My wife and I met through mutual friends of ours. They had just moved in together. Somewhere along their journey of picking out fashionable curtains and matching bathrobes they decided their decor required pictures of other happy couples. We were the latest in a string of failed attempts to pair up all their single friends.
They invited us out to dinner. They assured us it wasn’t a set up. No pressure. Just four friends enjoying a meal and interesting conversation.
The conversation was, if nothing else, interesting. As soon as we were seated, they started arguing about the choice of restaurant. When the appetizers arrived they were trading barbs about forgotten birthdays and thoughtless anniversary gifts. By the time we had finished our entrees they were going on about dead end career plans.
My wife and I barely said two words to each other during the entire meal. Mostly we exchanged awkward glances when the insults from the other side of the table got particularly harsh. I paid the check and asked her if she’d like to get some air. She took my hand as we walked to the outdoor bar. They barely noticed when we left.
She asked me if they’d planned the whole thing so we’d have no choice but to talk to each other. I admitted they probably weren’t that clever but, at least we had a good story to tell people about how we met.
We sat in the warm air, sipping overly sweet cocktails and talking. She had the poise of a forest nymph and the mouth of a dock worker. She pulled the clip from her hair with a sigh of relief and it spilled down her back like a cascade of autumn leaves. Staring at the clouds, she talked about water droplets and winds and wondered what it must be like to be weightless, floating naked in the sun.
“They are actually quite heavy,” I said. “If you were to gather up all the water in a cloud it would weigh over a million pounds.”
She searched my face for the answer to some unspoken question. Then smiled and said, “Tell me more.”
Over the next few days there were texts and phone calls.
Days became weeks.
Her apartment was a riot of random curiosities. Nearly every inch of wall space was covered with framed artifacts. Everything from postcards to pinned butterflies to a disassembled clockwork. Each had its own story. We shared a drink while she showed me a fossil she found on her last hiking trip. The next morning we took our coffee back to bed and she explained where each of the sea shells and bits of drift wood on her night table came from.
I thought of my apartment with its taupe walls and pleasantly functional furniture. The sparse assortment of abstract art prints that adorned the walls.
“You must not like being at my place at all,” I said with a half smile, glancing around the room.
She gave me a puzzled look, then rested her head on my shoulder. “Of course I like it. It’s your home.”
I thought I understood the difference between being alone and being lonely. I was certainly alone, but I talked to people all the time. Polite conversation with a barista. Casual moments with colleagues between meetings. Occasional conversations with friends who made a special effort to stay in touch even though our lives had grown apart. Years of thinking I was just alone.
I laid in bed with her that morning, the curve of her hip peeking out from under the tussled blankets. My fingertips gently stroked the alabaster skin of her shoulder. For the first time in years, I wasn’t lonely.
Weeks became months.
I don’t remember falling in love with her. People think that’s strange, but I don’t remember it. I remember smaller things. The way she’d crinkle her toes at me to get me to rub her feet while we were lying on the couch. The feeling of her fingertips grazing my chest, lulling me when I couldn’t fall asleep. Her smell.
Any time I was annoyed or stressed, she’d whisper obscene jokes in my ear to distract me. Regardless of where we were. A bar with obnoxious patrons. The check out line at the grocery store. My aunt’s 90th birthday party.
She slipped notes into my pocket for me to find while I was at work and hints of her perfume were hanging in the air of my apartment when I got home. Her love was a million little drops of affection that surrounded me when I wasn’t paying attention.
Months became years.
Our first apartment was a one bedroom shoebox with a view of a brick wall. The curtains were plain and our bathrobes didn’t match. We had bookshelves with a curated collection of artifacts, each with its own story. The walls were covered with pictures of us and all the friends we’d made together.
Our wedding was at a modest bed and breakfast with large windows that revealed a broad expanse of sky. The cake was topped with flowers my wife had grown in our window boxes. Her dress was a wine dark red sheath and my boutonniere was a simple white rose. Our wedding rings had two little water drops engraved inside them that no one has ever seen. They were just for us.
A handful of close friends and family were there. Her mother was happy that we made such a sensible life for ourselves. My father was impressed that we were so adventurous. They were both right. We had changed just enough to fit into a life together. To hold onto each other. She was the buoy that kept me from sinking back down into my loneliness. I was the tether that kept her from floating away.
For all the ways we’ve changed, we still look at the clouds together. She sees the wisps of adventure and pillowy promises. I feel the weight of the water.
One day we decided to help out a couple of our friends. My friend had lost his wife a few years earlier. Her friend had given up on dating and was considering adopting all the neighborhood cats. We took them to a late lunch at the same restaurant where we met years before.
Not a set up, we assured them. Just friends enjoying a meal and good conversation. No pressure. The food was better than we remembered. Once again my wife and I shared a meal saying very little to each other. We exchanged approving glances when they complimented each other or finished each other’s sentences. They apologized for monopolizing the conversation. When we left them, they were at the outdoor bar, talking and laughing under a brilliant, blue, cloudless sky.