My friend
and I had been anticipating this Friday evening for weeks. We rode the
subway, talking and laughing excitedly, so happy with ourselves and each other. Our desired restaurant was quickly discovered, and we made short work of a series of
delicious drinks. It was still warm and light out. We needed nothing but each
other’s company. Full of alcohol and positivity, we languidly meandered about
Hollywood before finally settling into our bar. I scanned the
crowd, purely out of habit. A
group of men with a British girl playing a bar game caught my eye, and I seated myself and my friend strategically. As we
sipped our drinks, I observed them out of the corner of my eye. They were very aware of themselves, looking around at everything and everyone while being careful not to meet any returned gaze. They spoke loudly, deliberately. I gradually
lost interest as the night went on. We were getting ready to leave when I decided – I still don’t know why, really – to talk to a man who had just arrived and was standing at
the table next to ours. I teased him, and he responded enthusiastically. Soon, I
found myself seated again and talking to him still as his friends approached.
One seated himself at the table, and I found him much more visually appealing
than the man I first addressed. It was dark. I could only make out a bit of him
– he was tall, blonde, dressed very casually. But it was something about the
way he leaned over the table towards me, face resting on and slightly obscured by his hand. Like he was afraid and at the same time trying his best to conquer it. We talked for a long time. About what, I forget. It
was something I hadn’t ever done before – speaking so closely and for so long
with a complete stranger. His friend left us, and we continued to talk. His
group announced their desire to seek food, and he waved to them and remained
with me. At last, I realized that my poor friend had been entertaining his
friend for a while. It was time for us to go. He hugged me, a hug full of
boyish enthusiasm and excitement.
I already
know that I do not love him. I am fond of him, and I don’t mind his company. He
fills an empty space for me. However, I know that this isn't love because he, by
himself, is not enough. We need to be doing things. Sitting together at a table
in a pretty restaurant, with other couples on dates all around us. Walking
together down the street, him reaching back for my hand or ruffling my hair or
pulling me closer with an arm around my waist. Sitting together in his car.
Sitting close together on his couch. Cracking jokes at his roommate as though I've known him for more than a few hours. Kissing him until he finally picks me up – one
of my favorite things that he does – and carries me effortlessly through the house. Lying in his bed in his sparsely
furnished room, completely comfortable with each other’s bodies. He could easily be replaced. I know
this. And yet, I’ve already shed tears over him and delayed my move back east
for him. Why? I think it’s not because of him alone, but because he represents
a lot of things for me – the languid days of summer, experiencing my hometown
as an adult, taking a break from the oppressiveness of medical school, freeing
myself from my very painful past relationships. When I leave him, I
leave the comforts of my summer fantasy world. I will need to start studying, to see familiar faces and places full of unpleasant memories.
And I will have to face it on my own.
