The Lover's Dictionary (3 page)
Sometimes I worry that this is happening to me in reverse. The older I get, the more I lose my ability to breathe.
breathtaking
,
adj.
Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.
broker
,
n.
and
v.
You knew I was lazy, so you’d be the one to find the apartment. And I played along, partly because I didn’t know how you’d react if I called one afternoon and said, “You won’t believe the place I’ve found.” You wanted to be the finder, so I became the second opinion.
The brokers nearly broke you. I thought it was sweet and almost sad how desperately you clung to the hope of finding civility — even enthusiasm — in the New York City real estate market. But leave it to you, ten days into the soul-draining hunt, to find not only a decent apartment but a broker we’d end up becoming friends with. By the time I got there, you’d already decided. And I quickly decided to let you decide. You were already seeing the rooms as ours, and that was enough for me.
Well, that and a dishwasher.
buffoonery
,
n.
You were drunk, and I made the mistake of mentioning
Showgirls
in a near-empty subway car. The pole had no idea what it was about to endure.
cache
,
n.
I decided to clean my desk. I had thought you were busy in the kitchen. But then I heard you behind me, heard you ask:
“What’s in the folder?”
I’m sure I blushed when I told you they were printouts of your emails, with letters and notes from you pressed between them, like flowers in a dictionary.
You didn’t say anything more, and I was grateful.
cadence
,
n.
I have never lived anywhere but New York or New England, but there are times when I’m talking to you and I hit a Southern vowel, or a word gets caught in a Southern truncation, and I know it’s because I’m swimming in your cadences, that you permeate my very language.
cajole
,
v.
I didn’t understand how someone from a completely landlocked state could be so terrified of sharks. Even in the aquarium, I had to do everything to get you to come close to the tank. Then, in the Natural History Museum, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
“It’s not alive,” I said. “It can’t hurt you.”
But you held back, and I was compelled to push you into the glass.
What did it matter to me? Did I think that by making you rational about one thing, I could make you rational about everything?
Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to save you from your fears.
candid
,
adj.
“Most times, when I’m having sex, I’d rather be reading.”
This was, I admit, a strange thing to say on a second date. I guess I was just giving you warning.
“Most times when I’m reading,” you said, “I’d rather be having sex.”
canvas
,
n.
We both missed our apartments, that first night, but I think you were the one who came closer to genuine regret. I’m sure if we could have afforded it, we would have kept both places. But instead, there we were, in three rooms of our own, which didn’t feel like our own, not yet. You wanted me to think you were asleep, but I caught you staring at the ceiling.
“It will be different once we paint,” I promised. “It will be different when we put things on the walls.”
catalyst
,
n.
It surprised me — surprises me still — that you were the first one to say it.
I was innocent, in a way, expecting those three words to appear boldface with music. But instead, it was such an ordinary moment: The movie was over, and I stood up to turn off the TV. A few minutes had passed from the end of the final credits, and we’d been sitting there on the couch, your legs over mine, the side of your hand touching the side of my hand. The video stopped and the screen turned blue. “I’ll get it,” I said, and was halfway to the television when you said, “I love you.”
I never asked, but I’ll always wonder: What was it about that moment that made you realize it? Or, if you’d known it for awhile, what compelled you to say it then? It was welcome, so welcome, and in my rush to say that I loved you, too, I left the television on, I let that light bathe us for a little longer, as I returned to the couch, to you. We held there for awhile, not really sure what would happen next.
catharsis
,
n.
I took it out on the wall.
I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. YOU FUCKER, I
LOVE YOU.
caveat
,
n.
“I will be the one to leave you” — you whispered it to me as a warning. Fifth date? Sixth date?
I was sure in my heart that you were wrong. I was sure I’d be the one to kill it. But I kept that belief to myself.
cavort
,
v.
“It’s way too late to go into Central Park,” I protested.
“The moon is out,” you said.
“We really shouldn't.”
“Don’t worry,” you told me, taking my hand. “I’ll protect you.”
I had always been afraid of walking through the park at night, but soon there we were, well past midnight in the middle of the Great Lawn, having all that space to ourselves, feeling free enough to make out, but trying to keep on as much clothing as possible. Laughing at our recklessness, feeling the grass and the dirt as we rolled playfully — me on top, then you on top, then me on top — zippers down, hands everywhere — night on skin and such nervousness. We sensed people coming closer and got ourselves back together, riding the excitement until the excitement ended, then gliding on a little farther, buoyed not by thrill but by happiness.
celibacy
,
n.
n/a
champagne
,
n.
You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I’ve forgotten — is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what’s going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing’s going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday mornings with champagne.
You touch the bottle to my leg — I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in your other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of Kleenex, the tumbler of water.
“The thing about champagne,” you say, unfoiling the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, “is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it’s a celebration, so there’s no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you’re sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time.”
You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour.
“But why?” I ask as you hand me my glass.
You raise yours and ask, “Why not? What better way to start the day?”
