She stared around the bar and restaurant. "They look happy," she said, plainly.
"Maybe," he said. "Hard to tell."
"I can tell."
"You know happiness?" he asked.
"Some," she said. "And sadness too."
"Nature of the business," he said.
"At that business?" she said.
"The getting-older business."
She took in a deep breath. "Yep."
"You seem more happy, than not."
"Looks can be deceiving."
He took a swig of his beer, and he it up a bit before setting it down. He didn't know why. Perhaps, he thought, it would delay the conversation's direction.
She turned to him. "What about you?"
"Happy?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I don't want to throw out cliches, but," he hesitated. "What is happiness?"
"What is it?"
"Contentment?" he siad. "Joy? Satisfaction? It seems hard to define. And maybe that's why it's so elusive."
"Not the best conversation item for a bar," she said.
"I'm happy with this beer," he said, picking the bottle up and taking another mouthful.
"And I'm content with the merlot." She winked.
"Well, to be completely honest," he said. "I'm pretty satified at the moment. Next to a pretty woman. Prettiest in the room. She's as I expected. Thoughtful. Sexy."
"Sexy?"
"Yes," he said. "Interesting."

This past weekend I spent a lot of time in high school gymnasiums watching wrestling. A LOT of time. So much so that if it's possible to get a tan from florescent lights than I'm surely a shade darker today than I was on Friday.

On Saturday, I spent the day at my alma mater, Millburn High School, watching the District 14 (or 15, because at this point I'm still a little bleary-eyed and my head is in a fog) tournament and help coach the boys who've I've been following over the past season. More, actually, since I ran fall pre-season practices and helped with summer practices late last summer. It was a rough tournament for our guys, generally speaking though we did get two 3rd place winner and secure them spots in the Region tournament this wednesday night. It was a frustrating, yet ultimately rewarding day, because I watched the boys get much better over the season and, most importantly, seem to have enjoyed the season. They seem to be looking forward to putting in the time to get better over the spring, summer and fall.

On Sunday, I attended the first-ever New Jersey Girls Wrestling Region Tournament--a boisterous, exciting affair with over 240 competitiors and matches playing out on eight mats. Though it was a long day, the tournament was well-run. The referees were excellent, the facilities (Red Bank Regional High School) more than adequate, and the head announcer kept the pace of the event informative and moving along. I was there primarily to root on (and coach) a girl from my club, NXL Wrestling, Hailey Budney who went into the tournament the number one seed in the North Region at 136 pounds.

​Only a few people close to her knew of her loss. They'd said, with such conviction, that it was the most selfless thing any mother could do. As if she were some kind of heroine. Bullshit. If they'd only known. She did it because she was selfish. Wanted to be free of the burdern of a child. Wanted to travel, meet people (men, really), take classes, do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.

Babies don't travel well, they don't sit still or silently in classes, they take up time, money, weekends, week days, mornings, nights... That's what she had convinced herself of. It was an easy decision. And if someday she changed her mind, there'd always be opportunities to have a baby again. When she was settled, wealthier, more established in her life and career. Then she'd be able to give the baby the life he or she needed. Then she'd be able to be the ideal mother. The ideal woman.

And the candle kept burning, melting down ever so slightly, the flame atop still slender and yellow, tinged with blue at the base. She stared at the flame. It was mezmerizing, nearly intoxicating, so oddly comforting as something to focus on, when all the sadness and fears and dashed dreams kept crawling out from the corners of her mind, creeping to the foreground...

"Joshua," she whispered. " I wish you the best. I wish you the moon and the sun. I wish you the world. I wish I could have given it all to you. I wish I could have had the courage and selflessness to never let you go. I wish..."

​She had named him, Joshua. He was a beautiful baby. Perfect, she thought. As purely perfect as she had ever seen and felt. And he cried in those first few hours. Loud, grandiose, as if telling the world he has arrived. But then he would take a break, or get tired, and she'd look at him, deep into his eyes, and sing the words to her favorite song so softly only his tiny ears could hear.

"Oh my love... My darling..."

And he would quiet and stop fussing. And they stayed that way, mother and child, for some time. as she wondered how this tiny being, so vulnerable and fragile,  was going to survive in the world.

She stared at the flame. The candle seemed lighted from within, and the flame, at times, stood tall atop it, until the slightest breeze or air current from her mouth would make it tilt one way, then the other. She wiped a tear. Then another.

"I love you, Joshua," she whispered. "I always did."

Perhaps his name was something else. Perhaps, or probably, he would not recognize her if per chance God changed time and circumstances so that they might meet one day. On a soccer field during a youth game. Or on the quad of a fine university. Or on his way to propose to his future wife at the outdoor cafe they first met at.

That seemed so unlikely to be fantasy.

And she sobbed some more.

She struck the match. And held it up a moment. In the darkened room, it's flame swayed ever so slightly. She tilted a votive candle toward the flame until the flame passed to the wick, struggling for a moment but then reaching high and slendor.

She set the candle down in its holder, the one her mother had given her years ago, one that had been passed down from her grandmother, it's ornate silver base twisting upward like roots of a tree. It's still had remnants of last year's candle, a melted flow that ran down the sides. She picked at those pieces, breaking them off and dropping them into the new flame and the pool of watery wax that had now formed below it.

