Timeless, or Following Edward

© Frohmberg 2007

I met the man of my dreams when I was fifteen years old. I foolishly held on to that dream because I was fifteen and did not know better. Edward was older than me, married - but unhappily so. I knew it, he knew it, everyone did - but he was content to be unequally matched. It did not interfere with his other pursuits. Everyone knew about those, too - the women, the gambling, the drinking... and the traveling.

Oh how I envied him - I thought I knew him, could I identify with him. I was also unhappy and often fantasized about traveling. With him, without him - but mostly with him. In some dreams we were naked. I realize that I run the risk of extreme embarrassment, should my mother ever read this, but I feel convicted, pressured even, to tell the absolute truth.

I never had to remind myself that he wasn't real - the fantasies became visions of what would happen in the future. Deep kisses. Holding hands. Tangled sheets. Four poster beds with veils and curtains that gently wafted over our sun-kissed bodies. Long bare-footed walks through the pastures and woods behind our property; stolen kisses behind every sycamore tree. Our journey together marked by crescent-moon etchings in the bark.

This cloud of happiness permeated my real life. It was a weird sort of contentment; a delirious, blissful optimism.

I had my books, school, some friends... and him. He never knew that I existed, but that did not faze me. He had much more important things to focus on. Besides, I needed to grow up - become more sophisticated. Experienced. That was the plan, you know. A stupid schoolgirl plan, but a plan nonetheless. I was sure that it was perfect; it was just a matter of time before he was mine.

However, this did not stop me from trespassing onto his estate. It was an isolated mansion, he was a very wealthy man. I would climb the old elm tree closest to the wall that guarded his long-neglected flower garden. Hiding behind the leaves, I would pour my soul out into my diary. The scent of the roses and the knowledge that I should not be there made my heart race.

It was bittersweet, but I ignored the pangs of unrequited love. He never saw me, but I could look at him whenever I pleased. Selfish, I suppose, and definitely self-defeating, but it was worth it. I desperately held onto the hope of the daisies.

He loves me, he loves me not... he loves me!

He was distant, but when I turned eighteen, we happened to meet again. I was not yet ready, so I was not surprised when he continued to be unaware of my presence. I was a little distracted by boys my own age, but honestly they were practice. They were idiots, but I needed help studying. My grandfather was always saying Ubung macht den Meister and I was going to be the master of Edward's heart. Poor Grandpa - I suspect that was not where he wanted me to focus.

By the time I went to college, my hope - but never my love - began to falter. I saw Edward on television and realized that not only was he famous, but his first wife had died and he was happily remarried. I was not the only one who longed to be loved by him.

From I distance, I continued following his life but something had changed. By then, my hope was not founded in daisies, but in the many and varied romance novels I devoured. In retrospect, it was shocking - the amount of paperbacks I read, the pages, stories, and characters blurred into one huge emotional surge that built Edward up in my mind. Nothing could discourage me, au contraire, he became the standard, my true love.

And he never once looked at me.

I do not know if I finally grew out of love with him or if the love changed. I busied myself with my GPA so that I would not have time to analyze me feelings. Again, I became distracted with boys my own age, but something about me only attracted losers and weirdos. Sure, they were gorgeous, but there is only so much a girl is willing to compromise and still love herself.

I am twenty-six now. I am old enough to know better - whatever that means. I am also quite polished and experienced, for whatever that is worth. The other day, I ran into Edward again. Mom and I rented one of his movies. All my old feelings came rushing back. My God, he had not changed at all! If anything, he was more attractive. He had his faults, to be sure. I was pleasantly surprised and proud of myself that I even noticed.

Actually, I should know better and I know what that means... I am forced to face the reality that Edward of my dreams, is really Edward Rochester, a fictional character born in the imagination of Charlotte Bronte. Sad? I suppose some may think so.

I beg to differ.

He really does epitomize many of those qualities that I find most important in a lover. No, currently married and a propensity toward womanizing, drunkenness, and anger outbursts are not the qualities I am referring to. However, I do not want to unwittingly discourage those who possess these dubious qualities.

I habitually fall for this kind of man, so should we ever meet, be prepared to catch me.