"I believe in love"

I was out for a happy hour with two of my best of friends. I arrived early, as is my habit. I like to get to a place, settle in and just kind of hang out for a bit. This is my little ritual to get comfortable, to be really with and for people once they arrive. It occasionally has other benefits as well.

She swooped in before my friends arrived, plunked herself down at the bar and tossed a pint of ice cream to the bartending saying, “Put it on ice!” Clearly, she was something of a regular.

It was late fall—early winter. She was all bundled up in a big, shaggy coat—the kind that might make a nice throw rug—wearing a black knit hat (a Canadian toque) that matched her dark, disheveled hair. Like her hat, she’s Canadian, born in Newfoundland and raised in Quebec. Her favorite French-Canadian fare? Poutine—French fries and cheese curds smothered in gravy. (My cardiologist would not approve.) She ordered poutine along with Stella Artois to wash it down.

While waiting for my pals to arrive, I struck up a little conversation, asking, “What’s up with the ice cream?” Seems she’s a pastry chef, working at a nearby grocery, managing the bakery, and the ice cream was on special. We chatted about this and that until my friends arrived. When they did, we had our usual raucous, fun, loving time. Occasionally, my new friend joined the fun. She fit right in.

When it came time for my best of friends to leave—hugs all round—they headed home, and I headed to the restroom as a sort of segue, all by design. As if pulled by some invisible force, I needed to stay and chat a bit more with that lady in the toque.

Looking quite the ragamuffin, sitting there in that shaggy coat and hat—that she never took off the entire evening—she held no obvious allure. Still, there was something about her. So, I stayed awhile. I stayed a long while longer.

I only recall bits and pieces of what we discussed. We may have been a bit over-served. (Didn’t help that her bartender buddy was giving us long-pours all evening.) What stuck in my memory, though, was that she was in a very happy relationship, living with a really good guy. C'est la vie.

When it came time to leave, I hugged her goodnight and nearly kissed her—not by volition, more by instinct—but she turned her head just in time. All good all the same seeing as she was, as they used to say, “spoken for.”

I went home delighted with the evening—delighted to have spent time with my best of friends and delighted to have met the engaging ragamuffin pastry chef.?

And that was that.

Until, about a week later when I got a message from her on LinkedIn. I assumed she’d gotten my name from her bartender pal, who must have had it from my credit card payment. But she said she figured it out by listening to the conversation with my friends and sort of triangulating in on me. Whatever the case, she had found me and wondered if we might get together again. I thought, what the hell? I was recovering from a disastrous romance, and she was someone who might be a good friend in my time of transition. She was already involved, and I probably wasn’t quite ready for anything romantic anyway. So, perhaps we could just hang out. No danger of a romance breaking out, right?

About a week later we met again at the same bar and off we went. After that, she introduced me to a little Tibetan place. I got to choose the next spot. We alternated like this pretty much every week or so. She would pick a place, then I would. It was all perfectly platonic, though I still had that nagging urge to kiss her. All the while, we told ourselves it was just a burgeoning friendship. We each had lots of other platonic friends, so no big deal.

Eventually, we ended up at one of my favorite spots: a charming little tapas cafe. It was there, after finishing a spectacular meal, that she asked me if I liked card games, specifically Rummy 500. As it happens, that’s a game I know very well, having played it countless times with my mom as a kid. She suggested we go to my place for some Rummy, and the game was afoot. I won at Rummy a lot that evening, culminating in lots of passionate kissing. So much for platonic! I think she was letting me win—at cards, I mean.

After that we met at my place as often as we could. Every time she showed up, she would throw herself into my arms and kiss me. It was a wholehearted display of loving affection which took my breath away every single time.

We would sit and drink and talk and play together. (By then, I kept the fridge well-stocked with Stella Artois.) We played a lot of Rummy 500. Who knew Rummy could be so romantic? We often stayed up most of the night. When we weren’t playing cards or entangled in each other, we were surfing YouTube music videos. One evening, we came upon a wonderful singer-songwriter. Neither of us had ever heard of her, but we both loved her music. She was ours—our discovery, our artist. (Like an “our song” kinda thing.)

The next day, I was online learning more about the artist when I discovered she would be performing just a few days later at First Ave, only three miles from my home. I immediately bought tickets. The performance was amazing. Being there with my new love made it all the more so. It felt like kismet.

Oh, I should mention, along the way she decided to move out of the home she shared with her boyfriend to stay with friends while she sorted out her feelings. As you can imagine, wonderful as our blossoming romance was, it created quite a lot of emotional turmoil. She was torn. Who would it be, him or me? What was the right thing to do? Tough call. I felt a bit torn myself. I mean, one of the things I admired about her was her commitment to her boyfriend. How could she just up and leave a guy she’d been happy with for so many years? Of course, at the same time, I had high hopes for myself. I was in no position to advise her. No matter what she chose, there would inevitably be regrets. In the end, she would just have to dig deep and do what she felt was best. Which, of course, she did.?

She took a bit of time away from both him and me—time alone to sort it all out. A few weeks went by when I received her call. Could she come over to see me? I could hear it in her voice. I would be deeply disappointed and saddened, and yet somehow, I also felt good for her. I thought she was probably doing the right thing. I mean, I liked that she wasn’t the kind of woman that would just dump a guy for a fledgling romance. It was a complicated mix of emotions. But by the time she arrived, I was perfectly composed and at peace.

We sat together on the sofa as she tearfully explained her decision, occasionally breaking down into sobbing fits. I held her and consoled her for hours. Finally, emotionally wrung out, having said all there was to say and wept herself dry, it was time to go. I walked her to her car for one last, long hug… and then… she was gone.

She was gone, but she left me a glorious gift. It was during one of our late-night trysts that she uttered her immortal words. I was going on about my spiritual beliefs, getting rather passionately verbose. She listened patiently. Then, when I had finally said my say, she softly whispered, “I believe in love. Love is all that matters.” She said it plain and simple, matter-of-fact. I was thunderstruck by the perfect truth and eloquence. If I didn’t already love her, man, I sure loved her then and will forever after. I believe in love. Love is all that matters. Words to live by. She lives by them. That is what makes her so absolutely beautiful. Though she is gone from my life, she left part of that beauty with me, here in my heart. I feel it still and always will.

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