The tragic story of a love that once was, but never should have been. One refusing to die and fade into memory… I really don’t know how to start this, much less how to end it. Some loves end. Others just don’t give way to time or tears. It was so wrong, but right at the same time. A tragedy of Greek proportions; betrayal, mercy, love, murder, abject remorse….hands stained with blood that just refuses to be washed clean… Exhausted on the morning after….the morning of mourning…..we cried ourselves back into a fitful semi-sleep, the kind of repose that gives no real rest or restoration. 1989. Our child would have graduated from college by now. But still, after all these years, the guilt, the shame, the bitter tears, and yes, the love still remains. The darkness in my eyes and the distant stare have each a singular source. My wrapped up feelings of hope, love, boundless sorrow and fear for my immortal soul give no quarter. So now, like another hired gun, I pass myself off to sleep when exhaustion overtakes me and I can go no further to flee the waking nightmares of my own creation. At last I succumb to slumber and the night terrors that await me there. The spring of 1989 found me alone after a long and turbulent eight year relationship that ended not in violent hatred, as so many do, but in quiet acceptance that our mutual goals in life were so opposed as not to be reconciled. Tracey wanted to be a mother, and I just wanted my cat. It was just that simple. The tragic Irony of this story is that it ends with the death of a child I wanted very much. My child. Jane’s child. The child who’s blood I can not wash off. I just can’t finish this post now. what I have written thus far has brought too much back to me to go on from here. I can now go one with the story, but may not finish just yet. Jane and I worked at the same hospital that my former love had worked at before the demise of that eight year relationship. heartbroken as Tracey had left me , I sought out female friends to balance the press of testosterone so common in a hospital work environment. Jane and I took our smoke breaks together, and found it easy to bare our souls to each other. I knew she was married, and made no move to violate that vow. Then she did. And i was powerless to balk or turn away. Such a beauty, tall, long dark hair with flashing green eyes…she asked me…Ricky, what are we going to do? We had crossed the line, there and then on the parkway outside her supervisor’s house at an office party. I knew what she meant. I said, “Lets go”. And so it began. Weeks of passion followed, broken only with brief naps and the enduring work schedule. We swam in the pool at my apartment and i reveled in her beauty. Later the manager told me that my girlfriend was hot. Jane and I agreed to reply that she was my sister. We had so much of that type of fun. Jane even made a wedding dress, all in black, and showed up wearing it barefoot. she also made for me a cloak and tabbard for my camping trips out with the SCA. So sweet. So lost, so forced into a world not of her choosing. So much like all of us. What tore it all was the evening when the condom broke. I had gotten her with child. No possible explanation could be made as her husband was away, in Tennessee. . The choice was hers. So in the end, we aborted our child. I sat in the waiting room as Jane, refusing anesthesia had our chile disposed of. I drove her back to my apartment where we cried ourselves out. The affair was over, but the love was never lost. I went on to another job, and lost touch with her. The memory of her has never faded, and I still pray for us all.