~Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Chosen People

"Did you know giraffes are kosher?"

"What?" Abraham asked.

"Yeah, they meet the requirements: hooves and herbivores. But it says here that giraffes are difficult to restrain." We chuckled. I turned away from my phone and rolled over in bed and looked at him. "Did you know it is illegal to tie a giraffe to a telephone pole in the city? It's one of those weird laws that was never taken off the books."


Abraham and I have been invited to several events in April: opening day at the baseball field, a 5k that finishes at the bar, etc. He meets my eyes and quickly and subtly shakes his head no. It takes me a moment to realize why. It's Passover.

What I know about Passover, I learned in a comment from heisschic:

during my second passover with the boy (he's jewish, i am not), he was studying for finals so i made dinner. oh i went all. out. portabella mushrooms with fancy shmancy toppings, blah blah blah. completely kosher for passover. i also made drinks. he was on a gin kick, so i made a lemonade gin mix, but wouldnt tell him what was in it until he tasted it. gin is a grain alcohol. can't have anything made of or distilled from grains during passover. he wasn't upset- explained it to me simply and put the drink aside. i went into the bathroom and cried.


As the Jewish holidays occur, Abraham explains them to me in a simple sentence or two. "Passover is when the first borns were passed over in Egypt."

"Oh, one of the ten plagues? With the blood on the front door?"


I scrunched my face. I thought we already talked about the ten plagues? I remember sitting in my bathtub and trying to recount them with him. We could only remember three: locusts, frogs and the first born.

"I thought the ten plagues was Hanukkah?" I asked. We were sitting in my bathtub because it was cold out. It had to have been December/Hanukkah.

"No Hanukkah is a happy holiday."

It strikes me as weird that a religion has both happy and somber holidays. As I thought about it, I guess Christianity does too: Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.

I remember I had to be the acolyte one year for the Good Friday service. As the pastor read the Bible and described Jesus' Crucifixion, I was the one who had to walk to the stage and snuff out each of the four candles that symbolized his life. It was supposed to be an honor, but I felt so guilty as I extinguished the final candle that left the church in darkness. It was like I killed Jesus myself. So yes, Christianity has somber moments too.


Passover is approaching and Abraham will have stricter dietary requirements. All I know is to not feed him gin.

"We eat lots of matzo," he tells me.

"Until a couple of years ago, I thought matzo ball soup was mozzarella ball soup. Like with a big hunk of mozzarella in it and broth. Because fresh mozzarella comes as a ball."

He laughed at me. Really laughed. I swatted him.

"There aren't any Jews in the South!" I half yelled at him.

"Matzo is unleavened bread. It's crunchy like a cracker and it's gross. It's what the Jews ate as they fled Egypt. They couldn't wait for the bread to rise."

Tired of being so ignorant when it comes to this stuff, I picked up my phone and looked up Passover meals. As if this wasn't confusing enough, it turns out there are different types of Jews with different dietary restrictions during Passover.

"This type of Jew eats rice."

"That's not me. I'm Ashkenazi."

"You make up 80% of the world's Jewish population," I read. "'During the 20th century in the United States, Ashkenazi Jews represented approximately 3% of the population, but won 27% of the U.S. Nobel prizes.'" I turned and looked at him, "Is that why you're the Chosen People?"

"Yep," he chuckled.

That's how I flipped through pages and ending up learning that giraffes are kosher. They have the right kind of hooves, they don't eat other animals and their milk curdles, if you can manage to milk a giraffe.

Rabbits aren't kosher because they don't have hooves. Horses have hooves and don't eat other animals, but they don't have the right kind of hooves. Pigs aren't kosher, not because of their feet like I originally thought, but because they will eat meat and have stomachs to process the meat like dogs and humans.


"I like that you are interested in this," he says to me quietly as he kisses my shoulder.

He's pleased. Like I said, there aren't many Jews in the South. His friends tease him pretty mercilessly. He's used to shrugging it off, not teaching others like he is to me.

~Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Secrets & Lies

I received an email from The Leader. He announced that after a five-month hiatus, kickball was starting up soon. The email enclosed my team invitation.

