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I was 10 years old when I decided to be with you.
You made a bad situation better. I held so much anger back then. But you told me I changed something in you. I was young and headstrong, and those words changed something in me, too. To think that something I said in passing had struck a chord with you felt so surreal. It felt like I mattered to you.
I guess I liked that. I wanted to keep that feeling.
I was too shy to speak when the time came. I felt guilty and selfish but also certain about what I wanted to do, and what I needed to do as well. I found you and I was too shy to speak. It didn’t need to be said.
I held out my hand. I held my breath. I swallowed my tongue along with my pride.
Your fingers were cold from the mountain air. So were mine. We didn’t lace our fingers, but your thumb traced the back of my hand and I felt like I mattered. We stayed like that until our hands were warm. When we let go, a rush of something strange crept across my entire body.
I felt light…but it was hollow.
I was 11 years old when I realized I liked being with you.
We were behind closed doors. There were assignments due so you and I were focused. You scribbled wildly in a composition notebook and flipped through textbook pages. A mug half full of dark roast left yet another ring on the tabletop of your desk.
I was focused, too, but not on the school work.
You had a bandaid on your ring finger. I don’t know why I fixated on it or why the memory is so clear to me now. You often had bandaids from various burns and cuts. I couldn’t stop staring, wondering what you had done to the skin beneath it. Your fingertips thrummed in a peculiar tic along the desktop as you read.
I reached for you.
When my hand reached yours, believe me, I was as shocked as you were. You tensed at the sudden contact, but you didn’t pull away. I laid my palm flat against your knobbly knuckles and laced my fingers to fit snugly right between yours.
I’ll never forget what you said.
“Craig…” you looked up at me and made a skeptical little sound with your tongue. “No one’s looking. You don’t have to do that.”
But still you didn’t pull away. You could have but you didn’t and I stayed in place, too. It was natural by now, and I wasn’t doing it for anything but my own desires anymore. It was sort of a startling feeling, to realize that. But I stayed quiet and still, almost like I had snuck up on a rabbit I didn’t want to frighten.
“I know,” I looked down as if the old carpeted floor was very interesting, but the in truth I felt scared to look at you. “But I kind of want to…”
You didn’t say anything. I could feel heat rising to my face and I felt like such an asshole for wanting something so selfish and stupid. Time seemed to be at a standstill. But then I suddenly couldn’t bear the unknown and I ventured a glance up at you.
You were smiling.
It was small and subtle but it was there and it was all I needed to mirror it back. Then your palm flipped over to face mine. I tried not to seem too eager as I righted our fingers and put everything into place. I can’t remember if it was you or I who gave that first furtive squeeze, but I was so happy.
I was 13 when I knew I wanted to kiss you.
We were both a mess of hormones. I would linger a little too long when we hugged. I would notice things I hadn’t before- the way our knees would bump together when we sat on the cafeteria benches at lunch, the way your shoulders were starting to fill out, the way you’d bite at your lips when you were anxious.
Honestly, you’ve always been anxious.
But the difference was that before, I would comfort you because I was uncomfortable with your emotions. I wanted it to go away. I wanted it to be easy with you. But at that time, I wanted to comfort you because I could get closer to you. I’d soothe your shaking back just so I could wrap my arm around you. I’d wipe your tears just so I could touch your cheeks. The skin was a little rough under the pad of my thumb.I didn’t know how else I could justify getting so close to you. I hadn’t put together how badly I wanted that.
I was 15 years old when I finally did it.
The warm, familiar scent of overroasted coffee embraced me when I went to visit you during your weekend shift at the shop. You were in the back room when I found you, shoulders shaking and arms wrapped around yourself.
My stomach plummeted.
Through the angry tears, you told me how your father berated you in front of the customers. It was over the top and unnecessary. I don’t remember what it was about now. But I remember how much you hated him for humiliating you like that. I hated him for it.
I crouched low and flattened my palm against your quivering back just as I always did. I pulled you from the floor into my arms. My shoulder felt wet. I didn’t say anything but I held you fiercely until you pushed me away and looked directly into my eyes. I couldn’t read the look on your face.
