I don’t know if anyone else does this, and it really might be a cruel thing to do, but lately I’ve been just wanting to nuzzle myself into people just through brief little impact moments. Where it’s inconvenient but only for them. Making statements during the most subtle of times that occurs and reoccurs in our lives. Like abruptly kissing them just before a waiter reaches the table to take their order. Or bringing cherry popsicles along on a summer’s night walk. Or cooking some sort of delicious sweet every Sunday night. Apple pie, maybe. Introducing them to classical tracks that make your heart ache. Bringing them to pick up flowers at local markets and tucking it along their ear. I don’t know. Just because, if you ever lost that person for good, the foundations of those things would never cross their mind without you written all over them. They’d feel a pit in their stomach on a wonderful date as the waiter headed in their direction. Popsicles would bring them back to your sticky skin, and the dark night of heat. The smell of warm apple pie would place them back in the apartment you two shared, and all over again it’d be Sunday night. A pause in an elevator or market when Tchaikovsky begins to play and they’d hear you humming along with it. When they go to pick out flowers for their significant other’s anniversary, or birthday, and all they can think about is what you told them it meant, and your favorites, because not many people have such love for things like that.
I want people to remember me like this. Sudden lip-locks. The smell of Apple Pie. Tchaikovsky. Running bath water. Sweet skin and melting popsicles. Windows open. Unfinished books. Flowers. Down blankets.
I need them to remember me like that."
In the fall of 1973 I was studying as a freshman at NYU, and after failing to make my initial train home to Maine, I was rushing through Grand Central on the evening before Thanksgiving 1973 when I spotted you, emerging from one of the railways, with a look of utter confusion on your face. You had the blondest hair I had ever seen, and a plaid dress. I had never seen a plaid dress before.
I was, in those days, terribly shy, and if I am honest with myself, I’ve never shook that stubborn sense of timidity or loneliness in crowds. To this day, trying to explain the uncharacteristic courageousness that seized me in that moment, and inspired me to walk up to you and say “are you lost?” is almost completely beyond me.
You were studying at Olberlin, and on your way to spend Thanksgiving with your aunt in Jersey City. After explaining to you where you could get a bus, I asked, in spite of knowing it would mean sacrificing my last chance to spend the holiday with my family (and likely infuriate my over-protective mother), if you wanted to get a drink and you said yes.
We walked out into a rainy Manhattan street and ducked into the first (cheap) bar we saw, where I ordered us two bottles of beer. Now in my 50’s, when with any luck a man might finally begin to acquire that elusive thing called wisdom, I know that there is nothing more exciting yet rare in life than making a true connection with someone. I have always been too sentimental for my own good, but in all honesty, I have never felt more at ease with anyone than I did laughing and talking to you that dimly lit midtown bar.
When I confessed that I purposefully missed my train to keep talking to you, you smiled slyly and said “well I guess it’s only fair that I miss my bus.” With no money for a cab, we walked to my Lower East Side dorm room, which was deserted aside from my German classmate Franklin, who kindly gave us a half-finished bottle of red wine.
We made love that night, and in the morning coached one another through shaky phone calls to our angry relatives back home. With the November cold turning the night’s rain into a dreary wintery mix, we stayed in bed all day, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, discussing politics and philosophy. You told me you had never felt “so New York before.”
That evening, you took a bus to Jersey City. A few weeks later I received a letter from California. You sent no return address, and I never saw you again.
I have been married twice since then - once divorced, and once widowed. I have had a successful career as an English professor, and am a proud father. My life has known its share of triumphs and heartaches, of love and loss. Against my better judgement, I haven’t forgotten that day - and, at least once a year, while mowing the lawn, or reading a newspaper, the details come back to me.
Perhaps, if life’s strange circumstances can permit it, we can have a second drink."