From last weekend:
We sat at a little table for two near the window. White lights wrapped up in the trees on the sidewalk outside made little bright dots on our wine glasses. We held hands, and talked. I kept sneaking looks at his gorgeous face, his blue eyes and thick dark eyelashes. And, oh. my. good. lord. those shoulders.
I'm still amazed by the incredible luck that let it be me sitting in this wooden chair across the table from him. We first met nearly seventeen years ago, at our friends' wedding. He remembers it; I try to, but I have an awful memory. We never dated, but we used to see each other pretty often because while he was in school he worked in the produce department at the grocery store where I shopped when the boys were babies. When I ran into him at the end of this summer, it had been eight years since I'd last seen him. There I was at Trader Joe's after a long, 100 degree day on the soccer field. I was wearing the ugliest dress I own, and I had, just moments before, totally grossed myself out when I reached up over my head to grab some salsa. Seriously. I almost passed out. And then I was by the apples and pears and I looked up and saw him walking past.
I stopped him and we talked.
He'd just spent the day on his motorcycle, riding on the coast. He was single. I tried not to blush.
I gave him my card and an awkward hug goodbye so he hopefully wouldn't notice how awful I smelled.
And then I waited for him to call me.
And, just like he said he would, he did.
After dinner on Saturday, we went to see the San Jose Symphonic Choir perform Handel's Messiah. (not the singalong) We walked up the steps to the cathedral just as the ushers were talking about closing the doors, sweeping right in to a spot in the back of the church.
I put my arm around him, leaned my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes for a minute. I opened them to see an old man a couple of rows ahead, barely moving his head with the music in that way that only musicians do. Have you ever noticed how a musician's body responds to music with almost imperceptible ripples, with fingers that subconsciously tap out keys and chords? Every once in awhile, his hand would move up to his eyes to wipe away tears. I was thinking about my dad, and how much i miss him because of distance and time and things that have happened the past year or so. Far across the church was a man in the front row, leaning forward, his face near the violins, and he looked so much like my father that it was easy to let my eyes unfocus and just see my dad there, listening.
I only cried a little. It was because the music was so, so beautiful. Because I miss my dad. Because I'm so silly-happy in love. Because I'm way more hopeful than I ever expected to be ever again. I am so lucky.