There is no list to compare her to. No fantasy of the perfect woman, my perfect partner, or soul mate. If I’ve learned anything from the thousands of stories I’ve read in my lifetime, it’s this —embrace the unexpected, walk in humility, be teachable, and love with abandon. Here I am, heeding the wisdom of writers both past and present.
Many people hold an unconscious bias against fiction, brushing off tales of adventure and love, of conflict and strife, as entertainment instead of truth. I don’t know exactly when it happens, but at some point in a person’s life, they distort the true meanings of fiction and non-fiction. Fiction becomes fantasy, an unattainable Eden to be used as an escape from real life. They equate ‘fiction’ and ‘fantasy’ with ‘lie’ and ‘unattainable’, and ‘non-fiction’ with ‘fact’ and ‘truth’.
The correlation between the words is not wholly incorrect, but to discount the wisdom and truth found in fiction literature is to do a disservice to oneself. This feeling, this desire I have for Alis has provided a deeper understanding, a kinship and a bond between myself and the countless authors I’ve read who have written about the intangible experience of falling in love.
When Antoine de Saint-Exupéry penned the words, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye,” he spoke to the desires of the human soul. Fiction, fantasy, none of it is a lie. It’s an unfiltered reflection of our truest selves, our deepest longings, and the purest account of the human experience.
This is my experience. This is my fantasy. Not because I set a standard and found a woman who meets my every expectation, but because there never was any list, any expectation, any standard. This is my fantasy because this is honesty. Freedom.
I’ve heard people discount the love written about in novels, saying that love doesn’t work that way, that you don’t fall in love at first sight and live happily ever after. That passion and desire dwindle with time, and fighting and disagreeing will eventually tear two people apart.
I don’t believe that for one second. I also don’t believe that falling in love at first sight is as full of lust and emotion as people assume. I would say I fell in love with Alis at first sight — at first reflection.Was she beautiful? Absolutely. But her physical beauty, while undeniable, is not the same as her beauty as a person. Her demeanor, her honesty — that is why I can say I loved her at first sight.
Love cannot be claimed without intimacy. Intimacy, in its purest form, is vulnerability, honesty. When I saw her reflection, I saw her. I saw in her something that cannot be described, explained, or formulated. My honest self recognized her honest self.Nos âmes se connaissent.
The sound of Sunny and Otis running and playing in the backyard slowly reenters my periphery, but the spell I’m under with this woman is not broken. However, it does serve as a reminder that we are not, in fact, alone. I press a chaste kiss to her mouth and begrudgingly separate my body from hers, adjusting my erection to be less noticeable and praying it softens completely before Sunny returns inside.
I clear my throat and ask, “Would you like a tour?”
“Not right now, thank you,” she replies. Who has ever turned down a tour when visiting someone’s home? Returning my wandering gaze to hers, I see that her smile is mischievous and tantalizing, a beckoning strangely familiar, though an expression I’ve never seen from Alis.
“No? You don’t want to see the rest of my house?” I ask, perplexed.
“Sure, I do. But if you walk me down that hall, out of sight, and reach from that sliding glass door, neither of us will be able to control ourselves. Not after what just happened against that wall.” She nods her head toward where I, not three minutes ago, had her confined. Here I was trying to escape the lust-filled haze overwhelming my senses, and my subconscious was busy scheming against my better judgment.
I exhale a laugh, shaking my head and running a hand through my hair. “You are not wrong,” I admit, then turn to the kitchen to start preparing lunch. “Let’s make something.”
“You’re cooking?” Alis asks, curiosity piqued. “We’recooking,” I correct. “I asked you over to spend time with you and Sunny, tofamiliarize the two of you with my house, my space, Otis. I want you both to feel at home here. Part of feeling at home is knowing where everything is in the kitchen.”
“Sounds great,” she says, approaching the counter bar and leaning forward on her elbows. “What arewecooking?”
“We,” I say, emphasizing the word as I rummage through the refrigerator and pull out bacon, butter, and cheddar slices, “are making the best grilled cheese sandwiches you ever tasted.”
The sound of Alis’s genuine excitement confirms I made the right choice in deciding to spend the day at the house, low key, as if this was any typical Saturday in the home we shared. Pushing off the bar top, Alis walks around the counter and asks, “What can I do?”
—----------
It’s nearly 5 p.m. when Alis and Sunny prepare to head back to their apartment. Sunny bids farewell to Otis, who whines and licks her cheeks in protest. Today has been everything I’d hoped it would be — relaxing, entertaining, and comfortable. Alis hands off her keys to Sunny and says she’ll meet her in the car, and aside from her obvious reluctance to depart from Otis, she tells me goodbye and skips out to the car.
I envelop Alis in my arms, hands rubbing up and down her back. “Thanks for spending the day with me,” I murmur into her hair. I feel her smile against my neck, “Thank you for having us.” I look down and meet her eyes, her smile soft, content, happy. I kiss her gently, planning to say goodbye but then remembering the upcoming faculty dinner. I’ve been so wrapped up in playfully bantering back and forth with Alis and Sunny all day that I forgot all about asking her to accompany me.
“Has Abigail mentioned anything to you about a special J-Term class?” I ask, feeling out whether or not Alis is privy to the details I was so clearly instructed to keep to myself.
She thinks for a moment, and says, “No, why? Should I know about it? Does she need help with anything or for me to teach again? I don’t have anything special happening over the break so I can help if she needs it.”
And that’s one more reason why I love this woman. Her first thought is to offer assistance, to lessen someone else’s burden if she can be of service.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I say, tucking her loose hair behind her ear before kissing her forehead. “I can’t go into too much detail because we’re still wooing the powers-that-be, but a few guest lecturers are flying in this week to talk details and Abigail is hosting a dinner reception at her place. I’d like for you to accompany me. Not as a student, or as my grader, but as my girlfriend.”
Brow creased, Alis considers my request and says, “A faculty dinner.”
“Yes,” I affirm.
“As your girlfriend.”
Again, I nod and say, “Yes. As my girlfriend.” For a moment I wonder if she will deny my request, but instead, she asks, “Who will be there?”
As much as I’d love to name-drop and brag about a possible collaboration between MPU and Jonathan Ryan, Abigail has yet to release that information. Not that I think Alis would say anything, but I gave my word. I decide to be honest, but vague.
