The End of Sam

by Simone Westfall — May 8, 2007

We settled into a pattern, Sam and I, of one night a week. At the beginning of our liaison, we had talked about going to ball games, visiting Ellis Island, taking a day cruise up the Hudson. All of which sounded delightful, but none of which happened as it soon became clear that Sam simply had no time. He traveled constantly for his job, and weekends were always spent in St. Louis with his wife.

And the wife remained the elephant in the room. She was not a topic I could easily broach, nor was it one on which he was forthcoming. I knew only that she was (is) a manic-depressive and very short, a shade over five feet tall. (Sam, as already established, is a big guy--did that account for the absence of a sexual life on the home front?) He told me she refused medication, claiming the drugs only made her feel worse, and that when she was "up," she was bright and lively, but when she was down she could stay in a darkened room for days.

I avoided inquiries both because I didn't want to pry and because his marriage was none of my business. Our time together was a reprieve for us from our daily lives; our phone calls were delicious and private. I told myself I wouldn't become the clutchy mistress, but there was one weekend when he headed off on two days for business, followed by two days for golf in Florida. He'd promised to call on a Thursday. By Saturday, I'd heard nothing. I got pissed and sent a nasty text message. His message back was so full of hurt and bewilderment that I felt guilty and loathsome and apologized up, down, and sideways....and that's not so easy to do on the numbers pad of a cellphone.

Was I getting the short end of the stick? I don't know. I became fond of Sam, but not so fond I was envisioning a long walk into the sunset. Our interests were so different, our circles of acquaintance so remote from each other, that when I was with him I was living only in the now. I was content with that one night a week, and looked forward to it with great anticipation. Some women would say I was getting only half a loaf, or maybe only a slice, but it was a very tasty morsel indeed.

And after about six weeks, the question of a future became irrelevant. Sam went off with his daughter and wife on spring break in early April to visit relatives in Los Angeles. I knew he was slated to return on a Monday. I heard nothing that day, or the next.... a week went by. I sent a couple of emails ("hey, what's up?"); I sent text messages (I never phoned him when I thought there might be a chance of a family member or business colleagues nearby). But there was no response from Sam. Nada, niente.

For a time, I was furious. There's no real etiquette for love affairs, especially those of an adulterous nature, but I would think at least a minimal explanation would be in order, even if it's just a short message: "I feel too guilty doing this" or "I just don't have the time" would suffice. But I decided I wasn't going to work myself into a lather over Sam's silence. Fortuitously, I happened on this passage from a short story by Alice Munro at the time I was "getting over" Sam:

"There is a limit to the amount of misery and disarray you will put up with, for love, just as there is a limit to the amount of mess you can stand around a house. You can't know the limit beforehand, but you will know when you've reached it."

I reached it. Quickly.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.