Love Stories. A Yareah Love Song by Dewey Edward Chester

Love Stories. A Yareah Love Song by Dewey Edward Chester

Love Stories. A Yareah Love Song by Dewey Edward Chester. A romantic story for a romantic weekend. Enjoy your Saturday with your family and friends.

“No,” I said, “It was nice of you to come at all. I’m the stupid one. I had this idea you looked like someone I once knew. But last night was dark and the stadium’s lights were turned off.”

Fiddler on the Roof. Movie

Fiddler on the Roof. Movie

Love Stories. A Yareah Love Song.

We greeted each other with “Hello,” but before we reached the curb, I knew the truth—-this woman was just another woman.

“Where are we going?” she asked, “Football players can be such horrors.” The thought of being horrible never occurred to me.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked, as she climbed into my car. I wanted to tell her to get out, but instead I walked to the driver’s side and got in. Was this the woman I had seen last night? There was no resemblance at all!

“I’ll run you home,” I offered. “Where do you live?”

“Run me home?” she was startled. “There’s no hurry. I offended you.”

“No,” I said, “It was nice of you to come at all. I’m the stupid one. I had this idea you looked like someone I once knew. But last night was dark and the stadium’s lights were turned off.”

The woman seemed offended; I had reproached her for not looking like someone else.

“Is that all?” she asked impatiently. “That’s really funny.”

We rode in silence. “Aren’t you the guy in that Civil Rights mess?” she asked, finally. But when she caught my expression, she offered, “Excuse me for referring to it that way. I was never big on politics.”

I was driving very fast now, making it obvious.

“—-If that’s the kind of woman you like,” she continued, “You should meet Emily; she was with me last night.”

Her reference to another woman held no interest to me. The thing was to get her home and then forget her.

“Would you like to meet Emily?” the woman asked. “She lives next door.”

“No,” I said. We were northwest of Bigelow Boulevard, climbing through the Pennsylvania hills. Lighted houses rose along the road.

“You see that highest light up there?” she asked. “My friend Emily lives there. I live just over the top.”

A moment later, she said: “Stop here!”

“I thought you said over the top.”

“I want to stop at Emily’s.”

“I’m afraid I’m—-!”

“I want to get out right now!” she demanded, impatiently.

So I slid out of my car and followed her toward a house with a Willow tree in front. We walked to the steps where she went up and rang a bell.

Turning back, she said softly, “I’m sorry you’re disappointed with me.”

I was sorry for her too. Sorry for us both.

“It was my fault,” she said, finally. “Good night.”

Just then a wedge of light came from a slowly opening door. And I heard another woman’s voice inquire: “Who is it?”

I looked up and there she was! Face and form and smile, against the light from inside; a perfectly curved mouth. My heart leaped out.

“Oh, Patty!” this new woman spoke, “You can’t come in. I’ve been cleaning, and my house smells like ammonia.”

Patty laughed bold and loud. “I believe it’s you he wants to see, Emily,” she said.

My eyes and Emily’s now met…and tangled. For an instant we made love. Our glance was more urgent than call.

“He phoned me,” Patty went on. “It seems he thought—-!”

I interrupted, stepping forward. “I’m afraid stadium security was rude last night to you,” I said, but there were no words for what I really wanted to say.

She listened closely. Life flared up. Patty now seemed at a distance, and in darkness. “You weren’t rude,” Emily answered. A breeze blew curls across her face. “We had no business getting lost in a parking-lot like that.”

“I hope,” I said, “you will come back to see me play football.”

“Are you someone important?”

“He’s the City’s quarterback,” said Patty….”and this is not at all the way he looked at me. He has a crush on you, Emily.”

“Shut up, Patty!” Emily spoke sharply.

Realizing her offensiveness, Patty said, “Phone me later, will you?” And then she stalked away toward the road. But she carried a secret with her. She had seen sparks flashing in the darkness.

Now what? I thought. The woman who just left was more missed in her absence. My world seemed so far away, and Emily had no world at all, except for getting lost inside my football stadium parking lot. And yet she was standing there….with her door half open.

“You’re British?” I asked, building a bridge.

She nodded. “I didn’t think you could tell.” Her eyes were mystic. She looked away.

“Your friend, Patty didn’t like me much,” I said. “I think it was the word ‘football.’

Emily looked back at me, and like everyone, could see I was easy.

“I suppose all the girls are after you,” she added.

I laughed. In truth women were around, but their voices were traffic sounds; I sought only one Princess.

The two of us stood motionless, as if I would leave and she would close her door. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you in,” she said, “Shall I sit on the steps with you?”

“No.” It was time for me to go. It was just as well. What was romance at best? Love was an engine gone mad, leaping out, splashing blood. Romance had always been like that. “You will come back to my stadium on Sunday? I asked.

A hair in breath appeared between her eyes. “Not sure,” she said; “I’m obliged.”

She would not come. She had slipped away. We both sensed our moment had played out. I must go now, though it left me nothing. I did not have her phone number; and it seemed impossible to ask her for it now.

She walked with me to my car, her beauty was pressing. There was a foot of moonlight between us when we emerged from shadows.

Then a flick of her lip—-“I do hope we meet again,” she offered.

“I’d be sorry if we didn’t,” I replied, waving, then drove off feeling melancholy. I turned my radio dial and heard Peggy Lee sing a song, “Is that all there is?” It was a good song that year.

I looked back when I crossed a crest of rolling hills. The air was clear. It startled me: just clean fresh air. Winding down the hill, I listened to myself. I discovered a theme but the song was new; barely audible—-a tattoo under a Yareah moon.

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Dewey Edward Chester, Ph.D. (eq.), is a Los Angeles Professor of Screenwriting, and the author of “Boomer: Sex, Race and Professional Football.” He is a former professional football player, and was nominated for the prestigious White House Fellowship for Journalism Award, sponsored by President Bill Clinton’s Administration. **Boomer by Dewey Edward Chester is also on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Enjoy the reading, you cannot be indifferent.

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