I wavered. Abraham is playing during the week in one league; I would be playing on the weekends in another. If I signed up, I would be booking my weekends through all of spring. I was in a relationship now. Did I want to be unavailable every Saturday? No. Not really.

What if, I considered. What if I were single? Would I hesitate about playing kickball on the weekends? Not at all. I'd be excited about it. So I clicked on the link and entered my credit card information. I'm not going to change because I'm in a relationship.


Abraham had chosen to play dodgeball during the winter. I swore off that sport after last year what with the balls to the face and the almost fighting. I wished him good luck, but I did pick a game to come watch him.

Afterward we headed to our team bar. The usual suspects were there: The Leader, members of different kickball teams I had played with over the seasons. The difference was that this is the first time we were out as a couple; I hadn’t been to the bar since Abraham’s birthday.

The very first time I spoke to Abraham at the bar, there was a tall boy standing next to him. The tall boy aided him in providing me Abraham’s fake name. The tall boy was there again this night.

“Hey, man. I hope I didn’t cock block you that one night,” he told Abraham.

Abraham nodded to me. “You didn’t,” he smiled.

I was less sly. “That’s my boyfriend!” I laughed while pointing to Abe standing in the corner.

The one thing I forgot that was with kickball comes kickball drama. It had been a very calm five months. Within minutes one girl was updating me on the gossip. Some of my own had surfaced that afternoon.

Buzz. Text from Abraham, So I broke the news to Statham’s Ex that we’re together. She still isn’t a fan of yours, but she said she just wants me to be happy.

Squeak. I forgot about that when we were in our cocoon. I forgot about the whole mess. Me sleeping with Statham, whom Abraham knows. The ex-girlfriend hating me... and playing on Abraham’s team. I had told him out of respect for her I wouldn’t play on his team.

He’s always been a little confused as to why she hates me so much. I told him this story, in which I talked about her without knowing she was sitting across from me at the table.

And now back at the bar, after almost six good months with Abraham, that old storyline is getting a little too close to comfort. The Leader is sitting next to me, shaking the ice cubes in his highball glass and once again regaling me with stories from the good old days when he slept with everyone. Somehow Statham’s Ex is brought up, and The Leader tells me her sexual past within the group.

My name could very easily be substituted for Statham’s Ex in a conversation at the bar one night. I wondered if it would destroy my relationship if Abraham found out he was Eskimo brothers with Statham. What if he found out from someone who wasn’t me? I grew anxious at the idea.

In bed Abraham and I spooned. He asked what I was talking to The Leader about. Statham’s Ex. Between Abraham telling her about us and The Leader, I just couldn’t get that girl’s name out of my mouth that day. He asked for the gossip.

Somewhere in my story about The Leader, Abraham grimaces. I hit a nerve. I rewind names I had been saying. Names I didn’t know, but were spun in The Leader’s stories. “That one? Is that your ex from kickball?” I asked.

“Yes,” he whined. “I didn’t know that she was with The Leader too. She was crazy. I am not proud of that time of my life.” He laid on his side and wrapped his arms around me. “Don’t you have any stories?” he asked. “Any stories about exes?”

I had been specifically been avoiding this topic. Oh, just pick a reason: S, Christopher, Statham. None of them make me look good. But I knew. This was my opening to tell him about Statham. I didn’t want him finding out from anybody else, and he was asking.

“Well,” I began. “There may be another reason Statham’s Ex doesn’t like me.”

Abraham got quiet. “Yeah?”

“He made a move on me, and she found out.”

“He made a move?” Abraham wanted more information.

“And we kind of messed around.”

“Define ‘messed around.’”

I squeaked and buried my head in his chest. Abraham never moved his arms from me.


“It’s okay. Just tell me.”

“We slept together.” Only it was really muffled with my face pressed against his chest, so it sounded like, “Me wept smether.”

“What?” he asked genuinely confused. “You slept together?”

“Mesh.” Yes.

“Were they broken up?


“How many times?”

“Twice in one week and then never again.”

