My Move

I tried to sleep on the plane, but the memories that turned into dreams and the dreams that turned into memories kept my mind racing the entire flight, making any semblance of rest an utter impossibility.

There we were on our first date pretending to give each other a tour of a place neither of us knew anything about. Do you remember that statue of Sir Johnny Plurplington? I think you told me that he was the first person in the world to discover oranges. And there’s the grand archway that everyone else just walked through without so much as an upward glance. But you and I stopped for five whole minutes while I regaled you with a tale about how it had been this very archway that had once meant the difference between victory and success when the land was invaded by ruthless colonizers and their bloodthirsty greed. We walked away from it laughing until our stomachs hurt, but it still remains, standing as a testament to our ridiculousness alone.

I turned in my seat hoping to shift more than just my position. And I succeeded, but not as I had hoped.

There he was, twirling me around the cobbled streets of Lisbon trying to draw my attention away from the present he’d covertly bought me when I dragged him into an antique bookshop, and was now hiding beneath his shirt. He had no interest in books whatsoever, but he let me wander from shelf to shelf for over 20 minutes before I got worried and went to look for him. I was secretly hoping he had been swallowed whole by a story from which it was impossible to escape. Instead, he stood near the door, patiently and excitedly waiting for me, and quickly suggested that we stop at our favorite gelato shop just down the street before turning in.

The ache in my chest had nothing to do with my cramped seating position in coach, but I tried to convince myself it did. I grabbed a Xanax from my purse and chased it with a plastic cup of cheap airplane wine that I would never be caught dead drinking just about anywhere else in the world. “Please, please, stop,” I begged inside my head.

But even unconscious, my mind refused to quit. From my vantage point atop his kitchen counter, I watched as he made the both of us grilled cheeses. I still had on my heels, and his button-up shirt was soaked through with sweat. But I was hungry, so that took precedence. He cut mine into triangles and covered it in Siracha before starting on his. He let me kiss him after I finished even though he hated the taste of Siracha and only tore ourselves away when the smell of smoke hit our nostrils. He threw the blackened, burnt lump that was once bread and cheese into the garbage, drew me up in his arms, and began to finish what I had started.

Then, I relived the night at your family’s house in South Carolina. The day we spent at the beach for my birthday. The countless hours cuddling on your couch. When you taught me to play golf. Laughing at your impressions of people at the farmer’s market. All the millions of ice cream scoops we compared and critiqued until anyone else would have been sick of the cold, creamy dessert. But not us.

When I woke up, my head was aching with the effort of having tried to force me to relive over two and a half years in a single hour, and no amount of wine was able to make it stop.

Finally, the plane landed and my mind had better things to do than play the “Greatest Hits” of a relationship that had been over from the moment it started. I collected my bags, haggled with a taxi driver until I got a reasonable price, and settled into the smoky air of the back seat wishing that the smell didn’t take me right back to a million evenings on his front porch. Countless bottles of wine, thousands of brilliantly shining stars, and the lingering taste of the cigarette he’d put out just before I arrived.

I tipped the cab driver for driving like a maniac, appreciative that the ride hadn’t lasted any longer than necessary. My hands were once again busy and my mind was focused. Landlord. Greeting. Pleasantries. Tour. Keys. Unpacking. Organizing. Reorganizing. Arranging. Rearranging. The rest of my afternoon was a blur of all-too-familiar tasks that kept me grounded in a way I usually despised, but for once I was grateful. I could do with a little grounding.

Finished, I walked outside for some fresh air… and immediately regretted it.

His absence from my life was more real than the unnaturally blue waters that stretched out for miles in front of the grey-ish white building with blue shutters I now called home in Belize. The sun was setting in spectacular fashion and all across the island people were stopping in their tracks to watch or record this incredible feat of nature that never ceased to take humanity’s collective breath away no matter the regularity with which it occurred, day in and day out. 

I may have been looking at the sky as well in that moment. Although, I equally as likely could have been looking directly at the ground in front of my sandaled feet for all I can recall. I only remember seeing him; his face as we said our final goodbyes only the night before. That perfectly tanned face that had become as comforting and cherished over the last 2 years as the stuffed animal I had refused to sleep without when I was a kid. 

Only when the sun had fully set and my landlord came by to show me the video they had gotten of it did it dawn on me that I hadn’t just moved to Belize. No, I had also walked away from the first man I’d ever loved. And while my charmingly accented and over-friendly neighbor thought the tear that ran down my cheek was due to the beauty of the phenomenon he’d captured, my heart knew better. You see, love – as I had never known, and only just learned – is, at its simplest, having all the beauty of the world before you and seeing only a boyish grin, a crooked nose, and pair of bright green eyes.