Near Love Stories
by J. B. Hogan

And for all that and for all his love for her and her own affection, perhaps love, for him, she was not happy. She had come to fame too soon, too early. The pressures on her were enormous and she frequently felt imprisoned by her own success, by the demands of her public, her art. He wanted desperately to relieve her of that burden, to find a way to remove those extraneous forces from her life so that she might live for and fully love the art that she produced with her instrument, her voice, and her style.

No one was more aware or knew better than he what an unusual couple they were. She was young, pretty, spiritual in a down to earth way, magically talented. He was middle-aged, not very good looking, a self-proclaimed agnostic leaning toward atheism with a despairing existential perspective, a writer of pedestrian talent. Yet his love for her lifted him above the mundane failure of his own life and transformed him from a hopeless, helpless egotist to what he believed was a far better man, one who was outer directed, self-sacrificing - caring.

He was devoted to her and when he was with her she was the center of all he knew. His goal was to make her content, happy if possible, and he tried to stay focused on that goal. Some might say he had lost himself in her but he knew he had found himself there instead. Because she wasn't just anybody, she was a true, a great artist. To serve her was to serve art. Art embodied in a beautiful young woman. To him, nothing could surpass that.

Now, nearing Cozumel, he continued to hold her hand and to look at the side of her face, tracing it, trying to memorize every line and angle of her jaw and chin and lips. She turned towards him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a smile. He leaned close to her.

"I love you," he whispered.

She bent toward him, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then rested her head against the side of his. He reached over and stroked her thick hair. He could feel her tiredness, the soul weariness that her exhausting schedule produced in her. He touched her cheek, feeling its softness; and so close to her, breathed in the delicate odor of her hair and body. He turned in his seat so that he could move his face closer to hers. She looked at him without expression and he kissed her gently on the lips. She returned his kiss, then turned away again to look out at the sea. He looked straight ahead but held tightly to her hand.

On the dock at Cozumel they walked off the ferry together, not holding hands but side by side. They were about to look for a taxi when she remembered she had left a day bag on the ferry.

"I'll get it," he said, immediately moving back towards the boat. She reached out and held his arm.

"No, it's okay," she said, "it's nothing important. There's nothing in it worth anything."

"I'll get it," he repeated, pulling away from her. "I'll be right back."

He strode away purposefully. She walked on through the milling crowd. Just before he re-entered the ferry, he looked for her but could no longer see her. He hurried into the ferry without looking back again.

*    *    *

They were stretched out on beach chairs in front of their hotel sunbathing. He had drunk more beer than they both knew he should and was now distant and melancholy. She knew the mood. He tried not to be that way, she honestly believed, and he seldom was, but at odd times he seemed unable to stop and would drink himself away from her. She suspected he was preparing himself for when she would no longer be there.