Being Bahama

Man on the Move (or How I Met My Husband)

I can always tell when Bermuda is getting ready to skip out of town.  It begins with the valuable gifts he bestows on me for no reason.  Inevitably, he asks how many credits I have in the bank.  Despite the fact that he’s often gone for long periods of time, he’s always managed to make sure that I’m well cared for during his absence.

I rarely get any official notice that he’s left.  Days go by, weeks even, and I come to the realization that he’s not been around in a while.  I live with the reality that at any time, he could suddenly be gone.

And now, it seems, he is.  Again.

Of course I’m sad that he’s away again.  But I can’t claim I didn’t know what I was getting into all those years ago when I decided to throw my lot in with him. 

When I first met Bermuda I was all of 15.   My parents and I lived in a small town in a distant galaxy.  I first saw him while making my daily trip to the Bazaar to sell my parents’ products.  He was there, selling hides and meat from recent kills.

This old photo just doesn’t do him justice.  He was quite handsome back then (still is). He immediately caught my eye… and I guess I caught his as well.  I can’t recall what we chatted about that first day.  I only remember that we talked for a very long time. I left wondering if I’d ever see him again.

I did.  He was there at the Bazaar again the next day at that same hour.  He played it cool and claimed that it was coincidence… but I knew better.  We continued to meet there each day for the next week. 

He loved to tell me stories about the places he’d been.  Though he refused to tell me how he ended up travelling the universe alone, it was clear from his stories he’d been taking care of himself for at least a couple of years. His tales left me breathless one minute and laughing hysterically the next.   But mostly they made me jealous of all he’d experienced.

As my parents’ only child, it had always been a given that I would take over running the family business.  For my parents it was a foregone conclusion that I would marry a local boy and live in that same small town for the rest of my life. 

Faced with a peer who’d already lived more than either of my parents ever had, I realized I had a choice.  My life’s script wasn’t already written and I didn’t need to go on pretending it was. 

As that week ended, Bermuda prepared to move on as he was accustomed to doing.  I inquired where he’d go next.  With a sly grin, he asked if I wanted to go with him to find out.

The smile quickly faded from my lips and I stared at the ground, holding my breath.  How could I possibly do such a thing? I couldn’t. Could I?  I sat in silence, tormented by the choice he’d put before me. 

To understand the significance of what happened next, you need to understand that Bermuda is never affectionate in public.  Ever.  The most you’ll ever see him do is occasionally smack my bottom or pat my back.  You won’t find him kissing or hugging me, not even in saying goodbye.  He’s just not that way.

But that day, as I sat there paralyzed, he reached over and gently lifted my chin till my eyes met his.  He leaned in close, swept his finger across my cheek and tucked a stray hair behind my ear.  Then he cradled the back of my head in his hand, looked me in the eye and whispered, “Would you go with me?”

Suddenly the difficult choice didn’t seem so difficult.  With tears in my eyes, I told him I would.  And he kissed me.  Yes, right there outside the Bazaar. In all the years since, that hasn’t happened again.  I have to steal kisses from him behind locked doors.

I knew there was no way my parents would ever understand so I didn’t bother to discuss it with them.  I left that night while they slept, leaving only a brief note behind saying that I was leaving and that I probably wouldn’t return.

Shortly thereafter Bermuda and I found ourselves in the hustle and bustle of the Mos Eisley Starport.