Outside my window, on the street, two floors down, a jump that would do nothing
more than wound and humiliate, I watch couples. Lots of couples. Couples
walking with purity to church. They hold hands. I am amazed. A couple, man and
woman, always. A man and a woman. Never any other kind of couple, not here.
A man and a woman, hand in hand. He releases her hand to make a gesture,
finish a story, or highlight a moment. She laughs, he laughs. Then, their hands find
each other again without looking, without searching. His hand drops directly into
her hand. It just happens. They are one, hand in hand, together. Off to worship.
Side by side. Holding in hands prayer books. Holding in hearts pure thoughts.
He is handsome, tall, well built, dark hair with a heapin’ helpin’ of product
to keep it magazine model perfect. White shirt, black pleated trousers, tie.
Sleeves buttoned at the cuff, not rolled up. All in place. She is pretty, sweet girl
next door skin sans cosmetic enhancement. Modest, blue, ankle-length skirt and
white blouse. At the right angle, you can see the straps of a white bra. But only at
a certain angle. Her hair in a neat ponytail, white bow keeping it playful yet
controlled. She watches his movements, every one as if he is the only man on the
earth. She is honored to stand next to him and hymn with him to Him. Above.

I see them coming and going. Walking to and from worship. On their return
trip, they look the same. Same smiles, same hands. The same. They don’t look
enlightened or more holy or peaceful. They look the same. He makes some
gesture, she replies with the proper response, hands drop into each other. I sit
at my window and watch this. This, I think, this must be love.

I sit at a table outside at a street corner bar. I drink late-afternoon beer(s)
and watch the world. I see my couple. My happy, holy couple. They aren’t walking
to church now, I think. Are they? Can people really go to church on a Tuesday
afternoon? They are still holding hands. They smile and laugh. He is still her
world. I should invite them for a drink. But, they don’t drink, I know this. I know
their rules. They could have an ice cream soda. I could drink my beer(s), and they
could share an ice cream soda. One big glass, two romantic, pure white straws. I
could watch them like the proud father, watch them coo and giggle as they sip
their strawberry ice cream soda, holding hands under the table. But my bar, I am
sure, doesn’t serve strawberry ice cream sodas, and I can picture the fear on her
porcelain face as she steps into a bar. Now they stop; he reaches into his pocket
and fishes out some change for a guy with a cardboard sign. Need help, God Bless.
That’s always a good hook in this town; God Bless. He hands the guy the change, then change hand reaches back and locks up with the wife hand again. His eyes and attention still on the guy with the cardboard sign, but his hand finds hers.
Like a homing pigeon. God bless you’s are exchanged between handsome kid and
homeless guy. He turns to wife, and she is beaming. Beaming, lighting the way
with her pride and love for her man. Holding his hand. She adds her other hand
to his for a second, making a hand sandwich. Hers, his, hers. His goodness, his
Christian charity deserves another of her hands.

I picture this couple holding hands at night in bed. Both of them reading.
He, a law book, prepping for school. She, some nighttime novel, skirting the edge
of a “romance”. They never let go of each other’s hands. When he turns a page, her
hand comes up to help. When she turns a page, his hand comes up to help. Then,
at a respectable hour, they reach up outside hands and click off bedside lamps. In
the pitch dark that follows light’s retreat, in the adjustment to this dark, they
tighten the grip on their hands. Praying that in that moment of darkness, the
other isn’t whisked away. That they aren’t lost to each other. Their eyes adjust; they roll to each other and share a kiss and then roll opposite, back to back, between them, hands still clutched.

There is this deli-type place on the corner, across from the bar, down from
the barbershop. I go there for a sandwich. Today, when I walk in, I see half my
happy couple. She sits alone at a booth, facing the door. I walk by, make eye
contact, and smile. Trying to be as polite and harmless as possible. She returns
the smile, although somewhat smaller. Then, her eyes sparkle, her smile widens,
lips part, teeth show (she has good teeth), and a hand touches my shoulder. I hear
an excuse me, and the second half of the couple slips into the booth across from
her. Immediately each one darts out a hand and grabs the other. They fall into
easy chatter, and I get my sandwich. I sit at a table corner view from them and
eat. They don’t eat. They just sit, hold hands and talk. If conversation be the food
of love, they are fat and happy. I imagine that these two don’t eat foods they need
two hands for. Fried chicken, but only the legs. Cheeseburgers, but only those tiny
white castle deals. Their lives will be an endless run of finger food dinners. Lots of
food poised at the end of toothpicks. Making sure the other hand is always free
and open, available to clasp tight the others.

My parents held hands. Still do. Walking anywhere, pinkies locked. Some
kind of unspoken law with them. If they walk anywhere, they have to hold hands.
My mother silently insisting with outstretched fingers. If they walk, they hold
hands. Lately, they‘ve started driving everywhere.

I am in the produce section of my local market. I see my happy, holy couple.
They are standing on opposite sides of a table full of fruit, apples in shades of
red, green, and yellow. Bunches of grapes and cherries. Bunches of bananas. She
catches his eye and holds up a banana, and smiles. He blushes. He really blushes.
She laughs and drops the fruit, runs around the table, and grabs his hand. She
leans in and kisses his cheek. He picks up a very non-sexual-looking pineapple,

and they walk off toward the cheese, still holding hands. I am a little disturbed by
this exchange; it troubles my heart. Now I know they are human on some level. I
want to picture them in bed together, having wild sex, maybe using fruits in a
way God never intended, but I just cannot. I would imagine anything beyond
straight missionary is very “naughty” to them, and it is reserved for special
occasions. His birthday. Christmas. Other than that, it’s simple, pure, by the book,
him on top. Hands clutching at the side. I don’t buy any fruit.

I am stumbling home from a bar. Not my usual bar. I was a visiting drunk at
the bar of another drunk. The guest drunk. The keynote drunk. Without any real
sense of how far I am from my hovel, I realize I need to piss. The build-up in my
bladder will allow me to walk no further. Lucky for me, there is a convenience
store to my right. Very convenient. Around to the side, I push open the men’s
room door. There is a urinal and one stall. The blood pounds in my ears as I barely
get myself out of my jeans quickly enough to avoid pissing in them. Release. Head
back; I see there is a mirror in front of me. I also notice now noise from the stall. I
piss. A moment, the stall door opens. Two men step out. One is zipping up his
pants. The other is the male half of my happy, holy couple. They both look at me
in the mirror. Holy man drops his eyes, wipes the back of his hand across his
mouth, and exits. The other man leisurely washes his hands and eyes my draining
member. I turn and piss on his legs. He curses me and my sexual preference and
leaves. I finish pissing and laugh; I truly enjoyed that moment. Outside there is no
sign of either man. This is good; I was in the mood for neither a fight nor a
confession. I stumble home.

Outside my window, I watch as the happy, holy couple walks toward church.
He is still her world. He gestures punctuates, and then, as usual, their hands find
each other as if by magic. I watch this, remembering that he didn’t wash his
hands before he left the men’s room. She doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t seem to
mind. This, I think, this must be love.