flowers that I get to enjoy, I take pleasure in his company until he turns off the hose and goes back indoors.  As I sit alone on the patio I accept the vow he’s made; when he gets terminally ill, he’ll reach into the back of his closet, pull out the ancient pack of Marlboros, inhale deeply, and rekindle the affair that started long before we met.