the value of love (or friendship)

I have a practical measure for the value of love. It can apply to certain forms of friendship where friends can reliably serve one another in times of need, be it holding a piece of wood or holding a hand.

When you're depressed you don't bottom out.

That's it. My relationship showed me this today. I didn't need to call upon her but knew she was close by if I needed her. I was in a particular state of melancholy that proceeds a night of drinking and mild or implied debauchery. There I was, driving my car, depressively tracking under the speed limit on a busy road when I didn't bottom out. Now my sadness spiraled into a soft collection of ideas about this gal in my life.

I had a cushion.

I still did things that could constitute cheating. I gave this other girl a big hug, and followed that up with a text message today about said hug. She never replied, and it affected me not in the least.

I didn't bottom out.

A few weeks ago I parlayed a few leftover beers and my assistance with a third-floor renovation in my building into dinner, more drinks, and late night chatter with the gal next door. A few years ago, before Helen, I bottomed out in one of those very deep and dark spirals of redefining actions. I made a pass at this gal, and she shut me out of her life. Then I had the audacity to share my feelings about her with my good friend, who is now her husband. He shut me out of his life.

Then I bottomed out.

I tried hard to reclaim my self worth from them. Slowly, I pieced together my life and rebuilt a relationship with the two neighbors. But this was a true test of the values mentioned above and the relationships present and tested with my 'amorous overture.' Those amorous feelings came rushing back about two months ago. I finally parlayed them, as noted, into helping her. She was in a pair of elastic shorts, on her knees, scrubbing the old floor. I helped by vacuuming, removing items off the floor, and dumping out the vacuum. She had her back arched in a way that was quite flattering to her physique. I held my composure, offered her beer, and kept things genial. The work turned into dinner, which turned into more drinks, and more chatter. Soon we were alone on her front porch drinking a late-night round of beers, witnessing all kinds of strange behavior from the new neighbor next door. Somewhere out of the haze of those beers she told me those damn words, again. "I love you."

I was as high as a kite.

My recollection of the event is hazy, but I recall asking her what this meant in light of her marriage and her having said it before. She confirmed what I had wanted, and I shared with her my feelings. We aren't as close of friends after my first amorous overture. Some of this I chalk up to her own uneasiness with her feelings and with me. Through the haze of that evening and the help of some beers I remember being slumped over her legs, holding one, while she told me that she loved me, quite loudly, as she caressed my skull and pressed her head against it.

I was stiff with anticipation and worried about her volume. Nothing more came of it, and since then I've held my composure. She had a few drinks the night before her wedding reception and was in her element with her husband and his parents. There, she spoke, under the cloak of evening, and smiled beaming at me, directing her speech at me. She was at ease, and smiling at me profusely. She had done this before. Hell, she had even given my a very hungry stare one one drunken occasion. I cherish these moments. I cherish her. I have a girlfriend. She has a husband. Each of us has our cushion. And we have a very potent love for each other, one that must remain unrequited, stoked, deferred, building, exploding over some nights of drinking, and veiled under the pregnant stares each gives to the other when the beer isn't flowing and our apprehensions are in control. My sex life improved with the inclusion of her in my fantasies. By extension, my self-image has improved through my imagined intercourse with her.

I care about my lady friend. She cares deeply about me. She also works with me. I have my space. My relationship with the neighbors has improved as I offer my help renovating the home or digging a hole. We each have a cushion to ease the fall, and we each have a rekindled passion that must be kept at bay. But I did lose a friendship that I had with her. She no longer knocks on my door randomly just to talk or share ideas. Neither does he, her husband. I've reciprocated the gesture, but on occasion we spend time together. And on those occasions I have one emotion in check simply because I have a love interest elsewhere and I know that I won't bottom out.