The First Time

Everything about you and I has been an accident, a circumstantial coincidence that astonishes me with its romanticism and truth.

Can you believe we met at a bar (technically, we met outside the bar, at 2am)?  I've told you the story about how I nearly didn't go.  I had other Saturday night plans, and after leaving them early, I didn't see a point in trying to recreate a night anywhere else.  My bestie wanted me to come meet her at our usual hangout, A Bar Named Sue, but it was nearly 12:30am and I was sure it wouldn't be worth it.  My Mom, who often proves clarevoyant, convinced me with an unusually passionate urge to go:

"Jenni, why don't you go meet your friends at the bar? You never know who you might meet...you might meet someone that changes your life."

What good is reflection on decisions that lead us to life-changing circumstances?  I don't believe in fatalism, but I do believe in good fortune.  I am undeniably lucky that I was convinced to go to Sue the night I did.  I can thank my other plans for being boring, I can thank my BFF for being persistent in wanting me to meet her, and I thank my Mom for pushing me.  I have no idea what circumstances conspired on your end to get you to Sue the night you met me, but I thank all of the actors behind that decision as well.

We're just incredibly lucky, and I will never stop being grateful that I met you.

You haunt me at Sue.  

You're standing outside with me and your good friend, and I'm talking you down from your concern over a boy yelling at a girl.  I'd known you 5 minutes, and my first impression of you was shaped by your pent up boyish energy and the repeated words, "Should I go over there? Do you think she's okay?"  You can't let it go, and I finally tell you to go work your magic - one of the first things I ever said to you.  You laugh and repeat my words like you're surprised I said them, and you proceed to work your mellow, reasonable wizardry on the situation, and it's diffused within 30 seconds.  

You're standing in the parking lot, outside the truck we all packed into to come back to Sue and get our cars. You'd said to me on the ride over, as you and I sit shoulder to shoulder, squashed between people and the door, and with your friend sitting on your lap, "Hey, do I think I can get your number?"  Knowing that everyone in the car was listening, I shyly said "sure."  Now, standing in the parking lot, I don't want you to forget you asked me, and I tell you to give me your phone.  I quickly put in my number and my name as "Jenni From The Bar Named Sue."  You texted me right away so I'd have your phone number, too.

You're sitting on the bar stool, seriousness etched into your face as you talk to me about my pending promotion.  You tell me stories about your promotion from Lance Corporal to Corporal, and through your story, you're telling me that I shouldn't underestimate myself.  You're taking me seriously, and you're internalizing what I'm telling you in a way that most wouldn't.  We're both so completely into each other that when the bartender interrupts to ask if we want more drinks, she feels the need to say "Sorry to interrupt you two" with a knowing smile on her face.

You're in the corner of the game room, pool stick in one hand and a beer in the other, laughing in your sexy, honest way.  When you laugh it's like you're enjoying the surprise of the humor, like you never take it for granted that someone can make you smile. You catch my eye from across the pool table, where I'm talking to your best friend about how much I like you, and you ask the question of what I'm doing with your eyes.  I go over to you and enjoy the closeness, telling you that Ryan is just making sure I'm as serious about you as you are about me.

Last night, as I sat with Aralynn at Sue, I'm struck by your absence.  I replay scenes of you and I, and I'm a million miles from where Aralynn sits.  I can't leave the scene, and I feel an impulse to take a picture of the general area that you and I had our first serious get-to-know you conversation.  I can relax slightly - I've captured ghostly Cody and Jenni in a picture, and I now push it slightly aside.

I struggle to pull myself into the present, to focus on the day by day and not lose myself in memories.  I feel like a terrible friend, because I seem incapable of shaking my depression over your absence. I'm so lucky that she's supportive and understands - I don't know what I'd do without her.  

Is it fortunate that you and I had so little time together, or is that what's making it harder?  If you and I had longer together and had time to build more place-centric memories, would I hurt like this more often?  Or if you and I had time to build a more interconnected and emotionally resonant relationship, would the places become less important?  I'm leaning towards the latter.

As you and I build a more interconnected and emotionally resonant relationship over 8,899 miles, I hope this gets easier.  We'll build the structure of our relationship and define the edges of our pain, and we'll learn ways to work around them.  We can't avoid them, and we can't change the status quo.  I'm fully supportive of you, and want nothing more than to be your foundation.  I'm optimistic about this accidental love story, and I wish you could feel how deeply I want this to work.  You're permanently located next to my heart, and sometimes you push up on it so closely that it hurts and I can't breathe - but I'm not letting you go.