“I hate it here,” you admitted as if I didn’t already know. “I wish I could trash this hellhole.”
I didn’t think. My eyes stayed on you. I pushed the nearest thing I could reach off a nearby shelf. I heard the mug shatter to pieces on the floor.
You gasped.
A manic grin warped on your face and mismatched your watery blue eyes. First there was a hiccup, then a dark chuckle. You shoved passed me and swung your arm across the entire shelf. A cacophony of porcelain meeting concrete exploded on the floor. We shared a knowing glance before taking action.
Whole coffee beans flew through the air and were immediately crushed by dirty sneakers. Logo branded merchandise was carelessly smashed into jagged shards. Pastries that were once beautiful and delicate were hatefully squished into an unappetizing mash. Your capricious laughter filled the air like a song of freedom.
Finally you stopped to catch your breath. You stood before me, swaying deliriously. Your hair was wild, and sprouting at odd angles. To me, you looked like the first dandelion of the season, growing between the cracks of the sidewalk. You somehow thrived, vibrant and striking despite the hostile environment.
Your eyes were glazed over in the eye of this proverbial storm. The gravity of what we’d done hadn’t sunk in yet. The adrenaline and endorphins of rebellion were etched all over your face. I acted on impulse for the second time within only an hour.
My hand reached forward of its own volition and I ran my thumb over the mixture of salty tears and gritty coffee grounds flecked across your cheek. My head dipped low and your chin tilted up to meet me halfway. Your lips were dry and chapped but I pressed into you anyway. At first you tensed, but it was fleeting. I could veritably feel your whole body relax into the moment.
My heartbeat was deafening. I was so excited. I was so scared. I was so certain you’d push me away. But you didn’t. It was chaste and fraught with nerves, more like a pair of magnets connected than a real kiss. At the time, I didn’t know it would be the first of many kisses to come. When enough time had passed, we finally broke apart.
You looked up at me with that heartbreaking smile, without a trace of your former sorrow. You had a gentle serenity despite your dirty face and puffy eyes.
“Thank you, Craig,” you whispered so sweetly before parting from my embrace.
You quietly began sweeping up the horrific mess we made. I watched you in silence for a moment before I grabbed the dustpan. I didn’t stop smiling for a week.
I was 17 years old when I realized I had slowly fallen in love with you.
I didn’t want to go to prom and I had kept a sour look on my face for the weeks and days leading up to it. But despite my churlish attitude, I put on my generic rental suit and allowed your mom to clumsily pin the wilting boutonniere to my lapel. It’s almost funny looking back, but my attitude changed the moment I saw you descending the stairs. It was just like a corny ‘80s romcom.
But instead of a frizzy haired girl in a comically poofy dress and heavy blue eyeshadow, it was you. You looked so sharp in your neatly pressed suit, even though your coarse and matted hair was unruly as ever. I’d never seen you in clothing that was properly tailored to your body before, much less in a shirt that had been properly buttoned. It was a visage I was happy to drink in, even though I pretty much decidedly preferred you in your natural windswept looking ways.
You looked sort of shy, embarrassed even, but you stood by my side while your mother cooed over us and took what felt like a hundred pictures. After the short car ride to the high school gymnasium we stood in front of the entrance for what felt like a hundred years. The drone of dance music blasted inside, muffled by the walls. I could see swirling colorful lights spinning in the windows, illuminating the otherwise dreary building.
“Come on, Craig,” your voice echoed in my ears and your fingers curled into my sweaty palm.
I wasn’t sure why but I felt nervous. You guided me into the madhouse inside the school. A sea of laughing cheerful faces greeted us, everyone looking chipper and polished. I felt like I was in a fugue state, stressed and out of my element. We held off on dancing until we were shoved onto the linoleum tiles for a slow song.
I felt myself scowling. Of course, we were used to being watched…but a slow dance felt somehow like an invasion of privacy. Like it was something intimate that made me feel uncomfortable to be seen doing. Even still, I wrapped my arms around your waist and let you drape yours around me, too. The way you looked at me made me hesitant to blink.
