Last year we took another one of our walks. Once again at Gallup Park in late winter or early spring and we wound through the forest and nature path, striped with trails from cross-country skis. “We don’t lie to ourselves or each other anymore. Tom and I. If we were going to leave to be together, we would have. Our kids are grown; they can’t be excuses anymore. Tom’s wife has survived her mother’s Alzheimer’s and her parents’ deaths. I have survived my breast cancer with Tom’s help.”

Tom visited following her mastectomy and sat with her during the chemo and radiation. When I came to be with her, he was there.

When she said Tom’s name, her finger went to the gold necklace and slid under it, as though reassuring herself that he was with her. “And Dan survived his bypass surgery. Tom helped with that, too, from behind the scenes, but helped nonetheless. Tom and I have the same ridiculous arguments over and over that are never really resolved, just like any other couple. Just like Dan and me. Sometimes we don’t even make love; we just sleep in each other’s arms.”

“Why do you continue?”

“Because we connect. We’re both with each other. And it’s my …” She shrugs, struggling to find the right word. “Life? I’m attached to him just like I’m attached to Dan. Each in his own little box. Neither one really experiencing me. And I thought Tom would be different. Remember? Neither one do I give all of me to.” And then she turns to me and her pupils are very wide. “I guess you’re the only one who has a clue.”

Intimacy, I think. We all struggle so with being our authentic selves with anyone. Maybe Juliet couldn’t relinquish the trailer park and had to keep a bit of tawdry to know herself. And since I knew her back then, visited her in that cramped space, she could tell me about her affair, too. Or maybe it’s an escape hatch from the ideal of middle class perfection.

Charlene calls, “Hey, we’re waiting.”

I bring in the bowls of pita chips and spinach and crab dip and sit down. Juliet is standing. She grins.