41. Brunch

          Two yellow butterflies danced an aerial ballet over the patch of red blooming begonias before us.

          “Just want to say, again, I’m so sorry,” I said, eyes averted.

          “It’s okay,” Thad smiled, “You’ve said it enough.”

          “I know, but it’s just…” I continued still in intense crisis mode.

          He cut me off, “I said its okay. I know. You don’t have to say it anymore. Let’s move on. It’s really okay.”

          I nodded, eyes still down. I knew he meant it, but I still burned with shame.

          We sat in the outdoor garden café at the Tulsean Philbrook Art Museum. The place was an old oil man’s villa that had been turned into a museum years ago. The house was grand, and the art okay, but the gardens were spectacular. They were a terraced affair, sweeping down in grand European fashion to a lily pad laced reflecting pond capped with just the most perfect white marble tempietto.

 I had first visited the gardens at a very early age and they set the standards for lavish culture for me; they seemed the epitome of ‘rich.’ The gardens also breathed a quiet sense of moneyed peace; like a cat-napping Robin Leach.  I had been back to the gardens many times over the years, and Thad and I had even sat in this exact spot, overlooking these same gardens, less than a year ago. I knew he felt similarly about them.

          But today I didn’t find any peace at all. I was mortified by what had happened last night, by how I had acted. We had just gone back to the hotel and I laid on the bed and cried. I had cried as I had had no control over my previous action; that I could not stop the vertigo no matter how much I had tried to will it away. And he had sat next to me and patted my back until I felt better, instead of raging at the concert. And then being somewhat rotund middle-aged men, we went and had a second dinner: it is amazing how good potato skins can make things.

          But the most astounding thing to me was what a sport he had been through the whole ordeal. He didn’t flinch or bitch once, or even break his façade of strength: he had been the protector, the one in control, as he had had to literally almost carry me out of that awful place last night. I had never seen him rise to the occasion with such machismo and certainty as he did last night.  This was a seminal mark in our twenty-plus year relationship: the time that he rescued me, and for that I was just flat floored.

          “Are you gentlemen ready?” the elder homo waiter asked.

          “Yes,” I said, and we both ordered brunchy meals consisting of salads, quiches, fruit slices and champagne flutes of orange juice. All very lovely.

          As the waiter sashayed off, Thad looked around the semi-crowded garden veranda and whispered, “You know brunch is the gayest meal of the day.” 

          “And why is that?” I asked.”Besides the fact that it’s called ‘Brunch’?”

          “Because it involves waiters.” He smiled and made a silly impression of our mincing waiter.

          ‘Yes, you are right.” I agreed with a laugh. “But I would say breakfast is an even gayer meal.”

          “Why?” he asked.

“Because it involves sausage.”

          He snorted loudly and an expensive looking woman from an adjacent table looked over condemningly. 

          We both quieted and looked down.

          “You’re funny,” he said quietly in a cartoon voice.

          “Thank you,” I smiled back up, some of my pallor lifting.

Maybe I didn’t have to be the one in control all of the time. Maybe it was okay for me to fail, as if I did, Thad would be there to pick me up. Maybe last night was awful, but not the end of the world. Maybe everything would be okay, as he wasn’t mad at all. How noble.  

Thad motioned to the expensive looking woman’s face. A big fly was buzzing around her, causing her much comic distress.  We looked back to each and snickered.

And I looked back out: the butterflied gardens were mighty beautiful.