We swayed awkwardly in a little circle in time with the gentle song. The low lights cast strange shadows on your face. Over the course of the evening, your once neatly done tie had gone crooked. At some point we grew tired of stepping on each other’s feet and opted to wobble in place instead. The halcyon strums of an acoustic guitar mingled with a tranquil piano melody. I could still taste the sickly sweet punch on my tongue and the smell of sweat and cheap cologne hung thickly in the air.
I leaned forward and let my chin rest on your shoulder, our cheeks pressed side to side. You let out a lilting, contented sigh. My hairs stood on end from the sensation, and a strange feeling that wasn’t at all unpleasant skittered up my spine like a lizard scampering across hot sand. I held you tighter as something warm bloomed in my chest, afraid that if I let go I might float away.
Somehow, despite being lost in a sea of nameless faces, there was only me and you.
It was the same night I realized you loved me too.
“Are you sure?”
My own voice sounded bizarre in my ears. It came out scratchy, husky with lust and shaking with nerves. The condom felt weird on my skin, slimy and tight, and it smelled worse. I felt like I was out of my own body, watching from above and overwhelmed.
Your head rested on your tattered pillow, your legs were warm and wrapped around my torso. The heat radiating off our naked bodies only multiplied under the drape of your familiar bedsheets. Our formerly neat and crisp prom suits lay crumpled and forgotten on the floor.
“I’m sure,” you assured me in an equally raspy voice.
Your cheeks were flushed in the pale moonlight, your eyes were glossy and half lidded. Little particles of dust danced in the beams of light above your face. I lined myself up against you, and you stifled an anxious squeak. I felt paralyzed. I couldn’t move despite wanting it more than anything. I was scared. So many things could have gone wrong, changed everything, hurt you…
I didn’t notice I was shaking.
Your legs went limp and you sat up just enough to pull me down close to you. My sweaty forehead pressed against your shoulder. Your crooked fingers gently carded through my hair and your nails scratched at my scalp. I felt pathetic and ashamed. But you pulled me into a reassuring kiss anyway. Your tongue rolled comfortably against mine and I could taste the salt from your upper lip.
You never stopped kissing me. Even when we broke away to breathe, you peppered my heated skin with kiss after feather soft kiss despite your lips looking so pink and swollen. It was only when I melted into the mattress and was left tingly and boneless did you finally relent. And even then, you pressed a few more slow, languid kisses to my lips, butterfly soft and unabated.
We stayed like that for hours in a sanguine tangle of limbs.
When we finally rose, we lazily dressed ourselves in old, threadbare sweatpants and tiptoed silently through the eerily still halls of your house. We sat outside on the weathered wooden porch and quietly shared colorful popsicles while enjoying the mild breeze of the early summer morning. We ate them in the same colors as the sunrise- first red, then orange, then yellow.
I was 24 years old when I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.
We’d been saving for over a year, but the time finally came to buy our plane tickets and make our official travel plans. I stared at the confirmation screen for seemingly an eternity, buzzing internally with excitement. I had dreamed of seeing the Northern Lights since I was little, and now it was becoming a literal dream come true. I tried to be subtle and I tried to hide my giddiness, but you saw right through my facade. Each day you feigned a coy glance and goaded me into reminding you how many days until our departure.
All throughout the excruciatingly long plane ride we were both too wired for sleep, and I had supposed you were sort of used to that feeling. But I wasn’t. You asked me questions about the cosmos and I eagerly whispered to you in a hushed tone over the roar of the jet engines. You listened for hours, eyes wide and adoration hewn in your features.
Most of our vacation remains a blur in my mind up until the day we were to hike through the wilderness to gaze at the heavens. I teemed with excitement. We grasped at hot drinks steaming in our hands to fight the cold of the night. The steep, black points of coniferous trees marked our path up the mountain to a clearing. The snow beneath our boots crunched and left us a trail to follow back.
Puffs of warm breath swirled around your pink cheeks as you sipped from your cup that had long ago gone cold. We stood alone in the clearing below the heavenly bodies. I strained my neck gazing upward. I felt dizzy in the most pleasant way.
Fluorescent ribbons of green and purple and pink lit up the night sky. They twisted and swirled in ethereal tendrils, wrapping around themselves in an enchanting, unearthly dance. I thought I might never look away. But then I heard your voice.
