Nine years earlier, we were making lemonade.
The kitchen was big. Clean. High ceilings. Grown up. His.
At my apartment, the AC was a negotiation. One roommate said it had mold and was poisoning her. Someone was always leaving dishes in the sink or crying in the bathroom or inviting over a guy who used our towels.
His place had none of that.
His place had central air and heavy doors and quiet.
I was wearing his shirt and watching him cut lemons in half.
He squeezed them one by one into the pitcher.
I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He kept squeezing the lemons.
“I’ve fallen in love.”
He wiped his hands.
“With a boy my age.”
He looked at me.
“Well, two years older.”
He grinned.
“I’m happy for you.”
Before I left, I kissed him.
I hugged him.
I thanked him.
I told him I wouldn’t be in touch, but I would think of him.
Nine years later, I saw him in New York.
It was June. The city was warm and everyone was outside.
We walked by the Hudson at night.
I had wanted him to see me like this.
In my thirties. Working. Dressed well. Not asking for anything.
I wanted him to know I had not ruined my life.
He had aged well.
His hair had gray in it now. His face looked better. He had the same hands.
We talked and walked for so long I stopped thinking about how I looked.
After him, I had been with a lot of boys.
Some of them were old enough to know better.
It didn’t matter.
They had complicated feelings about very simple things.
By the river, I kept getting ahead of him.
I kept turning around to say things.
I kept laughing before I finished my sentences.
He did not tell me what he was working on until I asked.
He was successful in a way that didn’t need to be discussed.
We talked about what had happened.
What had not happened.
Who had died.
Who had gotten rich.
Who had become boring.
At some point, I told him the boy two years older had not lasted.
“No?”
We laughed.
We went back to his place.
It was like I never left his LA house.
The same kind of quiet. Books. Good lamps. A clean kitchen.
We did the crossword.
He knew the old answers.
I knew the new ones.
When I got one he didn’t, I was happy.
I put on music and danced.
He watched me sometimes, then looked back down at the crossword.
I was surprised by how quickly I made his apartment my apartment.
And he didn’t mind.
My shoulders dropped.
I was 32 in his apartment and 23 in his kitchen.
At some point, I lay down on his couch.
I only meant to rest for a minute.
The music was still playing. The windows were open.
I heard him moving around in the kitchen.
A glass.
Water running.
A cabinet closing.
I fell asleep there, in my clothes.
The room was dark.
A blanket over me.
I never felt him put it there.
I hadn’t slept in years.
Loved this line: "I was 32 in his apartment and 23 in his kitchen." <3<3
Complicated feelings about very simple things <3