“That’s okay,” he comforted. “It happened before we knew each other. Anything that happened before us doesn’t count.”

I still didn’t move from his chest. I was horrified. I wanted to be a good girlfriend. I didn’t want Abraham to have to deal with my drama.

“I’m still here, okay? Nothing changes,” he said. Oh god, could he be any more understanding? I laid in shame.

“Wait,” he said. I was waiting for it. I knew what he was going to say. “You told me that you hadn’t been with anyone from kickball.”

I lied. I had lied to Abraham and told him this when we first got together. It wasn’t any of his business then. The whole incident with Statham is still more or less a closely guarded secret.

Still not looking at him, I nodded my head.

Abraham was more upset about the lie then he was about the sex. Now he doubted everything. “Just Statham? How do I know now?”

“Just Statham. I swear.”

“What about Clemson?”

“We never even kissed.” I raised both my hands in the air. “I swear.”

We paused. “Are you mad?” I asked.

“No. Just disappointed you lied.”

Ughhh. Worst response ever. “I never lie.” I pleaded. And I never do, except when I did this one time. “I never lie because I’m terrible at it and I never get away with it. You want to know my tell? I smile or laugh when I lie.”

“But you always smile and laugh,” he said confused.

“Not my normal smile. You already know the difference between my real smile and my fake smile. I’m even bad at fake smiling.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Well this is the perfect in to tell him about S, but I wasn't going to. I couldn't tell him about the Statham mess and S in the same conversation. I couldn't do it. It was too much for me.

“There's ex-boyfriend dirt, but I'm not going to tell you.” I said.

“What ex-boyfriend dirt?” He wanted to know more.

“I don't want to tell you.” There was a long pause. “I lived with a boy once,” I disclosed. It was a big detail and the only one I could manage to tell.


“I moved out in 2008? 2009?”

Abraham paused. “If it doesn't have to do with kickball , then I don't need to know,” he finally said. “Anything that happened before us doesn’t count.”

I liked that philosophy.

Abraham was placated. In the grand scheme of things, lying about someone I slept with before I even met Abraham wasn’t insurmountable. He got over it within minutes.


A new email from The Leader appeared in my inbox. It was the final list of the team. Clemson is now on my team. So is Statham if he signed up.

I tried to tell Abraham about my team. I never even got Statham’s name out. “I don’t want to hear about that guy!” he growled. I’ve never heard Abraham growl.

Swell. This will make for an interesting Spring.

~Friday, March 16, 2012

The Re-Friending

At noon on a Friday Abraham sent me an email: Give me the details on this party tonight... I'm scared!!!

The details were that a it was a friend of mine's birthday and he was throwing a party. The gang was going to be in attendance. The detail that I never considered was that Abraham was going to be nervous.

It had been a long time since we had been at the bar together. In that time I had forgotten that he isn't as sociable as I am. I would flit around all of the tables, and he would remain by his small group of friends.

It had been only the two of us in the past few months, so I saw the version of him I first fell in like with. The version in which he's not a supporting character in the background of a bar, but the star in his own life. I had never even considered that the person who was comfortable and jovial around me would not feel that way in a crowd of new people who were probably judging him.

"You're not nervous about meeting my friends?" he later asked me as we debriefed the night.

"Not really. I think I would be nervous in the car ride over there, but that's it."

"Well I was nervous then too," he admitted. "But it's been building."


I arrived at his flat late, and he was in his underwear on the couch watching The Weather Channel. The screen was illuminated in the red of the impending tornadoes. "We're going to die tonight," he said grimly.

"Well let's get going to this party and pick up some beer so we don't die alone and sober," I retorted.

I yanked him off the couch and pulled him into his bedroom to change. He mock whined as he got dressed. He asked me to mend his pants right then and there. Then we couldn’t leave because the tornadoes were coming.

"Listen," I said. "Just be yourself. They'll like you because I like you." And then thinking back to my exes and perhaps why I've waited so long for this moment, "You'll probably like them more than you like me. Besides, the role of the bad guy has already been taken," I added, referencing Katie's boyfriend.