“Craig,” you whispered my name quietly, urgently.
I turned to face you, and there you were, down on one knee. You gazed up at me, lionhearted and bold, even as you chewed nervously on your lip. My heart clenched and my knees felt weak. A new dizziness hit me like a brick. It was strange- I had always imagined it would be me.
But it was you.
“Will you marry me, Craig?”
I pulled you up from the snow. My eyes were bleary, my head wouldn’t stop nodding feverishly. You slipped the simple tungsten band around my finger and we kissed under the indifferent, celestial brilliance of the glistening heavens.
I was 25 years old when I promised you I would.
It almost didn’t feel real, but I held the certificate stating it was true. The vows were short, and there was no reception. My sister signed as a witness and embraced us both. It was one of the only times I’d ever actually hugged her. We were dressed in matching suits. I remember feeling itchy, but you insisted I’d appreciate the pictures later. I looked you in the eyes, unabashedly professed my love to you, and signed all the paperwork. And just like that, you became my husband. We practically skipped out of the courthouse.
“Four hours until check in?!” You squawked in disbelief when we finally arrived at the hotel. “I can’t wait that long!”
You were never the patient type.
I haphazardly threw the car into park in a back corner of the parking lot. Your hand was on my thigh in an instant. Your face was almost too earnest. I wriggled clumsily out of the itchy pants. They bunched up under the brake pedals and I crossed the divide in the car seats.
The wind whistled through the cracks in the battered windows of my old beat up car, but I couldn’t hear them over your wanton gasps. So this was the life of newlyweds, desperate and eager for an all too familiar touch. The dirty old seat reclined and I propped myself up on my elbows to keep my balance.
Our heated breath fogged the window and our overzealous hips shamelessly rocked the car as we consummated our marriage.
After checking into the hotel room, we ordered a big slice of cake from room service. It was carrot cake, and somehow both too dry and too sweet all at once. We fed each other a bite and grimaced. You picked out all the raisins and flicked them at me.
I was 35 years old when I realized how much I needed you.
Patience gave way to something genuine that bloomed over the years. Over time we discovered how real it was. Your arms wrapped around me for the thousandth time but my stomach still clenched pleasantly. A sensation like that can't be faked.
My hands skated across your bare chest in a well rehearsed rhythm. It was hard to tell if I felt your sweat or my own. Time and again I was galvanized by the ways our bodies moved like flickering candles- so erratic and wild, yet domestic and contained. And each time, after the flames were fanned and the fire burned itself out and the smoke cleared, you would still be there.
I craved this. I needed you. Without hesitation, you gave me your all. The way our eyes met this time awakened something in me. I could see the little yellow halos illuminating your irises sparkling beneath your half lidded eyes. Your body pressed flush to mine. My body was roasting like a blazing ember beneath you, each caress of your lips a forked flame igniting a new spot on my limbs.
The inferno raged on when you finally claimed my body as your own. I writhed in place, each carefully choreographed movement leading us closer to that peak of the pyre. I memorized every angle of your body as my desperate fingers traced your outline, every intersection and slant and corner.
We finally crossed the finish line, burning ourselves out into ashes and collapsed into smoldering rubble. Our heavy breathing, ragged and irregular, deafened me. The weight of your exhausted body pushed me deep into the mattress. I don't know why I felt a deep well of emotion surge in me.
The dance was the same as it ever was but I felt so unflinchingly vulnerable this time. Something in me cracked this time.
“I love you, honey,” my shaking voice spoke softly in the night.
“Mmm,” you agreed pleasantly, sluggishly.
My shoulders quaked and I shivered despite being pinned.
“What’s wrong?” Your voice suddenly lost its former phlegmatic airiness.
“Nothing,” I quickly assured you. “I just really love you.”
It was the first time I ever cried from happiness. I’ll never know what choked me up that night. But I’ll never forget how you held me.
I am 50 years old now and I never want to stop writing our love story.
You’re not much of a morning person. Never have been. That’s why every morning I make a point to rise before you and take what you’ve taught me about making that first perfect cup of coffee. The morning air is brisk. The ice cold tiles of the kitchen floor aggrieve my bare feet.
