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Previously in Jennifer�s life: A couple weeks ago, I mentioned that the Artboy had offered to help me pack. I didn�t so much decline as choose to not be home. He did, in fact, call me that Sunday night, but I�d stayed at my mom�s. The following morning, he left for Vermont, off on vacation for a week. While he was gone, I emailed him and apologized for not being around, explaining that we�d returned late from the Lavender festival and I�d elected not to travel back to the Apartment. Then I added that on another level, perhaps I hadn�t returned because I didn�t entirely trust myself to �pack� with him, but that I�d still like to see him, so if he wanted to do dinner (somewhere other than my bedroom), he should call me when he got home from vacation.
I got this message back from him on Monday: �Hmmmmmmmmmm�Yes I'm back from Vermont and Montreal. It was fun. Now I need a few days off to rest or something. Came home yesterday for practice ( big show Tuesday ) and I am so sore now. Didn't get to have all that much time to myself and let out some head pressure a little bit but... hmm�So you don't trust me in your bedroom. I don't blame you. I don't know if I would trust myself either. I mean I think I would be cool but my head�s been in a spin lately and I haven't quite touched ground yet. So who knows. I'll leave the packing up to you. If you want to hang out sometime though let me know. I promise my pants will remain on. Talk to you soon.�
I replied, he replied, we made dinner plans for last night.
Fast forward to yesterday. We played phone tag through the late afternoon. I was away from my desk. He was in the shower. I was on the bus on the way home. He was in a dead spot for his cell phone. Finally, we connected and he started toward my house.
I debated on whether or not to change my clothes. I�d come to work dressed for hot weather in a short cotton skirt and no nylons. One new option was too dressy. Another too messy. One looked like I was trying too hard. Standing in front of my closet, I finally decided to just keep on the clothes I was wearing. It was easier than trying to make another decision.
Chris came in as I was brushing my teeth. �Where are you heading off to?� he asked. �Couldn�t I just be brushing my teeth?� I countered. �Yeah, but not likely,� he answered. He had me. I told him I was waiting for the Artboy just as the truck pulled up out front.
I walked out to the porch to let him in. He walked up on his cell phone. The beard was new. A first, in fact. I didn�t love it. He could tell by the look on my face. He smiled. �You�re still in your work clothes!� I invited him in.
Small talk with Chris for a few minutes.
We headed back out, first to the bank machine and then to Bella Luna, one of the few restaurants we held in common. He�s been vegan since March. Eating with him has become something of a challenge. We split a mezzaluna salad. He got the Babaloo pizza�marinara sauce and soy cheese with red onions and green olives. I went with the basic bella luna, mozzarella and sliced tomatoes. He had a coke. I stuck with water. We talked about wine, but I wasn�t sure how the Zoloft would react with it, and he didn�t want to drink alone (another first). The food was good, the conversation easy. No one watching us would guess our history or present situation. When I walked to the bathroom at the end of our meal, I could feel him watching me. I turned and smiled. He didn�t look away.
It was warmer outside than in the AC of the restaurant. He asked if I was interested in coffee. I agreed. We drove off, no particular coffee destination in mind. We traveled by back roads through Brookline, into Cambridge. Passed the Middle East while he filled me in on the details of the band�s show there the night before. I told him that I feared the day I see him on TV. He laughed.
We ended up at a random Dunkin Donuts in Somerville. His iced coffee came out of the back room. We speculated on why. He did some little trick with his straw, then asked me if I wondered why. �No, I�ve seen you do stranger things for lesser reasons,� I answered. He smiled. �Yes, I suppose you have.�
I don�t remember exactly what we talked about. I do remember that there wasn�t any akward space.
It was 10:45 when we pulled up in front of the Apartment again. He asked if he could come in and use the bathroom. While he did, I returned the Boyfriend�s call. �Hi�yes, I�m home. I know. It�s later than I thought we�d be, too. No, he�s still here�in the bathroom�no, now talking to Chris. Yep, in a couple minutes. Then I�m going to bed. No, don�t wait up. I�ll talk to you in the morning. I love you, too. Goodnight.�
Chris, who is on vacation this week, was fixing himself a drink when I walked back into the kitchen. The Artboy declined his offer, saying that he needed to head home and get to bed, as the three hours of sleep he�d gotten the night before weren�t cutting it any more. I walked him toward the door.
We stopped in the doorway to my bedroom. He surveyed my packing progress thus far. We joked about my finally getting the bedroom into a functional setup, after five years and countless rearrangings. He remarked on a framed photo I�d leaned against a box, one our friend Mike took in London, tulips in a park, with a teensy Glen in one of the blooms. I mentioned another photo I�d found in packing and opened one of the Rubbermaid crates.
The �stuff I want to save but don�t need directly accessible� crate. The Memory Crate. The one with the Artboy box in it.
He remarked on a t-shirt I�d packed in there. I pulled it out, then the photo, then a pillowcase that houses an art piece he made for me in the first �leave the Boyfriend and run away with me� phase. The time I did.
I pulled out the Artboy box and uncovered it. Together, we sat on the floor and sifted through its contents, laughing at some of the things I�d thought to save. �Wow,� he said, �I made you lots of stuff. And you kept it all.�
�Of course I did.�
The last thing I pulled out and handed him was two sheets of notebook paper, covered in blue pen. My handwriting. A story I�d written about a night we spent together, but never shared with him. He read silently, pausing to smile a couple times. When he�d finished, he looked me in the eyes.
�Wow. I was a bad boyfriend. And you are a really good writer. Which makes the bad stuff seem worse.�
I laughed. �It wasn�t all bad. If it had been, the box would be empty.�
As I repacked and recovered, he stood up. I walked him back out to the truck. When we got to the driver�s door, he stepped down off the curb to bring us closer to eye-to-eye. �So�I had a really good time tonight. We should hang out again.�
�I had a good time, too. Thank you. I�m glad we got the chance to do this.�
He leaned forward to hug me. As always, I hugged him tightly. We stood like that for a long time. I stepped back. His voice was quiet in my ear. �That was good. I don�t get lots of hugs these days.� I responded by hugging him again.
This time when I stepped back, his arm stayed around my waist. Our eyes locked, we smiled at each other. My heart beat a little faster. And then�one kiss. One very gentle kiss. Almost not there. But there.
We looked at each other again. Both stepped apart. He opened the truck�s door. I stepped toward the house. �Get inside, would you? It�s chilly. And you have bare feet!�
He waited until I was safely inside, door closed, to drive away.
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