We drink a toast to that.
circuitous
,
adj.
We do not divulge our histories chronologically. It’s not like we can sit each other down and say, “Tell me what happened,” and then rise from that conversation knowing everything. Most of the time, we don’t even realize that we’re dividing ourselves into clues. You’ll say, “That was before my dad left my mom,” and I’ll say, “Your dad left your mom?” Or I’ll say, “That was right before Jamie told me we should just be friends,” and you’ll ask, “Who’s Jamie?” I’ll swear Jamie was on that initial roll call of heartbreak (perfect for any second date), but maybe I forgot, or maybe you’ve forgotten. I swear I told you I was allergic to sunflowers. You might have told me your sister once pulled out a handful of your hair, and you were both terrified when your scalp bled. But I don’t think you did. I think I’d remember that.
Tell me again.
clandestine
,
adj.
Some familiarity came easy — letting myself laugh even though I guffaw, sharing my shortcomings, walking around the apartment naked. And some intimacy came eventually — peeing in the toilet while you are right there in the shower, or finishing something you’ve half eaten. But no matter how I try, I still can’t write in my journal when you’re in the room. It’s not even that I’m writing about you (although often I am). I just need to know that nobody’s reading over my shoulder, about to ask me what I’m writing. I want to sequester this one part of me from everyone else. I want the act to be a secret, even if the words can only hold themselves secret for so long.
cocksure
,
adj.
We walk into a bar, and you’re aware of all the eyes on you.
We walk into a bar, and I’m aware of all the eyes on you, too.
For you, this translates into confidence. But me?
All I can feel is doubt.
commonplace
,
adj.
It swings both ways, really.
I’ll see your hat on the table and I’ll feel such longing for you, even if you’re only in the other room. If I know you aren’t looking, I’ll hold the green wool up to my face, inhale that echo of your shampoo and the cold air from outside.
But then I’ll walk into the bathroom and find you’ve forgotten to put the cap back on the toothpaste again, and it will be this splinter that I just keep stepping on.
community
,
n.
You feel like you’re getting to know all the people on the dating site. It’s the same faces over and over again. You can leave for a year and then come back, and they’re all waiting for you. Same screennames with the same photos looking for the same things. Only the age has changed, mechanically adjusted as if it’s the only thing that’s passing. If you’ve gone on bad dates, they’re still there. If you’ve gone on good dates that eventually didn’t work out, they’re still there. You cancel your subscription. You sign back up. You think this time will be different.
It’s demoralizing and intriguing and sometimes sexy and mostly boring. It’s what you do late at night, when your brain has given up on all the other things it has to do — relationship porn. You scroll through. How genius to call them thumbnails, because what part of the body tells us less? (And yet, this is how I find you.)
Every now and then it would happen: I would see someone from the site on the subway, or on the street, or in a bar. A fellow member of the community, out in the real world. I’d want to say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” And I’d want to say, “Don’t I know you from nowhere?” But ultimately I wouldn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure I wanted them to be real.
composure
,
n.
You told me anyway, even though I didn’t want to know. A stupid drunken fling while you were visiting Toby in Austin. Months ago. And the thing I hate the most is knowing how much hinges on my reaction, how your unburdening can only lead to me being burdened. If I lose it now, I will lose you, too. I know that. I hate it.
You wait for my response.
concurrence
,
n.
We eventually discovered that we had both marched in the same Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Your first time in New York, feeling like you were marching through canyons, the skyscrapers leaning over to peek down at you and your trombone. Me, farther back, crashing the cymbals together, preparing my smile for the minute we’d be on TV. What if Katie Couric had turned to me and said, “The love of your life is here in this crowd”? Would I have believed her? Would it have even been possible, if we’d met then?
confluence
,
n.
The first time our mothers met: my birthday, our apartment. My father, your sister, her kids. How unreal it seemed at first — unreal and forced. It’s one thing to share kisses and secrets and sex and a bed. But sharing families marks the meeting of the rivers. I think it was my dad and your niece who bonded first, over Chutes and Ladders. I can remember how thankful I felt for that one small interaction. My mother tried; yours, not so much. We kept talking and talking, filling the room with words, trying to make a party out of our voices.
contiguous
,
adj.
I felt silly for even mentioning it, but once I did, I knew I had to explain.
“When I was a kid,” I said, “I had this puzzle with all fifty states on it — you know, the kind where you have to fit them all together. And one day I got it in my head that California and Nevada were in love. I told my mom, and she had no idea what I was talking about. I ran and got those two pieces and showed it to her — California and Nevada, completely in love. So a lot of the time when we’re like this” — my ankles against the backs of your ankles, my knees fitting into the backs of your knees, my thighs on the backs of your legs, my stomach against your back, my chin folding into your neck — “I can’t help but think about California and Nevada, and how we’re a lot like them. If someone were drawing us from above as a map, that’s what we’d look like; that’s how we are.”