My Favorite Book
I fell in love with Sam in Greece. I was a single Australian woman, traveling through Europe as an exercise in live education—an alternative to attending university. As opposed to Sam, I stayed in youth hostels, traveled by train over land and dotted my route to Mediterranean islands by ferry; Sam was post-graduate, ushered by airliner and limousine and lived for weeks in resort towns like Madeira and Innsbruck, courtesy of his wealthy father who Sam besmirchingly called "The Whale."
We were both companionless, miles away from our families and anyone else in our lives who might have mattered. I met Sam at Diskos, a nude beach on Crete. "You've got great tits," were his first words to me. I laughed, told him my favorite book was "Wuthering Heights," the tragic tale about Heathcliff and Catherine. The asking a test of sorts that I administered to any English-speaking man who juxtaposed inscrutable beauty against crass comportment.
Sam passed. He held my stare, touched my chin and told me with a grin that yes, indeed, he had read the book. Said that when Catherine died it had almost broken his heart.
How delicious. A man so young, beautiful, rich, and cultured? Raised eyebrows may have betrayed my surprise, but that's what made everything so easy. Easy to fall in love with a man you'd only just met. A man from a different continent and culture. A man from a world so shiny and polished it almost hummed.
It became easy to be swept away by his words—caught like a glittering shell in the invisible undertow of an indomitable ocean. Pulled away from land and everything else sturdy or solid. After the jarring initial tug it was like floating. Then it was a dream. I was sweet Catherine. Sam was my beloved Heathcliff, a man who would only know my love after I was gone.
His fingers brushed down my spine. He slid fresh flowers into my hair. Our lips tasted deeply of each other. He knew all the words, knew all the romantic affectations. Then, finally, he was on top of me, his sweat dripping from his forehead in threes onto my chest as he thrust into me. We fell asleep Catherine and Heathcliff. In the morning Sam slept late and awoke, his attitude cavalier. Catherine was pulled back into the pounding current, no longer a glittering shell, now just like any other shell broken by a deceitful current and lucky to be deposited back on the beach, albeit in pieces.
After breakfast I regained my balance. Sam splashed on cologne, ordered me to leave. I packed my bag—and a few extras. I went to the airport, bought a plane ticket (first class, and not for home but onward in my journey) and went to a bookstore. Waiting for my flight I checked my new Cartier watch: Sam had exquisite taste. Perhaps he'll remember me now, perhaps not. Either way, I'm in search of a new book.