Postcards

"So where's my surprise?"
"I'm not sure, babe."
"What? Not sure about what?"
"The surprise is not in my hands anymore."
"I'm so confused."

One month into our relationship, I went on a 10-day work trip. Just before I left, I sent him a postcard acquired in Hungary (of all places) - a black and white photo of "je t'aime" scrawled on a wall. It read: "I miss you already!"

After a recent trip to the Phillips Collection, I spied a postcard of the Chagall above. I immediately called him to tell him he'd get a surprise. When? he asked. When you deserve one, I replied.

Four months into our relationship comes another long work trip. I met him for a quick coffee at our cafe before my morning flight. On the walk there I dropped his Chagall postcard in a mailbox. It read: "I think you're wonderful - don't change."*

*Lest you think I'm ever so poignant to come up with such a phrase, think again. Thanks, Josh Rouse.

High Hopes for Another Fine Day

In my head, I would never see him again. I liked how it ended: with a hug and a look that meant, “This is it?” It was storybook. We were in Ireland, in front of the massive gates at Trinity College, and I remember the long walk across the campus, back to my room, thinking that I could go home happy now. I used the last few precious minutes on my Irish Nokia cell phone to call him, hours before my plane took off, and joke and laugh and put an extra sheen on the experience that was meeting him.

It was so lovely. Wrapped up in a package, neatly sealed, tucked in a corner of a country that I would visit again but never really experience in the same way. He was a part of that. The perfect day, inside the perfect 6 weeks.

Today I got a Facebook message.

Subject: Yo!

Hey Lauren,
I dont know how far along your "leave New York, go to culinary school" plan you are but if you're still in NY, I'm heading over to stay with some friends of mine on sunday. I'll be there for 2 weeks (4th-18th), if you’re around we should get together at some stage.
Hope you're well,
graham.

It’s been four years. And now that I know he’ll be here soon, I feel like I can’t wait another day.

Appreciate

I know I don't appreciate things as much as I should. I know I discount the sacrifices that probably went into making me who I am. I know I am the first to complain about anything and everything. I know I don't watch my mouth. I know I say hurtful things. I know I do hurtful things. I know I never pause to think of all the things that go into trying to make a dream come true.

I don't cry. I can watch the saddest of films and the most tearjerking of novels without a solitary tear making its way up to my eye, let alone down my cheeks. If ever I do feel those tears welling up I make sure to brush them away or to swallow them down, to laugh them off with an inappropriate comment that probably makes the situation worse.

But I teared up when I watched this.

And because I'm me, I now feel silly. Because who tears up over a Google ad?

Hot Time

It was hotter than I could ever remember it being in my dark bedroom. I lay sweating, wondering what I could do to lessen the stifling air that seemed to be hugging my body. The fan was no help. I stood up, closer to the window. No breeze. I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. It was warm in minutes. I took a cold shower. The air felt hotter by comparison. I couldn’t shake the choking atmosphere.

I lay back down in bed, my eyes heavy with exhaustion and begging for sleep. I began to drift off when my phone beeped. A picture message. “Yum Cobb salad!” Cobb salad. The LDC was texting me at midnight to show me his dinner, and all I could think was, “Cobb salad? Who gives a shit about Cobb salad? Let me know when you’re eating scallops with champagne sauce. Jerk.”

I was wide awake. It took me another thirty minutes to drift off to sleep again, and around 3:30 I was startled awake one more time. This time it was my subconscious that roused me but I was thinking about the text. His stupid text. Whatever the meaning behind it, I was angry. And I was up again.

Another glass of ice water, but this time I perched on the easy chair in the living room, next to the only window in the apartment that provided a trace of a breeze. I sat motionless in the dark, letting beads of condensation roll down the glass, across my sticky skin, and through the thick air to the wood floor below.

I don’t know if it was the ill-timed text or the ill-timed sender, but at that moment, in the heat, I felt lucky to be alone.

Cooking for one...ain't no fun...

I wash the Tilapia, then pat it dry. Place it in the baking dish, turn the oven on. I mix up some olive oil and spices, break off some fresh basil, and season the fish. Into the oven.

I get the brussels sprouts ready to go. Wash, drain, cut. A little bit of garlic, a little bit of soy sauce. The garlic splutters. The bright green winks at me through the sauce. A little bit of chili powder to add some heat.

The music is on high so that I can hear it over the sound of sizzling sprouts.

"Hey, can you set the table?" I feel like saying. "Dinner's almost ready! Can we scrounge up some dessert? Maybe the strawberries with something?"

And almost I begin "Hey ca - "

Silly me.

Date of Execution

Growing up, and even in my 20s, I had very few straight guy friends. I spent most of my time in dance and theater, where guys are few and far between or, although it is a stereotype, gay. My heterosexual male friends were kept close and valued for the advice they gave and the offers they extended to pummel any guy who treated me poorly.

R. is one of those incredible, reliable guy friends that I’ve stuck close to since high school. He is a serial monogamist and, not surprisingly, proposed to his longtime girlfriend last year. They set a date for August and sent out ‘Save the Date’ cards soon after. I wrote the date in my planner: August 21. But something inside of me knew that I wouldn’t be attending.

R. is marrying B., who has a drinking problem. At one point, her problem got so bad, that R. and B. split up. “I can’t handle her when she gets blackout drunk,” R. said once. And every time B. drank, she binged to the point of blackout. During their split, she worked on “giving up hard liquor” and once she did, they got back together. “It’s only hard liquor that makes her black out,” R. said. This past January, on B.’s 25th birthday, she got blackout drunk off of beer (what happened to that hard liquor rule?) and kissed another guy. She never told R.

Up until this point, I have been elated for all of my friends who have gotten married or engaged. Everyone has seemed to fit so perfectly together, to complement each other, and really benefit from their unions. Except for R. and B. I can not go to a wedding and pretend to be happy for my dear friend and the woman he is settling for.

That little RSVP card sits on my dresser, asking far bigger questions than “Yes” or “No.”

Lonely

It's stupid and it's silly and it's downright ridiculous.

It's not like he was here. It's not like he could hold my hand. It's not like we were eating dinner together every day. It's not like I could hug him. It's still the same. Phone calls. Skype. Text messages. Emails. That's it. That's how it has been for the past however many days. We haven't been living in the same city (or the same apartment) now for the past couple of months. Long-distance. It's already started. Nothing new. Nothing changed. He's still not in the same city and he still can't hold my hand and I still can't hug him and we still can't go out to dinner and we're still not bumming around together on the sofa. Nothing changed.

Except that he got on a plane and now he's an ocean away.

And it's stupid and it's silly and it's downright ridiculous.

But there's a lump in my throat that just won't budge.