A Union of Two Hearts

On a cold day in January, 2000, Angela and I were taking a casual outing together, to hang out among the students and latter-day hippies on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. I was out of work, not earning any money, and my meager savings account was quickly shrinking. Fortunately, I would be gainfully employed again within a few months, saving me from the threat of destitution, and in the meantime, Angela and I were becoming closer than ever as friends.

Because Angela's car was being repaired on that particular day (and also because I had no car of my own), we were using public transport to get from the suburbs, where we both lived, to Berkeley. As I climbed into a local bus, paying my fare, I glanced down the middle aisle and saw Angela, who had boarded at the stop before mine, sitting alone at the back. She was smiling broadly, her cheerfulness lighting up the inside of the bus, and I felt a thrill, knowing that her beaming smile was meant especially for me.

Weeks later, Angela lost patience in a situation that had become hopeless and parted from her boyfriend, meaning that, for the first time since we had become friends two years earlier, while working alongside each other in the children's department of a downtown bookstore in Walnut Creek, California, we both were unattached. I was a bachelor of forty-six and she was a young woman of twenty-one, a considerable difference in age, but in the back of my mind, I could not help thinking of this concurrent availability as something that might have an effect on our friendship.

•  •  •

The San Francisco Bay Area and the city of Los Angeles are connected by a stretch of highway that is long, flat, and mostly straight. Looking out the window of an automobile heading from north to south on Interstate 5, the human eye is presented with a wide view of extensive farms, a view occasionally broken by ungainly outcrops of restaurants and service stations. From Patterson to Fresno to Bakersfield, one beholds mile after mile of oppressive sameness.

Our trip to Southern California had begun early, when Angela stopped by to pick me up at six o'clock on a Thursday morning in August. I got into her car, still half asleep, and away we went, bound for Disneyland and Hollywood. We thought of ourselves as an efficient team: Angela was the driver, and I (once I had entirely awakened) was the navigator. She had the steering wheel and I had the map.

As we drove toward Anaheim, where we had booked a room in a motel near Disneyland, we talked and listened to the pile of CDs (The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie) that we had brought along, with me acting as DJ. We laughed constantly and boisterously, as we did whenever we were together, but there was also the hint of a new feeling between us. We had known each other, and had been friends, for several years, but during the weeks before our trip, our friendship had started to deepen. We now appeared to be on the brink of a serious romance.

I had known for a number of months that Angela was the one for me, the one for whom I had been waiting all my life. I knew that I had never cared as deeply about any other woman. However, I had assumed that because I was so much older than her, and because the bounds of our friendship were so well-defined, it was unlikely that she would ever be inclined to think of me in the same light. I had privately resigned myself to being her good friend, but never anything more. Now, in a pleasing twist that amazed me and encouraged me, Angela was showing signs of seeing me as a potential suitor.

Before we set out for Southern California, undertaking a trip that had been arranged weeks before we began to grow closer, we had discussed our feelings for each other in a general manner, weighing her youth against my middle age, with both of us uncertain that we were prepared to take a definitive step forward from having one kind of relationship to having another kind. Nevertheless, as we sat together in her car, driving southward through the morning hours, it seemed probable that things between us were soon going to change.

We reached our destination in the early afternoon. The weather in Anaheim, as usual for Southern California in the summer, was hot, dry, sunny, and smoggy. We checked into the motel, where we freshened up and got ourselves settled in our room, and then returned to the car, determined to waste no time in getting our fill of Hollywood and its flashy landmarks. (We were saving Disneyland for the next day.)

As we moved slowly down the length of Sunset Boulevard, crawling from stoplight to stoplight, bumper-to-bumper in the glaring sunshine, we gawked at the sights and looked forward to the rest of the day. Our first priority was to visit the Farmer's Market, on the corner of Fairfax Avenue and 3rd Street. Being hungry by that time, and finding a stall that offered a menu of Chinese takeout, we eagerly filled our empty stomachs with an inexpensive repast of rice, noodles, and vegetables. Afterward, we wandered through the shops, buying a few items, with our affinity growing from hour to hour.

