Saturday, May 28, 2011
There are a few things that you have to know about my school. We were allowed to go home only three weekends a year and Christmas vacation. After classes and sports and before evening study hall, we were allowed to leave campus but only to go on walks that were mapped out to take us on prescribed walks. We were not allowed to go into the town, where OH NO, we might meet a “townie”, and on Saturday night there was either a lecture or a concert. Chapel was every morning and Sundays there was chapel and church. We had to wear nylon stockings under our skirts for dinner, where we had to speak Latin or French. I think you have the picture by now—the complete opposite of American Pie or Glee!When my school roommate invited me to a co-ed party at her house during the Christmas vacation, I was thrilled. She lived in a town fairly close to mine, and I had just gotten my driver’s license. It was there that I met a tall, skinny guy wearing ugly “birth control” (!) glasses, but a guy, nevertheless, someone who was just exuding potential and was also at home from a boarding school.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
She had heard about me before she met me. I knew one of her friends. He’s a cool guy, Holly’s friend had told her.
We didn’t say much to each other the first few months we knew each other. Hello. How are you. Going out later? Holly and I didn’t have the same friends. We didn’t accidentally run into each other. We worked together. One night, I bummed a cigarette from her on our break. We sat outside, on the steps of the building at the University of Florida where we worked, and we smoked long past our regular break time. Later that night, I asked if she wanted to meet for ice cream. She did.
You do not know that I am married. I do not tell you I am married because I know you will not stay in a relationship with me. I no longer want to be married. I am 33. I am finally able to admit what I think I’ve always known to be true – I am gay, and while I love my wife, she and I are no longer in love. I met you one night in January in order to have sex. We did not have sex that first night. My choice. I wanted a second date, which turned into a third date, which turned into having keys to your apartment and introducing you to my son and telling you that one day he will be your son too.
I have fallen in love with you. We have already started drawing imaginary blueprints for the house we will one day have. A backyard for the kids. A fire escape, because you like fire escapes. You say you want a garden.
I do not have a green thumb, I say.
I do, you say, and I know you do. Your occasional attempts at husbandry – at tending to tomatoes until we can eat them, for example, or nurturing plants in your office – indicate, to me, your inherent belief in the future. We talk about the future, using when, never if. I cannot always see this future unfolding. You do not know how much tending to I need.
We met because our separate roads converged on a night in January, merged, and then diverged, finally, permanently, nine months, two weeks, and one day later. We met because we did. We met because we couldn’t not meet.