He laughed. I got him in the car. We stopped and picked up our beer. He insisted on paying for it.

Standing in the front yard of my friend's house was a guy I didn't recognize. I opened the door. Inside was Harvey's husband and one of his brothers. We said hello. Then I spied Jenna in the kitchen. We said hello again.

I didn't tell anybody he was coming. Everyone accepted him as he was introduced and didn't question his presence. I wanted to keep everything as low key as possible, unlike last time. I didn't even tell them we were official.

Most people were upstairs playing Rock Band. The topic in the kitchen were the passing tornadoes. People's phones buzzed with weather warnings.

Harvey teetered downstairs into the kitchen to refill her wine glass.

"This is Abraham," I gestured.

"Heeeeeeeeey! I'm on my second glass of wine!" She said. "What took so long?"

"We stopped to buy beer."

"That's not what I meant." She eyed Abraham.

They had some sort of Mexican-standoff stare down across the kitchen. I got nervous. Really nervous. Then Abraham made a light-hearted jab at her, and she laughed.

I had to take baby steps with him at the party. We had to stand in the kitchen, near the beer, and slowly meet people as they walked in for refills. Then we headed upstairs where we stood in the back of the room. It took him 10 or so minutes to be able to fully enter it.

A girlfriend came up to me, "You okay? You're not as outgoing as you normally are."

"I'm just trying to hang back with Abraham and make sure he is comfortable."

Upstairs he met Government Mule, Katie and her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, oddly enough, was welcoming to Abraham and one of the few people who really took the time to talk to him. I think the boyfriend was relieved he wasn't the newest person anymore.

And then my urge for Rock Band took over, and I left him in the back of the room so I could sing a song. The house we were at had a nice set-up: three microphones, two microphone stands, two guitars, a set of drums with the symbols, a professional stool and a keyboard. The whole group of friends is able to play together.

Eventually the party began thinning out and the beers had been drunk and Abraham got more comfortable. He even sang a couple of songs with Katie's boyfriend. The two guys clung to each other because they didn't really know anyone else.

We sat against the wall while other people were taking their turns picking out songs. He had his hand on my leg. It was 1 a.m.

I rested my head on his shoulder, "Baby, I'm losing steam."

"You want to go to Waffle House?" he asked.

"Yeah." I handed him my beer. "Can we go when you finish your beer?"

He tilted the bottle back and finished it. Abraham went to use the restroom and I collected our beer bottles and put them in the recycling. Harvey followed me into the kitchen.

"So I kind of love him," she said. "He didn't talk very much, but when he did, he was hilarious! So his speaking-to-funny ratio is very high!"

I said the only thing I can say about him, "I really like him."

"Bring him around again and we'll do something."

Abraham entered the kitchen and Harvey immediately invited him for Mexican and to play beer pong at her house the following night. He thanked her for the invitation.

We went to the same Waffle House where we had our Valentine's date and then back to his place. I climbed into his bed and onto his shoulder. For the first time that night, I felt at peace. "This is where I want to be," I sighed.

The next morning I got a text from Harvey.

"What's the verdict?" Abraham asked.

"She really liked you."

~Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Head over Heels

My mouse hovered over DSW.com. I needed new black patent-leather pumps. The problem I was having, however, was the heel height.

If I chose my usual height of 3 – 4 inches, I would be taller than Abraham. Actually, I would be taller than him in any sort of heel. Barefoot he's got a good half inch on me. But the 2 – 3 inch black heels are just so ugly and so schoolmarm-y.

I don't care that in heels I'm taller than him, but he notices. He always notices. I wore my leopard-print platform stilettos to the bar one night. And while every other girl loved them, Abraham said he hated my shoes because I towered over him. I remember backing him into the corner of the bar and then slipping out of them so he would be taller.

"You're not short," I said. "You're my height, and I'm not short."

"But girl height and boy height are two different things."

So I've been planning out my outfits around heel height. I can wear the gray slouchy boots, but not the black knee highs. I can wear the cheetah-print flats, but not the leopard-print stilettos. Thank god riding boots are in style.

