serious is a relative concept

It seemed sort of serious when he let me help him with his Netflix queue. We decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies in order, interspersed with Mad Men. It took us three installments to get through the first Harry Potter because I kept falling asleep, so we’ve managed to plan our couch time for at least the next few months.

“Oh! Can we add Grey Gardens?
“That’s a girl movie”
“You don’t have to add it.”
“I’ll add it, but I’m also adding this one where Jessica Alba is a stripper.”

This from the boy for whom Netflix recommends the category “Gay & Lesbian Action & Adventure”, which seems pretty specific.

Yeah, planning what movies we are going to watch seemed serious.

He has Torah portions in his calendar along with work obligations and parties.

“Is it ever going to matter that I’m not Jewish?”

He ‘s across the room when I ask; he comes close to answer. He doesn’t say anything I don’t know.

My hands find his chest, fingers up his tee shirt sleeves. He explains, things I knew without asking: It’s important to him, he’d never expect anything from me, it would matter if there were kids.

And this is where we are and my tears are fat and falling and his are more sideways and shiny. And I need to know need to know need to know now. Can we do this? Will we do this? How do we do this?

Can you believe we're really here? Talking about babies?

“I need to know now. I can’t waste time. I need to know now. I don’t want to be old and alone.”
“You won’t be old and alone. You’re loveable. You’d find someone.”

Fatter, fallier tears. Because finding someone to love me is not a problem. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I want you? Lie to me. I promise I’ll believe. Don’t you know? I’ve wished for you over 312 smoky birthday candles, sent the hope of you up into 143 dark night skies toward that first prick of starlight, kissed my necklace clasp every time it falls to the middle with a secret thought of this, and fallen asleep 5840 nights, hoping to dream you into my reality. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how lucky you are? I want to choose you.

But, please, don’t leave.

I have his shirt clutched in my fist.

“No. No. You can’t want me to be with someone else.”

He’s back.

“You’re right. You’re going to be with me. We’ll figure the rest out.”

He picks me up, tosses me on his bed.

The rest we’ll figure out. Every day, we’ll figure out. This part, we know. This is good.

debriefing

If you want to be my boyfriend, there are a few things you should probably know. Like I will flip out if you touch the bottoms of your shoes. For most of my teenage years I’d listen to Sheryl Crow’s “Strong Enough” on repeat whenever I was lonely or sad about a boy, and I still think it’s possibly the best relationship advice a boy can find. I will say, “Look, I made you a present,” and I’ll give you a picture I drew of something like a cupcake in a mirage with tumbleweeds blowing by on what is essentially a piece of trash, but you should pretend you like it. Sometimes I’ll break down on Friday nights for no reason.

And sometimes, panicked, I’ll ask you,

“Is tomorrow Thursday?”

I might even wake you up to ask you.

And you’ll say,

“Well, yesterday was Tuesday, and today is Wednesday. So, yes, that means tomorrow should be Thursday.”

Because you are patient. And all-around lovely.

You won’t ask questions. And it wouldn’t matter because I’ll already be asleep. So you’ll just hold me for a little, thinking about how lucky you are.


~beatrix