From the Farmer's Market we drove to Beverly Hills, where we left the car in a parking lot. We strolled past all the luxury stores filled with luxury goods on Rodeo Drive, window-shopping and keeping a sharp lookout for celebrities, while poking fun at ourselves for being such overt tourists. When darkness fell, we retrieved the car and took the freeway back to Anaheim, leaving behind the hazy glow of nocturnal Los Angeles, rolling along with the windows open to the warm night air, as "L.A. Woman" by The Doors played loudly on the radio.

Because we had intended to make the trip merely as firm friends, our room had two beds. When the lights were out, we lay apart from each other, our beds being separated by a distance of three or four feet. Lying there in the darkness, alone in my bed, I suddenly decided to unburden myself, declaring the full extent of my feelings. I told Angela that I was in love with her. A moment later, a tiny voice of warmth and shyness came from her bed, saying, "Really?"

Having made my nervous declaration, I closed my eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep. I was trapped in suspense, caught between extremes of relief and worry: glad to have summoned the courage to speak the truth of what I felt toward Angela, but fearful that my unguarded words might have done more harm than good. I was afraid that my yearning heart might have erred by reaching out too far, too soon.                  

•  •  •

At eight o'clock the next morning, we were standing in front of Disneyland's main gate. Angela, who manifested a giddy reverence toward the amusement park, was thrilled at the prospect of spending a day with Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy, Snow White, Pinocchio, Dumbo, Cinderella, and all the other well-known characters who inhabited Walt Disney's Magic Kingdom. Her childlike glee was contagious, and we both were excited as we purchased our passes and walked through the entrance.

Our day at Disneyland commenced with a breakfast of waffles at an outdoor cafe on Main Street, U.S.A. After breakfast we happily progressed from Main Street to Fantasyland, Adventureland, Frontierland, and Tomorrowland, going on one ride after another. Angela could barely contain her delight, wanting to go on the best rides twice. As I observed her enjoying herself, I thought of my words from the night before, and I felt, more than ever, that it was within our grasp to be more than friends. She knew that I was in love with her, but how did she truly feel in regard to me?

That evening we had a dinner of portobello mushrooms at the Blue Bayou Restaurant in New Orleans Square. After our meal, we joined a lively crowd that had gathered at one end of Main Street, close to Sleeping Beauty Castle, to watch the nightly fireworks overhead. When the fireworks were finished, and Tinker Bell had flown across the sky on a cable, we were jostled and pushed apart as the crowd dispersed, almost causing us to lose sight of each other. Angela then surprised me, reaching out and clasping my hand, holding it tightly. When we broke free from the crowd and continued on our way, we were still hand in hand.

We stayed in the park until it closed at midnight, not wanting our wonderful day to end, and then walked down the street, holding hands all the way back to the motel. As we fell asleep in our room, each in our own bed, the short distance between us seemed forced, and perhaps unnecessary, but we had agreed that it would be wiser for us not to allow our feelings to advance too swiftly. We knew that exercising a degree of restraint, however awkward it might have seemed, was likely to serve us better than actions of undue haste.

•  •  •

Our intention for the next day was to see more of Hollywood. In the morning we were among dozens of other sightseers, holding hands as we ambled along Hollywood Boulevard, stopping in front of Mann's Chinese Theatre to look at the many footprints of stars that were preserved in concrete. We also went into a number of shops, all filled with displays of postcards, T-shirts, and trinkets. Wanting to escape the swelter and quench our thirst, we darted into a cafe, where we sat at a table by a window and cooled ourselves with soft drinks. Anyone looking at us could see how happy we were to be together.

By late afternoon we had returned to the farther end of Sunset Boulevard, where both sides of the street abounded with bookstores, restaurants, and nightclubs. Being on our feet all day and doing so much walking had made us extremely hungry. After sitting down to an ample dinner of spaghetti with marinara sauce, we were back on our feet, hitting the sidewalk again, trying to see as much of the famous boulevard as we could in one evening.