But now it's time for black patent-leather pumps. I can do without platform—I probably have no business being in platforms anyway—but I would like to not be restricted to ugly shoes.

How much do you change yourself for someone? Should I be sensitive to him, or should I continue to buy shoes how I always have?

Can anyone recommend cute flats that don't make my calves look like mush?

~Monday, March 12, 2012

The Edge of Reason

When Abraham returned from vacation, we had the DTR and made things official. It was a painfully ordinary conversation with the exception that I was clutching a stuffed dog in my lap that he had purchased for me as a souvenir.

Finally! All is right in the world!

Only as Bridget Jones said, "It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces." Before I could bask in the glow of my new relationship status, work fell apart. I became a victim of office politics, which I always assumed was a bad thing that was supposed to be avoided, not adhered to.

As I received the unpleasant news (which, in the grand scheme of things, wouldn't affect my day-to-day operation at all), I sat in a woman's office who wasn't my boss and burst into tears.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"No, no, no, no, no. It's not okay." I repeated. I felt blindsided. I had no chance to prepare my argument, and it was difficult to formulate one as I was ugly crying in this stranger's office. I cried so hard that she told me to go home for the day, which I refused to do because I still had my deadlines.

I walked out of her office and back to my desk. I passed a gaggle of girls who were standing in a circle and talking about me. The same girls whom I re-friended this year. The same coworker who asked me to teach her to knit, so I've been spending hours with her and instructing her. I had even bought her a kit with my own money to get her started, and here she was whispering about me.

Then my dress ripped. It ripped up the seam on the backside, exposing me as if I were wearing a hospital gown.

On top of everything else, I left my phone at home.

I guess it's a good thing that I don't have too many bad days, because when I have one, I really, really have one (See: being both laid off and diagnosed with cancer in the same 24 hours.)

During Abraham's first official day of boyfriend capacity, I called him and cried on the phone to him. He tried to calm me down, telling me that things at work would be straightened out in the morning (I had such an intense reaction to the news that people called my boss at home. She said she would fix it in the morning.) He skipped going out with his friends and went straight home to meet me. He offered to pick me up dinner.

I appeared on his doorstep with a bottle of wine, serving size: 1. We camped on his bed while he ate dinner and I drank mine. I balanced my wine glass on his stomach as we watched our shows. He kept things light and distracted me if I started sniffing. He knew I was crying not by looking at me, but by hearing my stuffy nose. Then he would do something silly, like kiss me disgustingly. It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when someone is licking your face.

Bedtime was another story. My boss had passed on to me to not lose a minute's sleep over work, but it was impossible. Abraham began snoring softly, and my mind raced in the nighttime stillness. Work is important to the single girl. It's our rent payment. It's our independence. We don't have husbands to carry us if things go wrong.

I pulled away from cuddling Abraham's back and rolled over. The sniffing began again. My pillow had been wet for some time. Abraham stirred slightly, shifting his leg on top of mine. Not wanting to wake him, I didn't react. Then he nudged me with his leg: a purposeful back and forth rocking motion. He was awake. It was a sweet, comforting gesture.

I rolled back over and resumed cuddling him. Wordlessly, he drifted back to sleep and the snoring began again. The hours ticked from two to three to four to five.

The good thing about being awake until 5 a.m. is that you can hear your boyfriend sleep fart not once, but twice. Then you can proudly tell him in the morning while he's confused and declare yourselves even.

*And, of course, my boss apologized and reversed the decision the next morning, making all those tears for naught.

~Friday, March 09, 2012

In the Closet

While Abraham was out of town, I had the first productive weekend in quite awhile. My recent wardrobe update led to my closet and drawers being stuffed. Every time I visit my mother's, I bring a bag of stuff to get rid of, but I wasn't as diligent in getting rid of clothes as I had been adding them.

I geared up my Pandora station and I tried on everything in my closet. I didn't feel good in the color brown, so everything brown went into the donation pile. So did some Forever 21 shirts that I had since I was 21. Sweaters that looked worn out. Pants that, sigh, no longer fit. In the end I donated 2 pairs of shorts, 3 skirts, 13 pairs of pants and 57 shirts. I could outfit someone with an entire wardrobe in what I was trashing. The devastating thing was that my closet didn't look any different.

