Love, Lose, And Repeat

Slam Dunk Sammy

Sometimes, in bed, my husband holds me just like Sammy did. One arm saddling my stomach, he pulls me back against him. That's when I hear the shadow of Sammy whispering in my ear, "baby, you know you're mine, mine all mine--" and I am back to being twenty, falling for sweat-stained jocks and their unintelligence phrases. Thinking that finding someone was luck and not a series of unconnected mazes. When I think of my future husband, and gazes away from my mini-skirt, water bra, and geometry midterm, my mind goes blank. I remember when I untuck blankets and see my snoring husband sprawling over my spot.
    I catch myself in daydreams or memories from the past, but played out with different endings and this time those endings last. I see Sammy, that's what we called him, Slam-Dunk Sammy: basketball hero, behind the bleachers our lips shaped like zeros, stripping off thin layers, and the one that scribbled over my mind with his voice vibrating sweet songs he wrote for me, "baby, ain't no place I'd rather be."
    I catch myself burning breakfast and cover with the same line. This pan is old and sticking and I am too busy with picky Ritchie who doesn't like eggs. I've thrown out ten pans this month and don't dare buy another, because then what would my excuse be. I can't keep blaming Ritchie. I see my husband slinking down the stairs in pajamas: red flannel. Sammy would never wear flannel. My husband kisses me quickly, his mouth is hot like a heat wave. He pulls away and I almost say: It's not you're fault you look like him. Why would I pick someone who has the same crooked nose, but without the black beard brushing on my chin when we kissed?
    My husband gave me what I wanted. My house, on a quiet street, had a fence to keep the neighbors out. He gave me my good little girl and my sometimes bad Ritchie (but really he is a sweetie), and money to run our home. I try to tell that to myself when I imagine Sammy stampeding into the kitchen for a foul line shot. His backwards basketball shorts are falling over his knees and he stops halfway to kiss me--kiss me like I remember being kissed. A mouth shaped like a zero, trying to hold onto each other. Maybe wanting each other so much we decide to share saliva, if that is the only piece of him I can have for myself. I think that life would be better if Sammy still kissed me behind the soccer fields, or under lab desks in science. If we lived in a rent-controlled apartment with no kids and nosy neighbors, would I like that better too?
    It's a balance--that's what I say. I tie my husband's tie and he is gone for the day. It's a balance. Sammy will leave me, My husband will love me. Sammy love me once,  he used to love a lot. He gave his his heart and soul to everyone he got.
    He only loved me like a new toy, a chew toy to pull apart. He came then left and went away before we had time to start. Then there's the man who took my hand and promised me monogamy. I kept the first song Sammy wrote, and he kept the nerves in the back of my throat when I laid down on the bleachers. Being with Sammy and being with Bob are very different things. Sammy and I traded body parts; my husband and I traded rings.