We lingered in store after store, examining books, posters, and old records. Most of what we saw was far too costly for our pockets, but we were glad to have the opportunity to look at everything. Being on Sunset Boulevard at night was a treat, and an adventure, in itself. We peered into the windows of every limousine that drove past, trying to see if a major star was riding inside. Late in the evening, we did actually spot John Entwistle of The Who, standing across the street from us, on the sidewalk in front of Tower Records. Our evening in Hollywood was complete.

When we returned to the motel later, we spread out a map of Los Angeles on one of the beds. We wanted to spend the next morning at the nearest beach. As we bent together over the map, plotting a trip to the coast, our heads and our shoulders were nearly touching, but during the night we were apart once again. We still had done nothing more than hold hands.

•  •  •

In the morning we each showered and packed our bags. After a visit to the beach, we had to begin our drive north, back to the Bay Area. I was conflicted and apprehensive, compelled to wonder whether the apparent change in our relationship would continue, and if so, whether it could be sustained, once our trip was over and we had returned to our home surroundings. I surmised that Angela might be faltering in what she was feeling, and I wanted to sound her out.

I took Angela aside, sitting with her on the edge of my bed, and told her that we needed to discuss a serious question. Looking into her green eyes, I asked her if she wanted us to keep proceeding in a direction that would bring us closer, or instead, would prefer us to just remain as friends. I could see that my boldness had unsettled her, and for the next few moments, she looked down, avoiding my gaze, as she struggled within herself, unable to give me an answer. At last she gave a plaintive sigh, and said, "I think we should only be friends."

I was thoroughly disappointed by what she expressed, but I assured her that I would accept her decision. Not quite able to trust her own feelings, and leery of gambling with them, she had made what she perceived to be the safest choice. I understood her misgivings, and entertained most of them myself. Was the gap of years between us too wide to be bridged? If we did make a straightforward attempt at romance, and our attempt failed, would our friendship be ruined? A distinct cloud of unhappiness hung over us as we checked out of the motel and carried our bags to the car.

Driving to the beach consumed almost two hours. We shared the same glum mood as we drove: both of us with little to say, both of us pondering the future of our relationship. I had no doubt whatsoever that I was utterly in love with Angela, and I believed that she loved me, but I could not see how we could move beyond our current uncertainty. I kept hoping that, somehow, there was still a chance for us to become a couple.

Arriving at the coast later that morning, we found a misty shore spread out beneath an overcast sky. The Pacific Ocean, rolling and frothing, expanded into the murky distance. Incoming waves heaved and splashed repeatedly, carrying lone figures poised on surfboards. Children in swimsuits scooped wet sand into toy buckets.

Angela and I walked side by side along the beach, but this time we were not hand in hand. As the foamy water lapped over her bare feet, soaking the hem of her long dress, she playfully induced me to remove my own footwear. She gave me a sly grin as I gamely surrendered to her request, taking off my shoes and socks, rolling up the legs of my jeans, and wading barefoot into the surf to join her.

As we walked on, she had never looked so beautiful to me. It was as if I was seeing Angela with eyes that had been newly opened. Looking at her as she moved, stepping through the ripples in the shallow water, her auburn tresses blown by the wind, her dress outlining her lithe form and softly conveying the feminine grace of her body, I was torn between easygoing fondness and ardent longing. Most of all, I knew that I wanted to hold her, to be the man in her life, to be close to her in every way.

After brushing the sand from our feet, we put on our shoes, got back into the car, and headed homeward. Our return trip was quiet and uncomfortable, with both of us lost in our own thoughts. Although we had chosen to abide by the familiar constraints of our friendship, the strength of our deeper feelings was palpable, and could not be denied.

We sped along the featureless highway for hours, leaving behind our sunny experiences in Anaheim and Hollywood. Angela was much more pensive than usual. I could tell that she was already second-guessing herself, already starting to waver in the choice that she had made a few hours earlier. With her hands gripping the steering wheel, and her eyes fixed on the road ahead, she mutely guided us back to the Bay Area.