Another year had passed. She hung her head and closed her eyes. How old would he be now? It was a silly question she knew. He would be fifteen. Prime of his teens. A man of sorts. She knew his age as well as she knew her own age, as she knew her own name.

What was his name? That she didn't know. At least not what he might be called today. She held her arms together, imagining his tiny body cradled in her love... 

Something was different. Something wrong. Gillie could tell the moment he walked in the high school entrance. In the sea of faces, there weren't the typical smiles, laughing, boisterous talking and shouting, especially since this was the last day of the school year.
He thought, Sheesh, in just a half-day or so, they'd all be free from the damn shackles of tests, quizzes, annoying teachers, asshole seniors, crappy cafeteria food, and run wild for the next two months until late August when the sophomores, juniors and newly-minted freshman would come back to put those damn shackles on once again.
No, there was concern on a few faces. Maybe confusion. The school main hallway was still typically loud but in an oddly subdued way. A few girls were whispering. A few others were huddled together. Teachers walked about with a kind of serious purpose. Gillie felt almost as if he was stepping out of his body and simply watching what was going on. What could it be? he thought. What in the world had happened?
"Did ya hear?" he heard. Then he felt a tug on his shirt. "Did ya hear what they're saying?"
Gillie snapped back. "Huh?" He turned.
Billy Giffries leaned in. "It's crazy in here."
"What's going on?"
"A girl is missing," he said, looking about as if someone might hear him.
"What girl?" Gillie said.
"That senior."
"Which?"
"The really pretty one," Billy said. "Kimberly... oh what's her last name?"
"Not sure."
"Blonde. Long hair. Pretty." 
"Kimberly Fitzsimmons?"
"Yeah, that's her."
"Missing?"
"That's what I heard."
"Who told ya?"
"Everyone."

​"You know you're very pretty," he said.
"You're starting to sound like a soundrel," she said.
"It worked back then."
"Did it?"
He leaned in. He breath warmed her ear.
"You always were pretty," he whispered. "Now even more so."
A chill coursed through her. He leaned back.
"You certainly have a way..." she said.
He smiled.
"You always did," she said.
"Only for you."
She liked that. He could tell.
"Only for me..." she repeated softly. She took another sip from her glass. She was feeling a little dizzy. But it wasn't the wine.
"Kids are out," he said.
"And?"
"And I'd like to take you home," he said.
"Take me home..."
"Yes."
"Would you like that?"
She didn't answer. He liked the hard to get.
"Where are the kids?"
"At your mom's," he said.
"So you had this all set up?"
"I did."
"And it's going as you wanted?"
"I hope it will." He offered his hand to her.
"So do I," she said, taking his hand.
"My lady..." he held her chair, then opned her coat.
She slid one arm in, then the other. She reached for her purse, then held his hand.
"Let's go home."

"There's a guy in my office. He likes to talk about his wife. Unsolicited. Not in a bad way, mind you, he just likes to talk about how, years ago, they used to work side by side. No romantic feelings going either way. She kind of had a boyfriend. He was interested in a career, and some guy toys -- his Hummer, etcetera. So they worked some late nights together. A few early mornings finishing projects. Then slowly they started to notice each other. Went on a lunch date. Caught a baseball game. Movies. Eventually, her boyfriend disappears; the guy cares less and less about his car. Then the interest grows, until, finally, they start dating, and, a year later, get married." The man straightened up. "Not me, I knew right away with the woman I fell in love with. Like Michael Corleone when he's sent off to Sicily and he first sees the young woman, Apollonia, who would be his wife. He was hit with a thunderbolt."
"And you were hit with a thunderbolt?" the woman asked.
"Knocked me right off me feet," he said. "Sent my whole world in a spin."
"A spin?"
"Knew in an instant, she'd be it for me," the man said. "I wouldn't have to look at another woman."
"She's lucky."
"Yes," he said. "I was, too."
"Did she feel the same way about you?" the woman asked. "The thunderbolt and everything?"
"You'd have to ask her," he said. "But I think she did."
"Really?"
"She was mine--I think she knew deep down immediately. But she held out a bit, just to protect herself. But she knew... She knew I was smitten. She knew she was smitten."
"Sounds like it was a love story."
"Still is."
"Even now?"
"More so." 

"Hardly, he said. You're the bee's knees."
"Haven't heard that in a while."
"Perhaps it should be said to you more often."
"I wouldn't mind that." She took a sip of her wine. Then she looked around the bar again. "They all seem so young..."
He shrugged. "They don't have as much wisdom."
"That's a nice way of saying we're old."
"We're... experienced."
She smiled. "I guess there's something to be said for that."
"We've been put through the paces. We've grinded the millstone. Worked like dogs. We've earned our stripes. We've--"
"Run out of cliches?" she said, her eyebrows raised.
He touched her shoulder and laughed. "We're just old."
She laughed too. "I played some tennis the other day. Only a hour or so. By the time I got home, my ankle ached, my back was sore, my elbow..."
"You have an athlete's body," he said. "Or should I say, You look athletic."
She sat up. "Thank you. I am. Or was. Still am, I guess. The other day not withstanding."
"I noticed right away."
She eyed him, teasingly skeptically. "Did you now?"
​"I always had an eye for these things," he grinned. "And when I saw you, there wasn't any doubt."