Big Night

May 30th 2024
Dearest A,

I am writing this from the kitchen table, the very table we’ve spent many nights, dissecting everything over a bottle of wine. I see the alleyway outside, the same old mess of concrete and chaos you’re used to. I’ll cut to the chase.

His name is M. Isn’t that a strong name? It crosses my lips easily, and I like saying it. He speaks in facts but also in metaphors, and his hands are calm, elegant, strong. He should be a poet. His limbs mirror mine, and we laugh a lot.

We met at the party. It was a flirtatious and long night. It was a genuine one. His flawless charm warned me, but quickly won me. He listened and asked. I found myself wanting to learn about anything he spoke of. I wanted him to think I was intelligent before he thought I was captivating. There's a difference!

His theatre is one of assuredness. There is a soundtrack that comes with him. He comes to me exactly as I like, without having to be told. He speaks of the future in the conditional tense, a series of generous, realistic plans. A trip to Sicily. Moving to Montreal. Dinner on Thursday. It is the sheer plausibility of him that gets me. There is no fable to him, no twist I have to contort myself to fit. He is simply here. Like this table. Like the alleyway. His presence feels like a return to a room I had but didn’t know. One that holds all things precious to me, canopied. It’s less like coincidence and more like logic.

Even the unknown feels different this time. It feels academic. One look at his calm, gentle face, his warm tones, the way he looks at me as if I could contain the entire understanding of time. I think I needed that reflection. I think perhaps this is a love affair of necessary drama, but also quiet natural formation. Erosion can be beautiful. Stillness has motion. Layer upon layer of ordinary, until it becomes something solid enough to build a life on.

You might say I am doing it again, building a cathedral and sanctifying warmth because I am hungry. Listen, I am thinking it, too. But for now, the fact remains: there is M. And for the first time, that fact does not feel like the beginning of a familiar story. It feels like the end of one.

I’ll call you soon.
All of my love,
C