We met two years ago today.
We’d exchanged a few emails and a couple of phone calls. I’d stood her up twice, once to help out a friend on short notice and once because I (really) got sick.
Our first date was five hours long, our second twelve. She struck me as kind of uptown when we first met but that faded fast as we got to know each other. And I’d read her writing before we met, so I knew her heart was amazing. I’d already decided that, even if I wasn’t romantically (or otherwise) attracted to her, I had to know her.
She was more cautious at first: ‘You’re in a relationship; I’m still dating,’ she told me once. Or twice. Or maybe three times, but the smile was getting broader by then. I was more ready to gamble, because I felt the possibility of something wonderful ahead, something I couldn’t be sure of because I’d never experienced it before.
I turned out to be right, which is an astonishment almost every day. We’ve had a wonderful time from the start. The fun comes not only because we like many (by no means all) of the same things but also because we really appreciate each other. We’re dream best friends, we crack each other up and we’re able to be ourselves in the other person’s company, which turns out to be the greatest of gifts.
So now I’ve moved to Manhattan. I have city traffic and ambulance sirens outside the window instead of Staten Island’s chirping birds and hot rods. But the peace I’ve been looking for all my life lives within these four walls, lives between the two of us. For the first time in my life, I come home every night.