Long Talk About Love

Could we even remember what began the conversation? This morning I can’t. It began Friday night—maybe Friday morning. It involved concert tickets, an old girlfriend, coming late to dinner, a clash of calendars, and what a particular word meant. Ah, the devil of two people who love words and who think that language really, really matters.

There was talking then crying. I cried, he cried, I cried, we cried. There was yelling, “Fuck you” from both parties both under the breath and then loud enough to shake the neighbors.

There was “You don’t listen”, and “No, you don’t listen”. Then there was careful and concentrated listening. There was “This is what I am trying to say” as we both struggled to form the right words and struggled inside ourselves for—“What is it that I really want to say?”

We moved together and apart. Went to meetings, practice, errands, and the kitchen. Clothes on and clothes off. The hope appeared in the form of laughter—finally—even as we were saying, “Fuck you.” “Really”, he says, “That’s what I want.” “We should only fight naked” is my suggestion. “Then I’d keep trying to piss you off” he wisely offers.

The love never left the room is what I know now. We talked for days, spiraling then circling, coming back to “This is what I want.” Then a gentle night and lovely, comforting skin on skin. We wake in peace and he goes to get our Sunday donuts and the New York Times.