While I lived in Portland my friend Mary came to the west coast with her husband for a road-trip from Seattle to Los Angeles in celebration of their first wedding anniversary. They met with John's cousin and then stopped by for dinner. Afterwards I wrote the friends that Mary and I studied with in El Salvador, fall 2002.
La visita from Mary is a joy. I guess I ought to say Mary and John (and his cousin), for they really are a pair, becoming one.
Each is the muse of the other. John isn't nearly as coy as that picture Mary once showed us, and I can't wait to see the shots capturing how photogenic he is. For his part, John is coaxing Mary to journal as if hungry for the crumbs. Yes, they are still curious of each other. Looking at the World Atlas, Mary leans in when John points out the village he's been to in Bolivia. I pry their attention ajar just for a glimpse of John's cousin whose narrative is a waitress/hotelier's version of Jack K's On the Road.
Then I'm shameless, cribbing my guests for part of the evening Mass with me, during which Mary ribbed me when I dozed, we shimmy out after the lugubrious state of the parish.
"I thought the sermon was really good," John says seriously.
Mary nearly refuses my parting handouts "After just hearing how broke you are, really?"
I haven't seen the latest adaptation of August Wilson's Fences but have read what I expect to see in the fruition of Mary and John's happiness: during the interview with the NYT the pair of actors playing Troy and Rose even finished each other's sentences. M-J are smooth all around.
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