Good Love

It was a lovely spring day, bright and sunny with a slight breeze. I regretted that I couldn't dress appropriately for the weather. Instead, afraid of being recognized, I was covered from head to toe, complete with hijab and large sunglasses. Jackson was dressed casually in pressed jeans and a light turtleneck that hugged his broad shoulders and tight biceps perfectly. I had to stop myself from randomly pausing in the street to just kiss him.

During our walk Jackson asked me about what had happened to the secret memo that had people chasing us and that put our lives in danger in New York. I filled him in on how all of us who had copies of the memo tried to devise a plan get it out and how news organizations refused to publish it because they couldn't find anyone to verify its authenticity. Then I also told him about our friend who had tried to send his copy of the memo and had disappeared, and how we all basically gave up, fearful for our lives and for our families' lives.

"You guys were brave," he told me. "You did what you could."

"Then why have I felt like such a coward?" The question went unanswered. Jackson just squeezed my hand and kissed it as we continued walking, silently contemplating. "Isn't that the definition of cowardly?" I continued, "when you fail to do what is right because you are too preoccupied with protecting your own ass?"

"You guys didn't sit on the information, you tried to get it out but no one would listen."

"I didn't personally take the risk," I countered, "and expose my copy of the file. Even if the newspapers wouldn't publish it, I could have posted it online, tried other means to get the truth out."

"You know with all the information out there that just randomly posting it online would only have a very slim chance of making an impact, but it would have put you and your families' lives at risk."

"And that's exactly why I feel like a coward," I exclaimed, "because I was afraid to take a bigger risk. Plus, we all just got so demotivated. I think that's what makes me feel the worst.

"Orkideh," he said, drawing my name out and stopping us on the sidewalk, "every cause worth fighting for needs people who are willing to dedicate their lives to it, perhaps give their lives. But just as important as having that commitment is knowing when you need to survive, to live to wage a smarter fight tomorrow, one that you might actually win."

We began walking again, in more silence as I contemplated what he said. His words were no doubt meant to make me feel less guilty, but I had to admit there was wisdom there. On the other hand, I knew all too well how easily the ethic of self preservation could freeze a person into inaction indefinitely.

At that moment we happened upon this cute little lingerie boutique called --. Jackson suggested that we go inside, sensing an opportunity to brighten our mood. I hesitated.

"Let me treat you to some new sexy undies," he suggested as we stood in front of the store. He was being respectful of my need to remain discrete with our affection in public but the look in his eyes told me that he wanted to suck on my neck and tell me just what he would do to me back in the hotel while wearing some new lingerie.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I stammered.

"Why not?"

"Do you really want to buy me something that I wear once or twice for you and then take home to wear for Br-... for someone else?" I asked, avoiding the mention of my husband's name.

"I'm trying -- to think about that," he answered somberly, hurt clouding over his eyes.