I didn't know what to expect from this weekend. I am in Chicago for the Pink Party, the fundraiser event that your sister Berkley, and her husband Bob, founded to honor their beloved baby Jane who was born asleep 3 years ago. It is the event we met at. It is our two-year anniversary. A year ago, we attended this event arm-in-arm. I wore a European pink, chiffon, and sequin strapless gown. I'd bought it in Vail one day when you went skiing and I stayed at the house to work. I felt like a prima ballerina at the party that night, our one-year anniversary. You coordinated your outfit with my dress, as you always loved to do. We shopped together to find you a tie and a new shirt. Initially, you planned to wear a black suit – you felt it was appropriate for winter – but I convinced you to go with your grey one – a Hugo Boss we bought together for you in Austin. You looked so handsome in a suit. It was you in a suit that caught my eye two-years ago at this same event. But, I don't get to see you in a suit tomorrow. It is not only our two-year anniversary, but also marks three months since your death. I have my pink dress, but I don't have my love. Your sister has the memory of Jane, she has her newborn son, William, but she doesn't have her brother. Anxiety is creeping up into my chest. My skin feels chilled. My throat is raw. My heart beats loudly, a reminder that it is still working even though it's in severe pain. My eyes are cast low. The sound of my own laughter is a shock to my system; it hits like a static shock when you unknowingly touch a charged doorknob or railing. My dreams are cursed. My thoughts feel claustrophobic in the confines of my skull. I feel lost.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Holiday Cheer
When I left Austin, I sold my house and my possessions, I quit my jobs and said goodbye to friends to be with you in Colorado. I had no doubts. I did not look back when we drove down my street that December day in the moving truck. You, Kira, and I – the wind in our hair, the future at our fingertips, and the past in our back pockets. I didn't have a fear in the world. Neither did you. We were so sure this was the right path for us. Nothing could go wrong. We were so incredibly in love. We were so incredibly happy. And it stayed that way.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
The way we move
I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
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