I wanted to slide into that Restoration Hardware bedding in your four-poster bed and never leave. My head would’ve sunk into that big pillow as I closed my eyes, waiting for you to crawl in beside me. I possessed a strong desire to have you hold me for twenty-four hours or forever. I’m that young girl again, longing for an emptiness to be filled. But with your long arms and legs wrapped around me, your head nuzzled in my neck, my heart could grow big as the sea. For long hours, we’d lay entwined in each other’s arms. You’d gently seal those gaping wounds of trauma with your masculine style. I’d feel safe, maybe safer than I’ve felt in years. 

Our bodies would have disrupted that smooth, dove-grey duvet on top of your perfectly made bed. The high thread count would never be the same. You and I would never be the same. I’d have gazed at the dark wood spirals of that bed’s frame, yearning for this protectiveness.

Alone and isolated during unimaginable assault to my body, I needed you. You were my second Italian, Franco: a friend with whom I’d shared the occasional glass of wine, conversation, and meal for the last couple years. You were an oasis from my medical world, my secret hope. You didn’t know I wanted the blossoming red lotus because you did not see. On our casual dates lasting four or five hours, I enjoyed being something other than a patient. I was good at presenting myself as pretty and polished. But you saw that I was pale a time or two. I wanted to be the desirable woman, not a sickly one. Vanity has its virtues.

I hid my mangled, non-reconstructed left breast beneath a manufactured mound, a filler, for women like me. I hated it. I resented the falseness I wore. That’s me. Not every woman would hold such vanity. But I care and I’m single, a passionate romantic. I probably care too damn much. 

Within a decade, you were the second Italian man of interest in the small town of Santa Barbara. I truly thought there was cosmic significance in meeting you through my first Italian man, a crush that went so awry. I have a way of seeing possibility and romance in my buoyant imagination. You never saw it or understood. You never saw me, really saw me. And certainly, you did not see me unclothed. We never got there. I’m too flighty and liberal for a conservative man. And conservative beliefs were stagnant water to me. You were comfortable floating on the surface like seaweed, whereas I preferred discovering deep canyons. 

After your long marriage, many eager women entered your sphere. And your on-again-off-again girlfriend checked off the uncomplicated convenience box. You never had the privilege of knowing the layered waves of intrigue wrapped in my heart and spirit.  

After your divorce, you made up for freedoms you hadn’t experienced since the age of twenty-two. Women twenty years your junior flocked around you. We lived in an area with a ratio of seven women to every man. 

Over the years, whenever I spotted you, we’d merely say our hellos. But on this ninety-degree day as you held a squash at the farmers’ market, the last thing I expected was to start a dialogue. You suggested we extend our conversation over beverages at a nearby wine bar in a half-hour. I accepted the offer but walked away at a good clip. I went to my car to get the new, more attractive shirt I’d bought and quickly changed into it.   

I stepped across the street to the mall that held Sephora. I looked paler and more haggard than any woman should have to, even on a date with herself. I was honest with the salesclerk. I needed a fifteen-minute makeover. She was happy to oblige. With lipstick, mascara, and blush, I felt more confident for our rendezvous. I’d been marching the medical road, feeling so invisible. Now I found myself nearly floating. 

I waltzed into the café as if breast cancer never happened.

I decided not to tell you. I didn’t recognize myself as I dug deep for the charisma I’d once been known for. The prosthetic hid my battered left breast. I wanted to be a woman in these moments, not a patient.  I had no desire to disclose the medical work still ahead. 

The free makeover and new blouse became a costume. I loved feeling like an actress. I loved feeling like I’d found new breath outside my small apartment that felt more like a post-op space. We sat outside during a balmy evening in downtown Santa Barbara. Spanish tile roofs arched over fountains without water, due to drought. You and I talked about Italy, wine, architecture, and your family. We covered an array of topics, but not the truth of me. 

The cool Chardonnay felt right even though after two sips my head swirled after another kind of drought in my life. The only high I’d experienced recently was an IV drip of pain meds. My bed had been an island. My close friends were a support system. And unbeknownst to you, you provided temporary escape from my strict and isolating routine. 

Night deepened and food nourished.

Everything was going to be alright.

In the beginning, I stayed on the surface until I felt secure and healed. In your tall and confident presence, I always dressed nice with makeup. I did eventually tell the truth of my plight. You took it well. Multiple surgeries and complications of infection led me down an extended path beyond anything that would be the norm. It didn’t surprise me, though. I couldn’t begin to explain the details of cancer and the inevitable loss of genetically flawed breasts inherited from my mother who died when I was the fragile age of three.

But now, I’m nearly physically healed and reconstructed on both breasts. They’re not perfect. And they’re not my beautiful breasts discarded long ago in a bin of medical waste. Will I ever feel whole again? Now, without erotic feeling, my breasts are just here to fill out a bra. 

I’m far more prepared for intimacy, but unprepared for how different it will be. Although older, and past a grueling ordeal, I’m still the same wanton woman. I’ve gone so far as internet dating to connect with my last love, a love that eluded me even in marriage. 

How I continue to be optimistic over the age of sixty is not only remarkable but keeps me riding the wave of life out of pure curiosity to see if my dream manifests. That little girl in me who grew up on an island chasing sea horses and dreaming of great voyages still swims deep in the faith of having it all.

We are at the end of your residence in Santa Barbara, staying on the familiar surface of fun banter. I could never find a way to your depths and never live life staying on the surface. Still, our saucy repartee is seductive. On this last night seeing you, I’m happy to take advantage of the moment where worlds and politics fall away. I find this fantasy to dive deep in the waters of mutual desire vastly preferable than planting my feet in the concrete practical. 

Love, and lying in your inviting bed with you next to me, could have mended broken parts of my feminine being more than meditation or yoga ever could.

-Valerie Anne Burns

As an emerging author, Valerie has a final draft of a collection of essays titled, Caution: Mermaid Crossing—Voyages of a Motherless Daughter. She’s had her own business as a wardrobe and home décor makeover specialist. Before entrepreneurship, Valerie graduated from the Hollywood school of hard knocks where she worked in production and as a story editor on screenplays. Valerie won writing scholarships to the Santa Barbara Writing Conference and The Prague Summer Writing Program. She was sponsored on a trip to Italy September 2019 to share her workshop, “Living and Healing Through Color” Valerie lives in Santa Barbara California where she has survived breast cancer.