I called my mom. "I've been working all day and my closet is still full. I mean, it's no longer stuffed to maximum capacity, but it certainly doesn't look minimalist like those magazine articles do."

"I know the feeling."

"I counted everything I'm donating. I'm getting rid of 57 shirts."

"WHAT?!" my mother screeched. "You have 57 extra shirts!? What are you wearing? Are you sitting on the phone with me topless?"

I laughed. "No I assured you there's probably triple that still in my closet."

"You're sick," she said. "You have a disease."

The following morning I lugged everything to her house. We sat on the floor of her living room with piles of my crap surrounding us. She made me take 5 shirts back, arguing they were too nice. Then she shopped for herself in my castaways, pulling out another small stack of shirts.

"You know," she said. "This isn't a lot of stuff. You could have done better; you're not ruthless like me."

"Look around, mom, 57 shirts!" I hollered.

So I think I may know where my clothes hoarding may have originated. My mother thought 57 sounded like a large number of items, but then said it wasn't much when it was in front of her. Not to mention she made me take some of it back home.

My mother disappeared upstairs to retrieve her donations. She returned with a pair of shoes and three measly shirts. Then she tossed a Bible on the pile.

"Mom." I knew what it was.

"It's not staying in this house any longer," she quipped.

It was my ex-step father's Bible that was given to him by his deceased mother. Her scrawl dedicating the book to her son was on the inside cover.

"I will mail it to his friend. You can't donate it."

"Why? He doesn't have any kids to pass the book down to. When he dies, that family lineage ends.

"What does he need a Bible for? He's a terrible person," she continued. "What if someone else needs a Bible?"

"Mom! I'm sure there are enough Bibles in the county. If someone wants the Lord's words, they can get them!"

"Fine," she gave up. "I'm not letting you waste your money mailing it though. His friend's house is by the donation center. But you’re the one who is getting out the car and stuffing it in the mailbox. And I'm not coming to a full stop."

"Fair enough."

We drove to Goodwill. A friendly man helped me lug the heavy garbage bags of clothes from the SUV. I got in the car while my mother signed for the tax receipt.

"God bless you!" he waved at us.

I giggled. I knew that the man saying "God bless you!" for donating our clothes, on a Sunday no less, was enough to guilt my mother into doing the right thing.

My mother mumbled as she got into the car. "Did you hear him?" she muttered.

"Yes!" I laughed.

As we approached the friend's neighborhood, my mother grew anxious. I may have been with S for 2 years, but she was with her ex-husband for 20. It is taking her longer with her relationship than it took me with mine.

"My throat's tightening," she said.

I needed to fill the silence. I needed to chatter to distract her, but my mind was blank. The only thing I could think of was this.

"So I read this weekly cleaning article on the Internet. This woman answers people's questions on how to clean things, like old radiators or humidifiers. And one person wrote in and asked her how to clean a leather sex swing. Can you believe that? So she walked into a general leather shop and asked the proprietor how to clean a leather sex swing. That must have been embarrassing!"

To make this conversation clear, my mother and I don't have the relationship where we talk about the things that happen behind closed doors. I've never actually told her I've had sex.

"A LEATHER SEX SWING, MOM," my voice rose as soon as I realized what I was rambling about to my mother. "Anyway, she said that to clean leather sex swings, just take it to the dry cleaner. Apparently those people have seen everything. Hoo boy!"

And then I repeated the phrases "leather sex swing" and "dry cleaners have seen everything" about three more times while my mom white knuckled the steering wheel.

I'm just hoping my mother blocked this out with the rest of the trauma of dropping off the book.

~Wednesday, March 07, 2012

Five Days

I ascended the wooden staircase to Abraham's front door. The weather was nice for February, and his front door was open save for the storm door.

He heard the clack of my heels on the weathered stairs and appeared behind the glass door lugging his suitcase with him; I would not be entering his flat.

