Leaning
Good to see you, buddy.
Yeah! You, too.
Rough week?
It’s been busy.
Make sure you get a drink. First round is on me. Promotion, baby!
A slap on the back sends me through the crowd of young professionals. We know each other by sight, by business, by alumni. But, our real bonds are in the future. Once we all have kids, we are forged together that way. Now, we can barely stand to hang out in this bar.
I check my phone for the time and take a sip from a draft beer. Twenty minutes and I can leave.
Sarah H. waves at me and then pointedly turns to a guy with a crew haircut and in a lilac polo. We slept together, spent one weekend at a couples’ spa, and left it at that.
I wave at Rachel M. who looks at me as if she doesn’t know me. We met every Wednesday night for three months, and then we didn’t any longer.
Star L. pinches my left cheek, grins, and drapes her arm around her current, new girlfriend. I had slept with her, but she had never slept with me.
We are looking good; we are looking fine. We are too many in this space; we do not touch each other, not even accidentally. We say things that mean nothing.
I tap my phone again. It’s finally time to leave. My phone hand parts the crowd, I reach the counter and
bump into the love of my life – cliché.
She smiles at me – cliché.
She apologizes while I apologize – cliché.
She touches my arm – cliché.
I order us another round – cliché.
We move into a quiet corner even though there isn’t one – cliché.
What is it that you don’t want?
I don’t want to waste moments like these, you know. It’s so easy to touch and go. My whole day can be done by someone, anyone else. There is this routine, routine, routine that I follow to maximize my days. This structure is supposed to bring out the best in me, bring my full potential to the surface, and make my life so much better. But I’m tired having lived so well that I don’t live at all. I don’t have the energy for that.
I hear that. I listen. I lean in. We both lean in, and my body releases this tension that keeps me ready, always ready for , for, for whatever is next. Her finger touches her ear. She is slightly taller than me, but definitely taller.
What are you afraid of?
Being so disconnected that any connection hurts.
***
A hot breeze lifts the left lower part of my white linen shirt. We are crossing the street to get to our hotel. I carry the bag with our daughter’s beach toys and sandy towels. She holds the child’s sticky hand, walks in front, so far away, from me. She is wearing platforms and looks so astonishingly tall.
The glass front mirrors a beautiful family. My eyes look sad. How much damage will this divorce cause?
We speak to the child.
How many colors can you see?
What sound was the most exciting in the zoo?
Where did you hide my phone?
We speak about the child.
We should look into the science camp for summer.
The dentist recommends at least retainers.
She cannot not do the classes her friends are doing.
You will take care of her this weekend.
We do not speak about us.
***
We climb into an airplane. We whisper our vows at the altar of every cathedral in northern Italy; we light candles in every chapel; we linger in every piazza. There isn’t a moment we aren’t touching. Fingers loop around ends of shirts. Then, we buy handkerchiefs at a flea market. She ties one around her wrist and one around mine. The third one connects with both ends and this way we are tied together. So, we won’t lose each other in the crowd, she laughs. So my shirts won’t have mangled ends, I laugh. We look like Baltic dancers, gripping the cloth since touching hands seems indecent. But instead of keeping us distant, the knots pull tighter. Palms nestle elbows – I stand at her back and call, support her up the hills, the stairs, the mornings. While we walk the ancient streets, look for a place to eat or listen to musicians, shoulder props up shoulder. Now, we stand at the Leaning Tower and know this is us: we are twin towers, leaning toward each other. Others take these absurd pictures where through perspective the tourist is holding up the tower. But, we won’t tumble. We can’t for our force fields are equally attracting and opposing. When she leans in more, I hold my strength against her softness. As she rights herself, I follow and move into her sphere. Before I could collapse on top of her, she arches, so our momentum changes, and her sway moves me back. We notice the pause while our glances build ocular pathways and bridges and connections. While we have separately built each floor singularly for the purpose of meeting, we now add layers in accordance with the systems of lines and webs we design. We draw our life plans and widen the scope. If we build higher, we can see farther, so the storms won’t surprise us while the sun would touch us first. We embellish the outsides, so we can flourish inside.
We are that wonderful.
What is it that you don’t want?
I don’t want to waste moments like these.
Then, let’s slow it down. I’ll take my foot off the accelerator, and you engage the brakes, gently. We want to still move forward, but much slower, so you and I can look around, count the steps in each Campanile, breathe into each kiss, feel the pulse of each hand.
Lean toward me.
Do we want to move in?
Not yet.
Do we want to buy a house?
Not yet.
Do we take the next job?
Not yet.
Do we want a baby?
Not yet.