It’s like the moment I had possession of my mind and seemed to know every hidden crease and dark fold of my broken heart, I reopened them for occupation.
M-P, a darling new friend from work, invited me to be her date to Marcos’s 50th birthday on August 12th, 2018. I was looking forward to meeting people closer to my age because most of the friends I made at work or socially were younger. I was childless, animal-less, and single in my late 30s which, if you’re straight, is a rarer cohort than Sex and the City would suggest. I wore an oversized sweatshirt and mom jeans like a cool, popular girl in the ‘90s, with my long, wavy hair parted on the side. But the best thing I had going that night was an air of wholeness like a beautiful boat with its hull intact, ready for the storm.
I think about that night a lot and I miss it. Not the life-changing moment I met him, but right before. I wasn’t drinking so I smoked a bit of weed to take the edge off and since I didn’t know anyone but M-P, I visited the bathroom a lot to blow off anxiety and reconnect with myself. I took a short video and in it I say to the camera: “I feel happy and I can’t explain why. I just feel so happy being alive and being me.” Then, as I got myself a plate of bread and cheese, he approached us to speak to M-P. He wore a blue blazer, blue t-shirt, black jeans and really nice leather shoes that were way too clean and un-scuffed for a backyard BBQ. His presentation was much more formal than all the other men at the party dressed in cargo shorts and t-shirts. His wild hair, too, was a bit like a glitch in the BBQ matrix. He thanked her for driving him home a few years ago. I purposely didn’t try to seem too interested because he felt like the kind of person who pretended he didn’t want to be noticed, but really, really did.
I want to write what happened next, but like many gates that I’ve walked through, portals I’ve tripped down, thresholds I’ve slid across, it’s terrifying to capture it all again—can I write it millions of times in case I get it wrong? Or just once? Love is such a fucking thing.
Rimbaud, and her, right before the slaughter