He looked me up and down. "You look nice," he said quietly.

I opened the storm door for him and stood back as he locked up his home. I clacked back down the stairs.

He followed me to my hatchback where I opened the backseat for him. "I didn't clean out my trunk," I explained.

Abraham laughed as dog hair flew away from the car and into the wind. He loaded his luggage into the back seat.

We got into the car and buckled up. He leaned across the center console and kissed me.

I sighed. "I don't feel right until we kiss."

I put the car in gear. Abraham slid his hand into my lap. "You really do look nice," he said.

I knew I did. I came directly from work, but I specifically wore a dress he'd never seen.

I slipped my hand under his. It's something I do often—when we watch TV, when I'm laying on his chest, when we're quiet and alone together. I like to feel the warmth of him.

I merged onto the highway and into the HOV lane. Toward the city. Toward the airport.

I forced small talk, but my mind was occupied. I already miss you, and you're right here. He prattled on about the friends he's leaving me to vacation with. To my dismay, for the first time in the history of the world, traffic wasn't bad. Forget never coming to a complete stop, we barely even slowed down.

"Which terminal, North or South? I always get them backward," I said.

"South," he said.

"See? I was thinking North."

I exited to the lower loop of the World's Busiest Airport. He's almost gone now.

"You're coming back on Tuesday?" I clarified.


"And what time is your racquetball game on Wednesday?"

"7 o'clock."

So he'll be done by 8:00 p.m. I can make it to Wednesday 8 o'clock. It's not even a week away. It's... five days.

"I'm going to miss you!" I cried.

"Awww!" It was more of an endeared noise than it was a word.

"And it's not that I'm not going to see you. It's knowing that you're going to be so far away!"

"Just pretend that I'm in the city and ignoring you," he smirked.

I swatted him.

"Are you going to text me?"

He playfully rolled his eyes. Of course he would be in touch. "I can't. Don't have international texting."

"You're leaving the time zone, not the country."

"I can't text out of state," he joked.

"You texted me from D.C... which isn't a state."


"You texted me from the airport! Was that in Virginia or D.C.?"



We passed the baggage claim of the South terminal. The drop off was just ahead. I pulled over and turned on my emergency lights.

He unbuckled his seat belt and looked at me. I don't know if he read my face, or he remembered that the currency for the ride to the airport was one really good kiss, but he grabbed me and kissed me. He kissed good and hard and desperately. When he was done, he kissed me again.

And then he was gone.

I left the South terminal and passed the signs welcoming me home. There was an honest-to-God lump in my throat. Over five days. Five freaking days. I already explained the answer—it wasn’t the time but the distance—but there was a larger, scarier reason: I was officially emotionally invested in this relationship.

Before the night was over he sent me a picture of the snow.

~Monday, March 05, 2012

How I Met You

When a relationship starts, I think the most common question received is "How did you two meet?" I know I've asked it of other couples, mainly to add their method to my bag of tricks.

When I'm asked "How did you two meet?" I usually smile and say, "Kickball." Then I'll pause for a beat and begrudgingly add, "Finally." Other people seemed to meet others faster than it took me. I met Abraham in my fourth season and didn't get together with him until the following one.


The other day I looked at Abraham. "How do you tell people that we met?" I asked him.

"I say that I was running to home plate and crashed into you."

"Aww." It was so much more romantic than simply saying "Kickball." He turned it into a cute story.

"We need to turn it into a pun," I told him. "What can we do with that?" I bit my lip and thought. "I know. You made me fall for you!"


A couple of days later Abraham and I both had dinner plans, but agreed to meet up afterward. I called him when I was heading to his house.

"Where did y'all go?" I asked.

"The roommate and I went to [kickball bar], but it was lame so we left." Abraham hiccuped and had a slight slur to him.

"Aww! You can't say that bar is lame! That's where we met!" The first time we spoke was at that bar; we’ve spent a lot of time together at that bar.

Abraham hiccuped. "No. We met on the kickball field." He hiccuped again. "Where I nailed you."

"Oooh that's a much better pun."


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