The Longest Goodbye

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

Can one truly run away from their past? I thought I could by leaving New York City, a city with many faces, a city with many stories, a city with many secrets. It is October 2004, and I'm a 63-year-old divorced woman living alone in Florida. I've been divorced for over fifteen years and am still unaware about where my life is heading. I bravely put on a faade of contentedness, but I've made myself that way because I have no other options. I'm in my apartment watching reruns of the TV show Sex and the City. This extremely popular show jars my memory of a series of exciting and desperate events that took me away from my beloved Manhattan and the man I loved deeply. I thought that by going to Florida, the complete opposite of New York, I could run away from the haunting memories that started in the Big Apple. Sadly, though, the warmth and beauty of Florida could not erase my memories. The flow of the ocean, the softness of the sand, and the swaying palm trees could neither soothe nor heal my pain. My story of sex and the city began more than fifteen years ago - the centuries-old story of woman and man meeting and falling in love, a meditation of love's ebbs and flows. My story has many harrowing twists and turns. This is not the usual story of romance, love, and marriage but an introspect into my choices in life. This is how it all began; this is how my destiny unfolded.

The story begins when I was a married woman heading into my forties - an unsettling time in one's life. It was at this point that I met a seductively handsome man eight years my junior who permanently changed my life. Prior to our meeting, my life was a typical one. I was a young, attractive suburban, upper-middle-class Jewish girl growing up in the fifties. I had a good life. I was blessed with successful professional parents. I went to camp as a kid and had plenty of dates as a teenager. Since my parents belonged to a country club, I lived the typical country club lifestyle. As a young girl growing up in the fifties, I was expected to marry the right person. During that era, a young woman's goal was to meet a promising man, marry, buy a home, and have children. But that was not my goal. I always lived on the edge - I was always independent. Still, secretly, I always dreamed of having someone to take care of me. I was considered beautiful. I was very popular, and I was smart. Not intellectually. I considered myself streetwise more than anything else. Many young men pursued me, but, I also pursued. As smart as I thought I was, my judgment was marred. I was always attracted to and eventually married all the wrong men.

Looking back, I realize that I was drawn to men who represented excitement and glamour. I was in constant search of the thrill. I never looked for security or true love. My first marriage was very brief. Soon after we married, my first husband and I moved to Beverly Hills, California, into a beautiful home where we had an active, high-powered social life. After three unhappy years, we divorced because it was a loveless union. We married for all the wrong reasons. It was a childless marriage. Five years later, I met my second husband. He was a handsome man living in New York, and he was a challenge, which, of course, attracted me to him. It's the game of winning, conquering, being in control and on top that exhilarated me. I pursued him with a vengeance and won! We were together for over fifteen years, and it was a good marriage, at least as far as the outside world could see. He had a child from his previous marriage. We had money, the right house, the prestigious car, and socially prominent friends, yet these were not enough for me. I felt unfulfilled and empty; I felt unsettled in a way that could not be resolved. Our marriage lacked warmth. My needs were not being met, and because of that, I was not content. Something was missing in my life. I felt lonely even while my husband and dear friends surrounded me. At that time, I wasn't sure what was causing this emptiness. Later, for the first time in my life, I would find out what passionate, lust, and untamed love was all about. I recognize now that my marriage was void of mutual understanding, commitment, and unconditional love. Ironically, my husband and I never fought. We were good friends. On the surface, all seemed well.

Chapter Two

It was 1980, and I was heading toward the dangerous forties. One day, after my routine physical, I was sitting in my gynecologist's private office crying. He asked me what was wrong and I blurted out, "I must be going through my middle-age crisis." My gynecologist denied me my feelings. He responded that I had everything a woman my age would want: a successful marriage, a good husband, plenty of money, and numerous friends. So, when my doctor said something in jest, I took it seriously. He said, "Go and have a fling. It will make you feel better." Affairs of the heart are so delicate that a vulnerable person, ripe for any answer, is susceptible to such benign, innocent suggestions. It actually crossed my mind to take his advice, but, I thought, with whom? In retrospect, the answer was stored in the deep subconscious of my mind.

As fate would have it, a couple of months later, my close friend Anna called me and asked me to meet her in New York City for lunch. She was going to a high-priced Madison Avenue jewelry salon to pick out a gift for her husband to give to her for her birthday. Anna, her husband, my former husband, and I had met years ago when we were on vacation. We clicked immediately; we all got along famously. Anna and I contrasted and complimented each other; she was a stunning, earthy, blond and I was dark auburn-haired and classy. There were many times when, unbeknownst to each of us, we dressed identically - like twins. She knew my inner-most secrets, and I knew hers. So it was not unusual for me to go into New York and pick out an expensive piece of jewelry with her. We strolled with confidence and gusto down Madison Avenue arm in arm and excited about her future purchase and our carefree time together. It was a gorgeous sunny spring day; my spirits were soaring. I experienced an unexpected fullness of heart. When we entered the jewelry store that day, my eyes immediately were drawn to this very strikingly dark-eyed, long and wavy black-haired, slightly built, sexy young man, 30ish, who was standing behind the jewelry showcase. His intense eyes pierced into mine, almost setting me off balance. At first I thought he was Israeli, but he was Middle Eastern. Later I found out his name was Kamil. As I gazed at him, his eyes stared back at me. As handsome as he was, if you took him apart, he was not physically perfect. He had small lips and a prominent nose, and was slim of hips, but putting the entire package together - his long, wild hair; his dark, piercing eyes; his sensual, confident walk; and the way he wore his clothes - he was sexy, and alluring. He always wore a flashy diamond pinky ring, and in the winter, a long raccoon fur coat. Kamil was a Mel Gibson type. He would stop any woman dead in her tracks. Love is blind, and I was intrigued by his flash and carefree confidence. Neither of us knew it at the moment, but this was the beginning of a long, dynamic, intensely sensual, dramatic, dangerously illicit, and sexually romantic relationship.

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