John Geddes

A very beautiful woman hardly ever leaves a clear-cut impression of features and shape in the memory: usually there remains only an aura of living color. —William Bolitho

Astrid Simpson was gone again—this time on an archeological dig in Iraq.

I returned to my New York penthouse feeling the same sadness I always feel whenever she leaves— tonight it was bars of light on the wall.

The red setting sun slanted through the roof terrace—the pergola cast symmetrically lined shadows. Everything was ordered and balanced, but lacking heart—it struck me as the perfect representation of my emptiness.

I had erected a monument more lasting than bronze—well okay, just a rooftop terrace—but alone, it seemed meaningless.

I love Astrid. To me, she’s the goddess Astraea, the celestial virgin—innocent and pure. Legend has it she’ll return one day and initiate a new Golden Age—Perhaps.

Astrid’s promise for me is we’d sail off into the sunset—but it just hasn’t happened yet and now I’m at my breath’s end.

I know I’m the loser in this affair.

To me, a loser isn’t some pathetic geek or wimp just struggling to get by—no, when I think of a loser, I picture someone giving up on something he really means to keep—in other words, that’s me—giving up on Astrid.

Sometimes you have to lose something whether you want to keep it or not. If I don’t let Astrid go, I’ll be her puppy following the rest of my life. I couldn’t bear that.

I need a clean-cut break with no backward glances, because, just one, furtive, over-the –shoulder look and I’ll be turned into a pillar of salt.

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© 2012, John Geddes. All rights reserved.

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  Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living. —Emily Bronte

Unearthing archeological artifacts is one thing—retrieving religious relics is another.

As any seasoned archeologist will tell you, if all the slivers of  the so-called true cross of Christ were gathered together, there’d be  enough wood to build Noah’s Ark.

So, when Jerrod Mason of the Smithsonian came calling with a proposal to mount an expedition in search of the Holy Grail, I politely,  but firmly declined.

I was comfortable in my own little Eden in the Clouds, as I referred to my penthouse apartment with its tree-lined terrace in New York.

I was solitary and content. Besides, teaching Biblical Archeology  at Purchase College had its perks—frequent sabbaticals as well as two, long, uninterrupted months of summer vacation.

I loved that vacation and was presently enjoying it with feet up, a glass of Yellow Tail in hand, and a seemingly endless summer of leisure stretching out before me.

But that was before Jerrod Mason decided to pull out all the stops to convince me.

It was really a quite simple thing for him to do—to send in Astrid Simpson to seduce me.

If you haven’t seen Astrid in khaki jodhpurs crawling in and out of tunnels, then maybe you might have seen Elizabeth Taylor mounting the  stairs to her and Brick’s apartment in the film version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. 

At any rate, the effect on me is the same. Breathlessness.

À bout de souffle—that’s how I felt standing in my doorway looking into Astrid’s violet eyes.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” she teased. She tilted her head to one side and slanted a mischievous glance that turned my knees to  jelly.

“Enter,” I said with a mock dramatic flourish that was meant to conceal my discomfiture—but she wasn’t fooled—not Astrid, not the Queen of the Nile.

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© 2012, John Geddes. All rights reserved.

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© 2012, John Geddes. All rights reserved.

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© 2012, John Geddes. All rights reserved.

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