An Ode to Hercules

For a long time (a year or so) I had a strong man in my life. He was so strong in fact, I got into the habit of calling him Hercules. (Whoa! I'm only a sentence into my story and I feel I'm guilty of understatement. Let me try to correct this error.) I am as open-minded as they come, and I have an aversion to any kind of sentiment that could be loosely translated as conservative or chauvinistic, but I have to say; this man wasn't just "in my life," he ruled my life. When I was away on a business trip, or meeting my girlfriends for a weekend of cheap beer while perusing/ musing over Japanese fashion in the dance clubs, I'd only be half-way devoted to the gaiety. After all, my mind was always just a little bit at home, with my Hercules.

When met a year ago, we immediately started living together - much to the dismay of my co-workers/neighbors and the rules impressed upon me by my organization. In Japan, your social life is just as much a part of your life as your work is. There's no making distinctions as we often do in the US. My geography only added to the plight of sharing my habitat with a boy. Clamoring through life in a rural community where gossip holds more value than a sparing amount of oil poured into rusty old stove in the middle of some Ozark outback, everyone knew right away that I, the town's foreigner, had started shaking up with a wild brute. Sure, my Greek half-man/half-god never made much noise, and kept to himself a lot of the time, but I couldn't help feeling the stress of his presence in the furrowed brow of my otherwise kind boss and neighbor.

During the year we were together, as couples often do, we created a pattern for day to day life. He warmed my wiggly toes at night, and I had his dinner spread out on the floor promptly at 5 o'clock every night. It's the little things that we miss.

He's gone now. He left one day two weeks ago and hasn't been back. I am the proverbial heart broken beast of a woman - hair unfurled, make-up streaking and indiscernible love wounds open to the cold winter wind.

Now, as I like to be as honest with my readers as possible, I have to pen the fact that Hercules was not, in fact, the Clyde to my Bonnie, nor could he ever be. He really was as good a compatriot as they come, but I knew as well as he, that it just wouldn't work out in the end. He was a little too fuzzy to be all the man a woman could need.

But, just because he was my cat doesn't mean I don't feel as lonely and deserted as if a 6ft 2in, broad-shouldered man in lumberjack plaid had walked out on me. (I can't bring myself to think of the worse possibilities that may have befallen Hercules. He has just moved on, that's all.)

He was a great friend, and warm heart and I miss him.