I find myself once again lost in idle, sentimental thought. I keep it mostly to myself, but I often find myself wrapped up in these quixotic daydreams, reflecting on our shared past. But then again, you’ve singularly shaped me into the man I’ve become. It feels natural to reflect.
The coffee pot gurgles and spits out its final drops. The soft light of the dawn pours through the windows so I can watch the wisps of steam swirl whimsically. Even after 40 years I don’t much care for the stuff but I pour out two cups. I like the idea of sharing with you more than I like the taste of bitter coffee.
It’s cozy in our bedroom. It’s insulated, isolated, and just for us. You’re wrapped tightly in the covers save for your head poking out from the top. It looks like an overgrown baby chick still covered in its yellow downy feathers. Your wild tufts look even more ridiculous than usual. The room is so still, the gentle padding of my feet sounds uproarious as I approach you.
After I admire your calm state for a prolonged moment, I press a gossamer kiss to your forehead. It immediately rouses you.
“Fuck off, Craig,” your voice is heavy with sleep, making your intended vitriol sting less. “I hate it when you do this shit, waking me up before the alarm…”
Your arm flings itself around wildly as you try to slap me away, but your head remains firmly on the pillow so your aim is terrible. An amused smile toys at the corners of my mouth.
“I made coffee,” I state plainly in response.
You perk up immediately. There’s a scramble beneath the sheets and then you’re upright, grasping greedily in my direction until I present you with one of the piping hot mugs. I crawl into my side of the bed beside you. You take your first grateful slurp. I mirror the action, wondering why you still like this acrid concoction so much.
“I’m still mad,” you inform me, but your petulant tone belies the way you lean against me and rest your head on my shoulder. “ARGH, and get your freezing feet off me!”
“No, you get your sweaty feet off me!” I shoot back, sticking an icy toe up the leg of your pajama bottoms.
It all quickly devolves into juvenile kicking and scuffling. Your scratchy laughter punctuates the air in a joyous melody. It brightens the biting cold of the morning. We ease back into a comfortable calm. You swallow another big, eager gulp of your coffee.
“I love you,” I announce, completely unprompted.
“Why?” You scoff and snort skeptically into the mug. “I’m an asshole in the morning.”
It’s true, you’ve been an asshole every morning of your entire life. I chuckle.
“I dunno,” I shrug and amicably wrap my free arm around your shoulder. “Just do.”
But that’s a lie. I know exactly why I love you. It’s not something I can easily quantify into a few short words, though. It’s in the way you are so impatient and yet you’ve waited your whole life for me. It’s in the way you look at me with the same ardor you held in our youth.
I love you because my days always end with you. Then when our nights begin and we lose sleep, we always find solace in each other the next morning. I love you because you find ways to make a bad situation better. You ignite something in me that drives me to do the same for you.
When I feel insignificant, you remind me that I matter. When the world feels too big, you remind me it’s okay to be small.
“You’re stupid,” you laugh and nuzzle my chest.
“And you smell bad,” I reply in the most stoic voice I can manage.
I make a waving gesture in front of my nose for added effect. You raise your arms up in kind, clearly hoping I’ll get a good whiff.
“A shower will fix my problem,” you smirk at me, mischief twinkling in your eyes. “You’ll still be stupid.”
This earns you a belly laugh and you smugly grasp your half demolished mug of coffee. The magic potion is taking nicely to your demeanor, I note. You resume cuddling up to me.
“I love you, too, Craig,” your voice is small and authentic.
“Why?” I tease you. “I thought I was stupid.”
“You are,” you heartily agree. “Thank god you’re handsome and bring me coffee.”
I laugh again. I want to cherish this moment. I want to grow old with you and sit in each other’s company with knitted blankets wrapped around our frail little shoulders. I hope this memory will bury itself in the folds of my mind and tuck itself away in a precious little corner.
Loving you was never a choice. It was something that happened organically. It was the realization that the more often I look at you, the clearer I see myself. It’s a tapestry of delicately woven images reflecting our utmost truth. But if it was a choice, I’d willingly concede every time.
I will always love you, Tweek.