It Just Is, We Just Are

“Okay, so what do you like about him?” Leslie asked as we stood in her kitchen making breakfast.

“He reminds me of David,” I answered as I folded granola into my vanilla yogurt.

“David was a dick,” she replied, placing extra emphasis on the last word. “Pass the granola.”

“No, he doesn’t remind me of David that way.”

“David gave you a pen for your birthday. A pen. And don’t even try and say it was because you were a writer. You weren’t. You were in law school.”

Fine, yes. David gifted me a Montblanc pen for my birthday. It was oxblood red and had a smooth flow to the rollerball ink as it skimmed across the page. No, I didn’t identify myself as a writer at that point in my life. I was merely a creative person trapped in the uncreative world of torts and contracts. I loved that pen. In fact, I still own that pen. It sits in the fourth place trophy cup I won at the 1994 Collegiate Croquet tournament.

Listen, I’m not going to defend David. It’s true. In the end, he was a dick ten times over. He shattered my heart and ground his Ferragamo clad heel into the broken pieces as he waltzed back into the open arms of his previous girlfriend. But along the way, during the span of months that connected our first kiss and our last goodbye, everything worked and without having to even think about it. We were two people who connected on every possible level. Naturally.

“I guess he doesn’t remind me so much of David the person but of the way being with David felt,” I offered up before licking my spoon and placing it in the empty bowl.

“Oh my God, you slept with him. In DC. Didn’t you?” Leslie excitedly asked. “And? I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. My little hussy sister. Was it good? Was he big? But not too big. Too big is such a pain. Literally.”

“You know how you can be involved with someone and you’re constantly thinking and evaluating? Like I shouldn’t call because I’ll appear desperate and needy. Or I shouldn’t answer because he needs to miss me.”

“Um, this better be leading to details about your romp.”

“I don’t think about anything with him. I don’t censor myself. I don’t linger on my flubs and flaws. And while I obviously can’t speak for him, I’m confidnet when I say he’s on the same page. It just is. We just are. That’s how it was with David and that’s how it is with him.”

Leslie remained silent, thinking about what I’d just said. The simple words were clear and concise and yet foreign and unexpected. After a few moments, I strolled over to the sink, rinsed out the bowl and reworked the already cluttered dishwasher to make room. With everything put away, I looked over at Leslie still leaning against the countertop. She remained pensive and still a little longer before offering a formal response.

“Wow, Paige, that’s really great.”

“I know. It really is. Oh, and by the way, it’s romps, plural.”