prologue

The longer I remember, you’re the hardest to forget.
- The Samples, Did You Ever Look So Nice

Even after living here almost a year, she was still quite anonymous in the sleepy little tobacco town. She could run to the grocery store, stop at the school, or wander the aisles of Target and not run into a single familiar person. She didn’t have anyone to meet for coffee, or to take a yoga class with, or to invite for a margarita playdate on Friday afternoons. She became comfortable doing everything alone.

She tried to be excited about the move, and was happy that her husband had finally found another good job, but she had learned fast that southern hospitality, while heavy on the charm, was nothing like the open, genuine friendliness she’d grown up with in the Midwest. She was definitely an outsider here. Her accent and wardrobe, her direct answers, and the quick clip to her pace told anybody who might be looking that she was a stranger. And she wasn’t so sure she was ready to amend herself in order to fit in.

Her heart carried a heavy yearning for the love and familiarity of her life back home. She was tired of all of the introductions and exposition; she missed being with people who knew her. She missed the laughter that started in your gut and made you lose your breath, the kind of laughter that came from history and experience and belonging. And she missed being able to go wherever she wanted without needing her GPS to find it.

Her writing became her constant companion, the replacement for the conversation and the girl talk that was such a big part of her old life. She created a blog in her own little corner of the internet, and poured her heart into each entry, documenting the journey of settling in this new place and attempting to reclaim her body and her life and even her sanity. And before long, this online journal became interactive. People came to read her words and leave her comments, and she would go to their sites and do the same, and before she knew it, she had made a friend.

S: Yay! Now we’re email friends. A whole new
way to pester you for the latest blogger- lingo.

P: Finally! So tired of shouting my answers to your
questions out the window! Love your blog by
the way read it every day.

From the start, her connection with P was unique. While their very first words were upbeat and polite, they were each hiding a different longing. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t looking for him, but that wasn’t entirely true. She was obviously looking for something. She just wasn’t sure exactly what.

P: Loved your post today. LOVED it.

S: You get some kind of sick enjoyment from others
failures and pity parties?

P: Not at all. Totally relate. Love how you
mentioned the envy. I feel that all the time but
hate to admit it. Just have this feeling that at this
age I should be farther along on the needs wants
slide.

Once they began talking with each other, swapping comments and emails throughout the day, that thing she was seeking began to take shape. She knew she was lonely. Missing her friends. Sad and jealous, watching their lives march on without her.

She knew she was dissatisfied with her new town, her new house. With her husband and even her marriage.

She knew she was frustrated. Not so good at being a mom. Not so interested in finishing graduate school or finding a job. Not really knowing what to jump into next.

She was uncomfortable in her life. In her skin.

And so it happened that she met him, and with every conversation, every joke made, every shared interest discovered, every point discussed or analyzed together or understood by him, he became that missing piece.

P: I like chatting with you. Do you have Gtalk?

S: I’m not even sure what that is. Does it require
antibiotics?

She began going about the business of her mornings at a faster pace; one child up and ready for school, other child fed and dressed and given some time to play outside. Errands run. Meals planned. Housework completed. Because she was anxious to get to her computer. Her fingers got itchy to type. To write. To talk with him.

P: Actually couldn't wait to talk to you this morning

S: Really? Why?

P: Just enjoy your company
Find myself looking forward to it

S: That's a nice thing to say. And, if I'm to be totally
honest, me too.

P: good girl

He became her go-to person. Bad day? He’d tell her a joke. See something funny on YouTube? She’d send him the link. Writer’s block? He’d help her through it. They’d talk about everything and nothing, and just like that he was the high point and the focus and the total course of her day.

Their banter was clever and witty and hinted at flirtatious. Their curiosities turned into games of Truth, where every question was excruciatingly personal, and answers possessed that special kind of candor that happens between strangers. She found herself thinking about things she hadn’t remembered in years, telling stories she had never put to words anywhere but in her own mind. Though she spent her days flustered and fidgeting and stumbling over thoughts, she surprised herself with her honesty. The secrets came spilling out. Hers more than his, but some of his, too.

And with every story came acceptance and understanding. Long before sex entered the picture, they were as intimate as lovers. Even more so, because all they had were words. Conversations. Questions and answers and secrets and revelations. They had nothing physical to hide behind, nothing to distract them. They had nothing to do but nestle deep in each other’s minds and hearts and days.

S: So, you and the wife play nice this weekend?

P: Yes ish. You?

S: Yes ish. I threw a teeny tiny hissy.

P: When why?

S: It's so silly I can't believe I'm going to admit to it.
We usually make a big deal out of birthdays, right?
Not so much with gifts, but with all kinds of
spoiling, (sleeping in, control of the remote, no
diaper duty, etc) and for the Whole Weekend.
So, in following tradition, this was My Weekend.
Right?
And there was No Mention. Nothing. Na da. Zip.
So by Sunday, when I was preparing my zillionth
meal, changing another pooper, and doing yet
another chore, I let him have it.
And not in a good way.

P: Dude! What did he say?

S: Well, he felt awful. But by that point anything he
tried to do seemed like he was only doing it
because I cried, NOT because he wanted to treat
me special.
AND, guess whose birthday is NEXT weekend?
Yep. His.

P: He's fucked and again not in a good way

S: Lol. But see, I don't want to do that. Here's my
deep thought for the day. Ready?

P: Hit a brotha

S: Well, I know lots of people that have been
married lots and lots of years. And not very
many of them are all that happy, or nice to each
other or whatever. And I wonder what happened

P: Ok

S: I mean, any number of things that my husband
and I have gone through in the last few years
could be that first step to 'issues' that would start
coming between us . .

P: True

S: So it makes me very nervous to go too far in
anger and hurt feelings and stuff, because I am
afraid of it being that first step to us becoming
like other married couples, you know?
Like, when that switch flips and you stop doing
those extra things for each other.
Like my birthday weekend

P: Yes I know EXACTLY what you mean

S: I thought you might.

P: I feel like you can't control what others do
just your reaction to it. I like that idea because it
puts me back in control of my happiness

S: Wise words, my friend.

Before other people in her real life, she began to seek him out, no longer content waiting to be sought. And within weeks, days even, that vague thing that she had been yearning for? It was no longer vague.

It was him.