When I first met Kim, it was in a classroom in Texas in the much under-loved and under-supported liberal arts wing. A handful of scattered students sat in the room, awaiting their tickets to go to our trip to France-my first trip out of the US, my first flight for freedom.

I couldn't stay, I had to go to work, so took my tickets and left.

Weeks later, we went to Paris. I remember him being around me, being nearby. I remember his quiet attendance and his presence. I remember the first real comment he made to me, and it was pretty spot-on for someone that had never really talked to me before:

It looks like someone brought a lot of baggage with them to Paris.

When he said it to me, we were standing wrapped in coats at the Metro station, and the baggage he referred to wasn't of the physical Samsonite variety.

A few nights later, we spent the night on the top floor, underneath a skylight. The Paris rain fell and sang on the windows, and we didn't touch, we didn't kiss, we just talked. Talked, and fell asleep a little, and then went to bed with the sound of raindrops and whispered conversations that consisted of nothing in our heads.

To this day, I can't remember a single word of what we talked about that night.

Weeks later back in Texas, we attended Dallas' Shakespeare in the Park. It was Hamlet, and the Noble Prince kept us up on a picnic blanket and throw cushions, strawberries and Ferrero Rocher proffered from his shaking hand. I was dressed in short denim shorts and a top with cornflowers on it, with sleeves that slid off my shoulders when I moved. As the night came on and Kim sat across from me, I looked over at him in the light of the stage and thought: I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

As the friendship deepened to the extent where he would slide notes and presents under my front door, to the point where I eagerly awaited his phone calls (long distance, at the time, from Dallas to Arlington.) I stopped minding his long hair. I stopped noticing that he was always so quiet, and started listening to myself, too. And I thought: I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Years later it would be a hand taking mine in Bangkok. The rough hand taking mine, the hand that shook (it shook, shook like hands should shake, shook like I remembered hands shaking) taking mine, softly, into the soft creases. A lei around my neck swung to the beat of our footsteps, and my girlish sundress swept around my legs.

It led to a man that paid attention. It led to a man that wanted to know every little detail and every little history. A man that remembered the stories I told him, a man that listened quietly when the stopper came out of me, telling him things I had never told anyone. And I thought: I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

He even listened to the stories I had of Kim, no matter how hard they were to hear. He accepted that I was fucked-up, even if the fucked-up came at a high price, even if the fucked-up is sometimes hard for him to understand and comprehend. He knew that I was broken, and that in being broken, may only be half-mended with some sticky tape and fractured dreams.

When he would look me in the eye and whisper I won't hurt you, I believed him. And one day early on, I looked at him from across the table and thought: I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

I told him everything there was inside, scouring out the locked trunks and busting open duct-taped moving boxes as best I could. I passed some of my boxes to him to store and purged myself of their memory. He paid such attention that I thought he must understand that I was in the scrap heap, and perhaps didn't even care. I was already mad about him. The logistics were such that we couldn't be together, shouldn't be together, and as he turned those blue eyes on me I thought: I hope that you don't fall in love with me.

But he did.

And we did.

I have discovered some online magazines and am thinking of writing a few things for them.

I've also been thinking about the story I have had running in my head for a few months now. It's growing, and growing in ways that make me comfortable. I have a few bits and pieces on paper, and as it evolves and the people become real to me, I am gearing up to sit down and try to write it all out. I'm a big chicken, really. I'm afraid to put them on paper as I want to do them justice, I want to get it right. It sounds stupid, but they're good people. They're good people with some fuck-ups, and even though we all have fuck-ups, I want their fuck-ups to not intrude on how much I care about them.

And the thing is, I see them in my head. She's a lot like me, too much like me, and it makes me love her and hate her. I hear them talking now in my head, the dialog and the relationship unfolding, the story filling out and growing. And as she sits on the bench just there, and as the stands on the bridge and looks out, I see it in her eyes as she looks at him and she thinks: I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

I hope for great things for her, because if there's one thing that I have learned, it's that that saying leads to an exploration the likes of which you just can't resist. It's the way of it, I think-love always happens when you least expect it, aren't looking for it, and when it's most inconvenient. When last call happens, you think you're there with your agenda, but inevitably we had it wrong the whole time we sat at the table.

-H.

PS-Update at 1:30 pm-I am working from home today, and Angus is safe in Newbury. I am tuning into the news now, hoping (thinking) that the news is about nothing.

If it is something, I'm going to seethe.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:15 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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