I walk back down the hallway toward the rain. Because the framed photo is beating like a heart on its last few pumps. Because I really don’t think I can try something new when everything old in my life is dying.
I waited a week before I asked Raff about her. No, wait, I should tell about the night I first saw her. But we weren’t together yet. So maybe that part doesn’t matter. Whatever. I waited a week. That’s probably what she would say was the important part.
(What do you think is the most important part?)
I really, honestly, don’t know how to tell this story. It’s supposed to be the story of how we met, right? That’s the assignment.
(Start at the beginning.)
Which beginning? She’s my wife. The story of who I am to her, the story of what kind of husband I am, all that starts decades before I even met her.
(Start anywhere!)
(Just start!)
(There’s no wrong answer!)
Okay. Anywhere. Okay. Well. Have you ever met someone for the first time and it seems like you’ve already known them for a really long time?
I spent a week trying to figure out where I knew her from.
And then I figured it out.
(Where?)
(Where was it?)
Nowhere. I didn’t know her from anywhere. I just…I just recognized her. Remember that sweater I talked about before? The one I couldn’t describe? Flower or whatever? Well, she walked in, wearing that sweater, and her hair and that smile and I just…recognized her. That’s the best I can describe it.
I saw her and thought,Here comes my wife.
Two
For the record,I’m not a total loser.
I, for instance, have places to go and people to see.
Or rather, I have one person to see and one place to go with that particular person.
It’s the next night after I found Vin’s lease, I haven’t seen him since he walked out of our apartment, and having plans with someone who wants me around feels a bit, oh,vitally importantright now.
Luckily, I’ve already received the very commonYou’re doing what I tell you to do tonighttext from my best friend, Raffi.
Raffi is the sort of person who can take an unbothered shit in a public restroom. When he wants to fuck someone, he asks, nicely, if he can. Generally the answer is a yes. He’s messier than he is handsome, more colorful than he is stylish, and wears mittens instead of gloves in the wintertime.
Our friendship is laughter-forward with top notes ofProject Runwayand Bruce Springsteen. Base notes of showing up for one another on our darkest days. Which we’ve both, unfortunately, had a lot of this year.
He’s lived in this new apartment for two months now, but I’m still not used to the fact that he doesn’t live in my guest bedroom anymore. It feels weird to have to knock on a front door to access my best friend. He’s supposed to just already be sitting at my kitchen table.
I knock and hear him throwing the locks from the otherside. I’m already calling to him. “Hurry up, hurry up, I have to pee! Oh—”
I cut off because it’s not Raffi who’s opened the door. It’s my husband.
Okay, one more thing to know about Raffi:
He’s Vin’s little brother.
Which is how I met Vin.
