Chiara versus the Moon

When you are single for a long time and possessed of a certain temperament suited mostly to actors, English majors, and suicides, you coat your future romantic relationships with a kind of high-gloss shellac.

You lie in bed and imagine lie-ins with girls whose faces you meticulously construct from those of b-list celebrities. You picture yourself reading a poem or two aloud and her rapt with interest. You fantasize about the conversations you'll have about cinema and the arch witticisms she'll make from behind her novel that she's reading in only her underwear and her knee high socks.

In any case, you prepare yourself for romantic interludes and you imagine you'll be so good at them.

Real life is a series of shatterings of fantasies like these. If you're lucky you'll realize that you are much better off without these things.

Chiara is, in so many ways, superior to any girl I was ever with. She's lovely and sexy in a calm, collected, sultry way that never tries too hard or poses for the camera. She's smart and commonsensical and self-assured. She's easy going enough to forgive my neuroses, but neurotic enough herself to charm. One thing she is not, often to my great delight, is sappy or very much interested in traditional notions of romance.

I tried once or twice to read a poem I particularly enjoyed to her. I even tried in bed. Mostly this was simply tolerated. In the event that the poem in question was any longer than a stanza or three, she'd probably ask me if I could keep it down as she was trying to watch "The Biggest Loser" on television.

So I don't know what I expected would happen that night with the moon.

It was late - the middle of the night. I woke up thirsty and padded down the hall to get a glass of water. On the way back from the kitchen I passed by the window and caught a glimpse of the moon and it was fucking huge. I never saw a moon so full and so large. It was as big as a house seen from across the street and as bright as a searchlight pointed at your head. It positively hummed with proximity and I could feel its gravity tugging on the hairs on the backs of my arms. I remember thinking for the briefest of moments that something had gone horribly wrong in the Earth's orbit and that the moon would crash into us at some not too distant hour.

I rushed to the bedroom and woke Chiara. She'd never have believed me if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.

She swam slowly up from unconsciousness and asked me what was the matter. I told her that she simply had to see the moon because it was the most amazing moon she'd ever see. Groggily, she got out of bed and allowed me to tug her into the living room where I positioned her between the window and myself. My mouth was slack and I beamed at the back of her head.

"Isn't that the most amazing moon! Did you ever see a moon like that?!" I whispershouted in her ear.

"It's the moon," she said, and turned to shuffle back to bed, "I've seen the moon before."

And I don't know why - now it seems so stupid - but at the time that felt like a real rejection to me. I was hurt and felt like I'd taken some wrong turn in my love life. I stayed a while to look at the moon. As it rose higher in the sky it shrank and faded and I got tired again and went to bed. I felt cheated for a while after that.

But now it all seems so dumb. Every emotion and event and vision and idea isn't going to be experienced by one and one's wife in the same way or with the same force. I know that Chiara would be insufferable to me if she were one of those hearts and roses and diamond rings sort of women. I even know that the story wouldn't exist at all if it had turned out just how I'd hoped that night, and I know that the story is better than some gigantic fucking moon four years ago.

And I further know that if Chiara was prone to my whimsy and impulsiveness and romantic flights of fancy, we'd probably be professional balloonists by now rather than urbanites who pay our bills on time.

Come to think of it, ballooning might not be so bad. I could have a balloon painted to look like the moon. But not the real moon. The sort of Edwardian moon of Little Nemo comics or early silent films. The one with the horrible face and the greenish tint (from the cheese, I expect).

After I finish writing this blog, I'm going to get in bed and tell Chiara my idea for a hot air balloon and she is going to get the most quizzical expression on her face and then she will roll her eyes and nod in that way one does to lunatics when one wants to mollify them.

I'll love her all the more for it.