The Ballad of Michael & Beulah

It was late at night when Mike woke up in his hotel room and quietly rolled off his side of the bed to pad over to the sliding glass doors that led out onto the balcony.

Well, technically, early morning.

The bedside alarm clock had read 4:38 AM.

Closing the doors behind him, he pulled up a chair and set his bare feet, crossed at the ankles, up on the railing as he dug into his pockets and grabbed a pack of Marlboros; extracting one, lone cigarette and placing it between his lips.

Every once in a while he allowed himself this cancerous vice; usually to calm his nerves when his mind began to race. Which, for the most part, wasn't that often. Granted, nowadays, he'd indulged himself more often than naught.

Pulling a matchbook from the same pocket, the 51-year-old bassist ripped a single match away from the others and struck the red, bulbous top across the coarse strip; igniting a small flame which he brought to the end of the cigarette. Then, shaking the flame away, Mike discarded the singed match by flicking it over the edge of the balcony.

Normally he'd want quiet to help sort through his thoughts at this hour, but his hotel room was too stuffy and muted. He needed the fresh air, the sound of distant sirens on the city streets below, and the lights glittering the view -- proving, yet again, that New York was the city that never slept.

His mind traveled great distances as he sat there alone. Through time and space. To locations faraway that he would always remember.

And each memory made his heart ache for one simple reason.

They made him think of Beulah.

It didn't even matter what memory it was, either. He could've been reminiscing about being six year old and playing with matchbox cars. And then his mind would begin the process of 'Six Degrees of Separation' in order to subconsciously link being six and playing with matchbox cars to something to do with Beulah.

For example: being six years old and playing with matchbox cars...being six and remembering how it felt to try and drown out the sound of his adoptive parents arguing...vowing to never argue like that in front of his own kids one day...Aurora, his lovely fifteen-year-old, and how she'd been stuck at home all those times he'd been arguing with Beulah over the last two or three years.

And there it was. Back to Beulah.

He closed his tired blue eyes, took a long drag from his cigarette and let out a white coil of smoke from his lips as his mind imagined what she was doing at that same moment; three hours behind because of the time difference.

Was she sleeping? Was she up late watching television? Was she online? Was she thinking of him?

Was she thinking of him like he was thinking of her?

And then a pang of guilt hit Mike like a hammer, bludgeoning him to a bloody pulp.

His eyes snapped open and he flicked his unfinished cigarette over the edge of the railing, as if in pursuit of the discarded match. Hunching forward and placing his head in his hands, he rubbed his hands down his face as he slowly sat up and looked over his shoulder at the sliding glass doors.

He wanted to hesitate for as long as he could. He wanted to avoid returning back inside. He wanted to slip back into bed, fall asleep and pretend everything that had happened was nothing but a bad dream.

And his heart was screaming for him to just make a move already. To grow a pair and face the music.

Throwing his head back with a sigh, he looked up at the underside of the balcony above his and stood up as slow as he could. But the more he prolonged the inevitable, the worse he felt. So, closing his eyes for only a brief moment, he slid the doors open and slowly sauntered over to the bed, to the side he'd been sleeping on and slipped back in as quietly as possible, once again.

But the second movement he'd caused when trying to turn onto his side that was facing the wall closest to him, the body beside him stirred and he screwed his eyes shut; mentally cursing.

"Were you in the bathroom?"

"No," Mike replied. "Was having a smoke."

"Cigarettes will kill ya."

"So will a car accident," he replied, not meaning for it to come out bitter the way it did.

"You okay, babe?"

Finally giving in and turning over, Mike found himself face to face with another woman who was about Beulah's age, except a couple years younger. This woman was forty, whereas Beulah was forty-three. She also had brown hair, whereas Beulah still had blonde; even if it was dyed regularly to hide the grays. But, other than that, this woman and his wife were very much alike in the way they were built, the puffy lips, and even their voice.

The many reasons why Mike had taken up with this woman when he came out east to escape his crumbling marriage in order to clear his mind.

"You want the truth or the sugarcoated fairytale with the fluffy, fluffy bunnies?"

"The truth, preferably," she spoke, waiting for his answer.

Pausing, Mike lifted his left arm to run his hand across the woman in question's arm; avoiding her gaze. Then, "I miss my wife," he admitted. "I miss her so much it hurts to not miss her. I...I'm berating myself every minute I'm away from her, with you. For doing to her what I swore I'd never do. For not staying at home to fight for our marriage instead of against it."

The woman's expression was rueful, but understanding as Mike continued.

"I miss my kids and I wanna...I wanna..."

"You wanna what, Mike?"

"I wanna go home." Then he added, looking her in the eye, regretfully, "To my wife. Every moment away from her is like a stake in my heart -- I love her so."

"What happens to this...to us?"

"Holly...you'll always have a place in my heart. You were here when I needed someone to keep me company, to give me the affection I needed, to be the ear that listened." Placing her chin between his thumb and index finger he also said, "And you were the one to share my bed when I needed that human touch. We're both going through rough patches in our lives and...we needed this, maybe."

"I suppose."

Looking Holly's face over, Mike frowned. "I'm so sorry. But I've been away from home for almost a month and I can't...I just can't do this anymore. I'm sorry," he repeated apologetically.

"When're you leaving?"

"In the morning."

"That doesn't leave much time for me to--"

"I gotta do it this way, okay? Go home to your kids, to your husband. Forgive him and move on with him. Because...because nothing in this world is more important than forgiving and being with the one you love."

"And what if I love being you?"

Mike didn't respond; he just held her gaze.

"Right," she muttered, looking away and rolling onto her back to look up at the ceiling while Mike held his gaze. "So, what about one last romp? One for the road?" Holly inquired without much feeling in her voice.

Leaning forward, Mike pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, nuzzled his forehead against her left temple and whispered against her ear, "I can't. I'm sorry."

He could hear her swallow a lump in her throat; perhaps to hold back some tears. Or maybe she just needed to swallow back some saliva out of normal human functioning.

And suddenly he felt like how Billie Joe must've felt, all those times he left Beulah to go home to Adrienne. How he was the cheating husband and she was the mistress. Accept, with Mike, there was no chance in him knocking Holly up because he'd had a vasectomy five years earlier.

A pang of guilt eating at his stomach for having to do the right thing and save his marriage, even if it meant hurting his own mistress' feelings, Mike stretched both arms out and pulled Holly into his arms until they were spooning.

"I'll hold you through the night, though," he added after a few moments of silence between them.

"I guess that's okay, too."

Placing a kiss on her neck, their heads shared the same pillow as they laid together for the last time; the two of them eventually drifting off to sleep to dream.

But for Mike, who's nervous thoughts kept taking him back to what would unfold when he returned to Beulah...what dreams may come?