She’s wearing a hot pink workout shirt and a sports bra--not in the sexy yoga young mother way, but in that “I no longer care” way where I suspect she was recently at the beach and this is as close as she will come to baring her aging body to the public. Her eyes are fixed on the menu over my head with intensity; I feel myself becoming almost anxious for her decision, as, evidently, serious brainpower is being utilized to reach a conclusion. I feel vaguely complicent.
He stands beside her, thin-rimmed glasses that declare his age more than any facial features might. He wears a baseball cap carelessly and smiles easily at me. I smile back, relieved. He will field her decisions for her--it will not be my responsibility.
Neither speaks, though I can sense he is waiting acutely.
He’s wearing a dark navy shirt with labeled sailboats sketched in thin white lines. It strikes me and I study it, while she studies the menu and he studies her without looking at her directly.
What brought them together?
Sailboats. Where do sailboats fit?
It’s a mystery and I want to ask. I want to isolate her, pull her to my side and whisper, “Sailboats?”
Will she laugh and toss her head? Sailboats. A silly obsession. Aren’t men funny? She rolls her eyes when he wants to talk ropes and lines and knots and navigation, but for his birthday, she books him a deep-sea fishing excursion. For Christmas it’s a crisp clear bottle and the tiny, bird’s-bone skeleton of his favorite vessel. She likes country chic or vintage cottage or some other made-up decorating trend, but the guest room has canvas curtains and blue walls and bright white anchors hung upon the wall to guard cotton robes and a seawave-themed towel.
Sailboats. She shakes her head in annoyance. More fucking sailboats.
Maybe beneath the shiny stretchy pink fabric, she wears her own boats. Perhaps it brought them together. A bolt of lightning, that shock of electricity. Sailboats? Holy shit, me too.
She orders a boring beer, after all the contemplation. He orders my favorite and sips it quickly before handing her the frosty tulip glass.
They walk to a table and out of my thoughts. My mind goes back to you. I wonder if the enthusiasm I felt for these little normal things came across. I can’t lie, my face betrays everything, and I wouldn’t if I could. But I’ve trained my reactions.
Did you know how much I loved that you gathered stones from my favorite place? Could you tell how absorbed I was in the photography documentary you suggested? Strange small things that struck me dumb. You let me watch the same show, over and over, and never complained.
I loved your differences too. They made it more real. No human can be so perfectly suited. But, still. Your jewel-toned shirt. The way you wear shoes without socks. Lights strung around the bedroom. The way you order a flight at a new bar, and sniff the beer before drinking. How you yawn three times, sharply. It struck me, always. Sometimes with awe. Sometimes with fear.
It’s terrifying, to meet an inevitability. Did you feel that, for me? Was I frighteningly real?
I wish you were braver.
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