2015 — A Love Story
Spring
It’s 2015 and I’ve got work to do.
I’m focused, immersed in it, cruising.
That’s why her voice is so jarring when it interrupts my flow.
“Nice watch.”
I look up from my laptop to see her in silhouette, backlit by the sun still streaming in through the coffee shop’s windows.
She sits. Conversation follows; it flows naturally.
She’s new to DC, navigating grad school, a vegetarian.
I’m older by about a decade, an omnivore, shy.
We laugh, flirt and generally wile away the rest of the afternoon.
***
I show her the Botanical Gardens, a salsa club, my favorite speakeasy — the one on U Street, near Ben’s Chili Bowl.
She introduces me to poetry slams, electronic dance music and Saturday morning yoga.
We explore the city together — its pulse and rhythms an easy backdrop to our developing story as we mostly explore each other.
It’s during a late night phonecall when I realize I love her.
I’m lying on my bed in the dark staring up at the ceiling when it clicks — she’s moved in. Not literally, mind you, but she’s there — she now takes up precious real estate in my life. I look forward to these calls, these long rambling chats that often keep us up long after midnight. I smile.
“What?” she asks, from her own bedroom, a few miles away.
“Just you,” I say. “I mean — I never thought it’d be you. Or that…we’d meet at a damn Starbucks!”
“Whatevs. You looked so serious there on your computer, so passionate. I had to know more.”
***
We’re at a wedding reception together — her friends, not mine.
It’s — I kid you not — in a barn out in Fauquier County.
There’s a power in visiting a place or participating in an event where you’re a pure guest who knows no one besides your date. It’s freedom. As I scan the crowd I couldn’t be more amused by the random pairings, the drunken uncle, the joyous cacophony of the gathering.
Weddings are sacred. They bring people together in celebration — symbolize both success and hope.
Her eyes meet mine from across the room. With a mischievous cock of her head and a single raised eyebrow, she beckons me over for a dance.
“Enough people watching,” she whispers as her arms gently encircle my neck. “You’re my date. You owe me a slow song or two.”
***
We’re lying next to each other in bed, sweaty, panting, but content as the physical pleasure slowly recedes to memory.
“You really are something,” she says.
“Says you,” I respond. “I think you’re trying to give me a heart attack.”
I can feel her grin in the darkness.
Summer
We’re on a beach, watching the sun rise over the water. It’s red against a purple sky.
She’s shivering beside me, wrapped tightly in a wool blanket.
“6:30 am?” she manages through gritted teeth. “But our beds were so comfortable.”
Her tone changes minutes later when the sun crests and breaks through the clouds. Rays of orange streak across the previously dark sky.
She looks at me, again with that devastating smile. “You were right. So worth it.”
We hold hands, staring out to the horizon. There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but in this moment, words fail me.
***
The call came on a clear June afternoon. It was a Tuesday.
Her mom is dead.
And I am paralyzed.
I’ve never been good at this. Partly, it’s that I’ve not been there. My parents, sister, nephews — everyone’s still around and healthy.
But in moments like this, we rally — we do what we can.
I leave work, go to her, hold her as her body is racked by silent, heaving sobs.
Sometimes it’s best to stay silent.
The next weeks are excruciating as we navigate this uncharted territory together.
Honestly, I don’t know how well I do in trying to comfort her, and (as I said) my track record in this area has left much to be desired.
But I am there for her — make sure she continues to eat, to sleep, see other friends. We spend a lot of time with her dad, too, in Phoenix. Her mom and dad are divorced and were mostly estranged, but since when does that matter?
It’s like what Junot Diaz said: “The half-life of love is forever.”
***
July 4th — We’re sitting on a blanket on the hill overlooking the Iwo Jima Memorial. She sips Malbec from a red Solo cup as I spread brie on some fresh Italian bread.
Some 30 feet away a young dad plays Frisbee with his son.
We’re about two hours away from sundown and the fireworks display.
“I love you,” she says, apropos of nothing.
“Hmm?” — It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow.
“You. Us. All of this,” she says, gesturing to the crowds of families that surround us. “It’s — it’s been such a hard year. But we’re making it. I can’t remember when I’ve been this happy.”
Fall
Fall — A new semester for her and I’ve been promoted at work.
We’ve moved in together, a two bedroom in the suburbs. Our lives have reached equilibrium, a balance where we have successfully transitioned from “I” to “we.”
Friends no longer invite us out as individuals — that for the most part we’ll show up together as a unit is assumed.
I’m sleeping (and eating) better — your life changes when the warm body of your lover is there beside you in bed every night, when meals out transition to homecooked nights in, and “Netflix and Chill” becomes a legitimate — and not coded, sketchy — preferred pastime.
There’s some compromise, of course. But I can’t help but smile at how easy this has been, how natural it feels.
We just fit.
***
Fissures.
November 12th. It’s a Thursday, and she breaks plans for our evening out with my friends, claiming the need to study.
Studies are a constant in grad school, and — for all of her buoyant energy, she’s always been superb at time management.
What concerns me is not the message but the delivery — her voice on the phone is distant, apologetic but emotionally stilted.
Suspicions confirmed — When she arrives home later that evening she’s oddly cold, distracted.
***
It’s December 7th and she’s crying — silently trying to will herself back together and failing.
The ostensible topic is scheduling our flight home for the holidays — my home this time — Philadelphia.
But her hesitation and sudden, welling tears say it all — she won’t be going with me.
As my heart goes numb, before the bleak finality of it all sets in, all I can think to myself is “December 7th. Pearl Harbor Day. Figures.”
Winter
The holidays are a godsend.
The next few weeks are a whirlwind of parties, flights, and family gatherings. And, critically, time away from DC, from all the places we’d marked as our own building happy memories that were now tinged blue with sorrow.
Boston, Philadelphia, Indianapolis. I see my parents, high school buddies, nephews.
I’ve always been a fan of leaving DC. Just getting out for awhile to reset. Much as I love the city with its unique energy and incredible density of Type A overachievers, it’s all too easy to get caught up in its workaholic culture.
It messes with your perspective.
Philadelphia is refreshing. I exit the train at 30th Street Station into a sea of diversity — young, old, overweight, Italians. Folks here are loud, rude, brash.
Or maybe just honest.
***
An hour later I’m enjoying a cheesesteak on South Street and as the grease hits my stomach I feel calm and content.
It’s good to be home.
***
January 6.
It’s 7:30 am and the city is cold, mid-30s.
Outside my new apartment building I’m greeted by a rush of cold air and a blue, cloudless sky.
I’m headed for a long run, day 19 of 2016 resolution # 4 (yes, I began during the holidays, got a respectable headstart. Philly cheesesteaks and eggnog aren’t free, after all).
***
I’m a mile into my run — warm, loose and with the Potomac just beginning to come into view.
As I crest the last hill before the descent toward the water I let her go.
It’s just a quiet change in perspective, a small flip of some internal switch, almost sneaky in its subtlety.
But as I accelerate down the hill toward K Street and the Georgetown waterfront I feel free — exhilarated, alive.
It’s 2016 and I’ve got work to do.
