Inevitable

I’m sure that he brought me in here to delay the inevitable: we will break up once this movie is over. Once the lights flicker on. I’ve made my decision and not even McAdams and Gosling can convince me to give this another shot. Really though, it’s my own fault for agreeing to go into the theater when I was prepared to give my breakup speech the minute I saw him. Maybe I was wanting to delay the inevitable too.

Now here I am with 100 minutes left on the clock. I sneak a peak to my left and the blue light of the screen lets me catch the faint outline of his hooked nose—so distinct I could pick it out of a lineup and have, in fact.

I first saw that nose on Tinder. The conglomerate of his features make him handsome, or at least striking, and, really, even if he were absolutely plain I would have been in no place to judge. I’m average height, average sometimes blonde and sometimes brown hair, sometimes feminine and sometimes masculine, sometimes pretty and sometimes nondescript. We sent a few direct messages. He liked my knowledge of what would have once been obscure Tarantino references. I liked that he responded to me almost instantaneously. He made me smile and we decided to meet at Bert’s.

Bert is gray haired and crotchety. His spot used to be a dive bar until his daughter convinced him to update the cabinetry and get a credit card reader. Now he has to deal with clientele that expects craft beer and merlot, while still selling the occasional PBR. Bert has an island in the middle of the bar with his newly polished red cherry cabinets installed to float above it.

I got to Bert’s about 5 minutes past the hour for our date. I’m fashionably and carefully late, having been sitting in the parking lot for the past 10 minutes, waiting to come in until afterwards so I don’t appear overly eager. I’m the only person on this side of the bar and, looking across, I see six men standing around on the other side. The hanging cabinets block the top half of their heads, so I start looking for other clues as to which one will be mine. I spot the nose third from the right, take a breath, and make my grand entry.

I check my watch. 90 minutes left. I’m really not paying any attention to this movie. It’s fine. I’ve seen it already. Besides, it offers Jeremy a distraction from my audible Lamaze breathing. Nothing can distract me though from the hair standing up on my forearm, just a centimeter from his with static connecting us like something physical. It’s like I’m in the middle of a race and I can’t relax until it’s over. 87 minutes. There can’t be another 87 minutes in this Act of my life. I’ve made the decision, I know it’s for the best, it has to be over now and I can make it happen. All I have to do is leave. Pull him with me and leave. Or just leave, and he’ll follow me. If he doesn’t, maybe it’s a sign. But I don’t need a sign, I’ve already decided.

I’ve decided.

I’ve decided.

Don’t freak out. Lamaze, remember. If Lamaze gets women through childbirth, it can get you through the next 87… no, 80 minutes. Thank god; time moves.

I feel his arm bump against mine. I’m pretty sure he did that on purpose. It bumps against mine again, but this time just stays there. Not really a bump but instead a collision. His skin warms mine, not unpleasantly. Like a little patch of sunshine that has decided to spotlight itself, the warmth spreading to my heart.

Jeremy, who always comes when I’ve called. Jeremy, who leaves me shiny little gifts on my doorstep like a crow that took a liking to me. No. Jeremy, who impulse buys and is terrible with money. Jeremy, who asks me for money when he’s late on rent, again. Jeremy, who sweeps the hook of his nose along my cupid’s bow and whispers he loves me.

I love you, Sarah. He had whispered it to me and it caught me off guard and snapped me away from reality. We were in the middle of the golf course at hole 7 and were absolutely not going to finish hole 9 before it got dark. I’d been anxious because he was careening the golf cart backwards along a path clearly marked WRONG WAY and I was sure we were going to get in trouble from the course marshals. Okay, maybe careening was too strong of a word, but we absolutely were going faster than a golf cart has any business going. But then he stopped the cart and said, Look around, there’s no one here. We’ll be okay. I love you, Sarah.

I did what he said and looked around at the smooth rolling grass devoid of other humans. I took my breath in and let it out, along with my anxiety. He had helped me realize there was nothing to worry about and that it was okay to breath. I looked at him and felt him lightly press the side of his nose to the left side of mine. I love you, Sarah.

62 minutes. I look at him again, this time straight on. He notices and turns his gaze to meet mine. I take a deep breath. And out. I slide the pads of my middle three fingers along his palm up from his wrist to lock my fingers between his. Maybe there is no such thing as inevitable. We can try another day.

My breathing turns from thick and overtly measured to easy relief and, as the weight leaves me, I know I’ve made the right decision.

I settle in beside him with my forearm settling onto his and just sit back to enjoy the movie until the lights come back on. No more counting.