Lovers :: Personal Narrative Sex Relationships Essays

Lovers My mother went to Barnard on a full scholarship. She commuted from home, two hours a day on the subway. One iniquity after a Columbia party, she was up a ladder taking down crimp paper when an orange hit her on the back of the manoeuver. It thumped to the ground and turn under a stool, where my father knelt to retrieve it. He tossed the orange across the room to a friend his intended target and offered my mother his go along.In my version, she shakes off his attempts to help her down from the ladder. Does not speak to him for months because shes so offended at being hit on the back of the head with the orange. Looks the other way when he passes on the street. Starts dating his roomie. In my version, the roommate cant be there for a date theyre supposed to have got. He has an emergency to deal with a death in the family, a last-minute pinball competition at the pizza place, what have you. My father answers her knock with as much grace and charm as he can muster . Hello, he says. Are you here to see wharfage?Yes, she says, stepping cautiously over the threshold.He isnt here, my father says. He had to go to a funeral/pinball semi-final/what-have-you.My mother Oh. Of course, she could just step back across the threshold and find another way to spend her evening. But in my version she does not. She sits on the couch, tugging her mini skirt to cover more of her nicely shaped legs. My father brings out a basket of butter zany and wedges of cheese. They talk about politics, literature. Something. What would my parents discuss during their first conversation? Now, after 30 years of marriage, their communication isnt even verbal each speaks by dint of the others eyes. But how did they communicate then, when they were still new?Of course, this night kicked off the ravenous affair that would become my parents marriage. In my version, they could not hold their eyes (or their hands) off each other. They went everywhere in each others accompany th e dining hall, where my mother sneaked my father in on her meal slate the library, where he tossed spitballs into her hair the movies, where they nuzzled at the back of the room, my father attempting a hand on her thigh, my mother staring straight ahead, her arms and legs rigid.