Et Cetera And So Forth

It’s late afternoon and the sunlight through the massive windows of the library is fading fast. We give each other a look that says we’re both finished studying for the day and pack up our satchels. As we leave the library, he holds the door open for me and we start heading the three blocks back to our dorm. I revel in the red and orange leaves that swirl and crackle beneath our feet but the wind is sharp so I scrunch down a bit and raise the collar on my jacket.

As we cross the quad, two guys on bicycles round a blind turn and almost run into us. They race on, oblivious, but the near collision has forced us to grab hold of each other. It’s just for a second. He then releases me and, a moment later, we continue on, walking side by side. As we cross the main road that divides the campus from the dorms he unexpectedly reaches for my hand. He misses and we just brush knuckles. Two steps later, he tries again, this time manages to grab hold. His fingers are cold. The firmness of his grip startles me. He seems to sense this and relaxes his hand a bit. But then, as if to compensate, he starts walking faster. I increase my stride to keep up.

As we approach our dorm, he releases my hand and paces over to the park bench that sits to the right of the entrance. He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and finds the cotton handkerchief that, he says, was a long ago gift from his mother. He unfolds the handkerchief and uses it to swish away leaves that have collected on the bench. First one side, then the other. He refolds the handkerchief, replaces it—this time in his rear pants pocket—and takes a seat at the right end of the bench.

I take that as an invitation. I sit down on the bench midway across from him. He turns towards me, but not fully. He has trouble doing that. It’s like he’s always at a forty-five degree angle from everything. His gaze is in some middle distance over my shoulder. It’s clear he has something to say. He opens his mouth, hesitates. It’s gotten colder and I can see his breath, water vapor levitating and then vanishing. He closes his mouth. I give him the time he needs.

He turns a bit away from me, straightens his spine, and then says, “We’ve been seeing each other for seven weeks now—”

“Eight,” I interject in the spirit of accuracy. We met during freshman orientation, eight weeks ago to the day. I remember the exact moment we turned and knocked into each other, both in a hurry and focused on doing something we thought at the time was important. Whatever it was, it was not at all important.

He gives a quick nod to acknowledge the correction. “Yes. We’ve been seeing each other for eight weeks now and I find the truth is that I enjoy spending time with you.” He pauses. There is more. I wait. He then says, “I enjoy spending time with you, et cetera.”

It comes out stiff and practiced, but he eases back into the bench, satisfied with his declaration. Still staring off into space, he waits for my reply. There is space between us on the bench but I sense his pulse is racing. A side of me wants to say something quick and witty and charming in response. But his words have taken a tremendous effort. I take a moment. Another. Then I start.

“The way you cross your arms when meeting new people. The way you flinch when someone touches you unexpectedly. The way you sit silent when out with my friends then blurt out something really, really inappropriate. The way you separate round foods from everything else on your plate. The way you shut down when you think you might be coming down with a cold, which is quite often. The way you get flustered when anything mechanical goes out of whack. The way you pout when I get bored watching a movie you wanted to see. The way you insist on watching that movie, even if it’s truly godawful, all the way through to the last of the end credits. All the ways you’re more stupid than me.”

As I talk, I notice that his eyes have shifted. They are no longer looking at something over my shoulder. They are staring directly into mine.

Unable to hold his gaze, I look down at my hands, now folded in my lap. I take a deep breath and continue.

“The way you stick to your position even when most everyone else says you’re wrong. The way you turn the corner of the pages of a book you’re reading when a phrase hits you just right. And the way you then read those same pages to me later, breathless, waiting for my reaction. The way, when we’re walking down the sidewalk, you position yourself closer to the street so as to protect me from traffic. The way dogs you’ve never even met run up to you and sit at your feet, as if eager for your approval. The way you then crouch down to pet them as if they were your very own. The way I laugh with you. The way I can laugh at you. The ways you’re smarter than me, that somehow balance the ways I’m smarter than you.”

I hesitate. My own pulse is racing now. My mind can barely keep up with all the ways. I add one more.

“The way you hold my hand.”

Out of words, I look up and see his eyes are still locked on mine. He’s edged closer, our knees are touching, and I see something I’ve never expected. A single tear forming at the corner of his right eye. It might be from the cold, but I think not. When I look down, I see that at some point he has reached out. His hands have returned to mine, encasing them, warming them.

Then, finally, after all that, I say, “I enjoy spending time with you as well, and so forth and so on.”

He smiles his crooked half smile that I’ve come to cherish.

Going forward will be, by turns, comical and frustrating and maddening and surprising. And difficult. But who wants easy?