•  •  •

The afternoon sun was setting behind the brown hills of Contra Costa County as we covered the final miles of our trip. As a result of our conversation in the motel that morning, the fun of the past four days had now been somewhat diminished by an unwelcome element of gentle melancholy. Neither of us wanted to forgo the close feeling that had blossomed during our stay in Southern California, with its attendant promise of amorousness, but we also could not yet bring ourselves to fully embrace it.

Angela turned the car onto my street and parked. I got out and unloaded my bags, setting them on the sidewalk. Angela got out of the car, too, and we stood there for a long while, pressed together, our arms wrapped around each other, not ready to say goodbye. When we had loosened ourselves, she got back into the car, gave me a wave, and drove away. I picked up my bags, feeling happy and sad in equal measure as I turned the key in my door.

Within an hour, Angela called me and left a wistful plea on the answering machine. "I'm lonely," she said, and as soon as I heard the tone of her voice, I knew that we were thinking along the same lines. When I called her back, we admitted to each other that, as a result of our time together in Southern California, maintaining a chaste friendship was no longer enough for us. A few days after we returned from our trip, talking about it over dinner at a Chinese restaurant, we decided that we should, indeed, follow the path that our feelings betokened.

Several weeks later, sitting together in her car one evening, parked on my street, we shared our first kiss, which changed the character of our relationship once and for all, sweetly blending strands of affection and desire into one inviolate bond of mutual tenderness. Having finally acknowledged to each other that we were destined to be a couple, we set forth in pursuit of the durable connection to which we both aspired, without any barriers between us. We each had made mistakes with others in the past, so we were cautious at the outset, taking nothing for granted, but together we discerned the prospect of a lasting alliance.

During the next few months, we spent all our free time together, making a smooth transit from being friends to being lovers. Relying on the honesty of our feelings, we committed ourselves to establishing a union of two hearts. As the heat of summer faded, giving way to the chill of autumn, our lives and our hopes became more and more entwined, proving to us that what we had suspected all along was true: we were meant for each other. When we made an overnight trip to Carmel in late November, we only needed one bed.

•  •  •

Angela had concluded that the difference in our ages did not matter. I was still careful of her youth, more for her sake than for my own, but I was not a fool. I was hooked. She was clearly one of a kind: more appealing and more endearing than any other female that I had ever known, and, for reasons that are still unaccountable to me, steadfastly willing to overlook all my quirks, defects, and eccentricities. What other young woman would have been so willing to be wooed and won by a middle-aged writer whose finances could be most charitably described as exceedingly slender?

Many of Angela's friends, mainly young women of her own age, did not approve of our romance, taking a narrow view and regarding me (much as I had once done myself) as being too old for her, but Angela, tapping into a supply of clear-headed maturity that even I had not detected within her heretofore, shrugged off the naysayers and never looked back. She was not disposed to be unduly affected by the petty opinions of others. She had made up her mind about us, and that was that.

We dated for eleven months, becoming engaged in July, 2001. As a lifelong loner who was jealous of his freedom, a single man with a wary view of matrimony, I had never even considered getting married to anyone before, but I felt differently with Angela. When she told me that, for her, being a permanent couple would require us to be a married couple, I did not respond by running away at high speed, as my younger self would have done. Instead, I calmly assented to her wishes, asked her to marry me, and bought a ring.

I was pleasantly dumbstruck to find myself betrothed to my best friend. Being with Angela, the woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life, had enlivened my solitary outlook in ways that I never could have imagined before we met, and being without her had become unthinkable. For Angela's part, she evidently was able to see qualities in me that I had never seen myself, qualities that prompted her to picture me as a worthy husband. Three months later, fleeing California's high cost of living, we departed from the Bay Area and moved together to the Pacific Northwest, seeking a more affordable life for ourselves.

One afternoon in June, 2002, Angela and I stood next to each other and confidently recited vows in a small room at the old-fashioned courthouse in Astoria, Oregon. The brief ceremony that formally united us, a wedding performed by a county clerk with only the two of us and a pair of witnesses (two helpful women who worked at the courthouse) in attendance, was followed by a short honeymoon at nearby Cannon Beach, after which we turned ourselves, as husband and wife, to the pleasurable task of doing our utmost to live happily ever after.