Gillson Park Dog Beach
I’m sure Ms. Goldblatt would blush if she knew what B. and I did on “her” bench.
One autumn night several years ago I drove the 30-odd miles from my home to a beach less than a half-mile from B.’s. “I need to decompress,” he told his wife. It would seem odd not to give the dogs their usual evening walk, but that’s the excuse he used. He met me and took my hand.
An empty beach. Crisp, moonlit night. He led me over to the bench and sat down. Instinctively, I knew what to do. The man needed some decompression! So did I.
In June 2008 B. and his family vacationed in Italy. The day before their arrival home I drove back to the beach and walked along the shore until I again found that bench. I sat there, closed my eyes, and let the memory of that autumnal tryst take me over. Then I dug a small hole next to the armrest, dropped in a card with some loving sentiment protected inside a zipper-lock bag, and quickly backfilled it. I jammed a stick on top of the mound and drove home smiling.
“ASAP, go to Gillson Beach dog run. Make a beeline for “our” bench, y’know, that one by the channel where we………..hmmmmmmmm Something is waiting for you there beside the lake-side armrest.
Just dig about 3-4″ down into the sand. I left a Y-shaped stick over the spot, but it may have blown away.
Find plastic bag.
At 5:45 am, his response came:
“I missed you sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much.
Off to the beach.”
Metaphorically, I buried my feelings for B. for many years. He would unearth them.
From the frigid cold of winters, while his dogs frolicked near the ice shelves hurtling from Lake Michigan, to the dog days of summers, when they’d gambol and swim with other mutts, B. would never look at the Goldblatt bench quite the same way again.
A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.
That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.
Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.
These are our stories.