I had been in DC for less than three weeks, still sleeping on a sofa at my sister’s place while I impatiently awaited her grad school friend to vacate the spare bedroom, which would become mine until I could find a permanent living situation. The thought of finding a place to stay permanently was daunting—the market in DC is competitive and the prospect of settling in a city that I was unsure about slowed the process even more.
My sister’s leather sectional is honestly one of my favorite places to sleep; it has been since they purchased it six years ago. Even when there is a spare bed available, I usually opt to cuddle up in the fetal position in the L shaped cushions; cold leather is comfort against my feet which always poke out from underneath the fuzzy throw—a curse of being so tall.
That morning started with the prospect of Chicken and Waffles.
In an attempt to make DC feel more like home, I had been promised brunch. In Chicago, brunch was commonplace. Our self-proclaimed brunch club would try a different restaurant every Sunday. The super group of close friends would catch up on that week’s news: what happened at work, with our families, and in our love lives, while we drank bottomless bloody marys. The brunch club was just tradition, and even though the cast of characters was revolving, it was assured that at least two people would go to brunch every Sunday.
It’s just what we did.
But in DC, I had not brunched yet. In fact, crawling off of the sofa and showering seemed impossible that morning. I knew I would be meeting some friends from Chicago for beers later that afternoon, so I tried to make myself look presentable, which meant a cashmere sweater that wore like an old boyfriend’s sweatshirt, while maintaining a flattering shape. With my hair in a ponytail and too much eyeliner, I looked in the mirror and thought, “Well, that’s good enough.”
That’s how I always feel when I look in the mirror. I never look in there and feel beautiful; I certainly never see my reflection and feel sexy or desirable. Most days it feel as though whatever outfit I have put together does a good enough job of hiding my flaws, while the makeup I wear does a good enough job of covering the scars I have on my face from surgery in my early 20s for suspicious cancer spots.
And as my sister and I walked to the train, feeling just good enough and starving, I felt my phone vibrate. I assumed it was my friend from Chicago firming up plans for our afternoon of wing-eating, football-watching, and Chicago-lamenting, but the text was from the newest number in its memory.
I would be lying if I said I have never used Twitter as a dating service.
To be fair, I have never set out with the sole purpose of dating those I connect with daily, but sometimes it happens. The night before, I had received a message from a guy locally, who had responded to a question I posed… “Where can I go in DC that doesn’t involve talking about politics?”
We had never communicated before, but I recognized him immediately when he responded, as being someone I had recently followed for Washington Capitals news. He was a writer.
His response, which was succinct, yet flirtatious was “Anywhere I am.”
And what started as a flirtatious comment turned into an evening of Direct Messages, me from the sectional sofa with the cold leather cushions; him from the press box at the Verizon Center.
We talked about life, but mostly about hockey. He plead the case of Dennis Wideman’s defensive abilities, I compared him to Nick Boynton.
And when the game was over, neither of us wanted the conversation to end. I gave him my number and he texted on his train ride home. We discussed the vibe of the locker room, as the Capitals dealt with a losing streak. If I remember correctly, he said it was comforting to know that we could talk. And I took that as a good sign.
I sat on the train clutching my phone, headed for chicken and waffles, as we texted about Sundays. I posed the question as to his favorite Sunday plans and I told him about mine: waking early for coffee and a crossword puzzle, brunch with friends, and an afternoon of relaxation and sports.
As our interest in getting to know each other escalated, we couldn’t text fast enough. It was a whirlwind of incoming and outgoing messages, so many that sometimes he would send two before I could respond to the first, jumbling our conversations in a positive confusion.
And after the chicken and waffles, I went to a bar in Chinatown with my sister to meet our visiting Chicagoans for drinks and football. And as I balanced conversation with those around me at the table, I continued the texting. With the encouragement of a Makers and Ginger, I invited him to join us.
It seemed like a strange thing to do: invite the guy that I had known (electronically, of course) for less than 24 hours to have a drink while I was a) with family b) hosting out of town guests and c) wearing the cashmere sweater I chose for comfort over sex appeal. But within the hour, he arrived.
I am always concerned when I meet someone for the first time, especially from the Internet. Sometimes our personas of online life do not translate to good conversation over cocktails. In fact, and I am not ashamed to admit it, some of you (not me) are incredibly awkward and off-putting in person.
Fortunately, he was not.
He arrived in the midst of our conversation about hipsters, which led to showing him pictures of Hipster Dinosaurs on my iPhone. While no one else at the table showed an interest, I leaned in to show him dinosaurs that were cut out of a children’s coloring book, poorly drawn with added glasses and ironic mustaches with very insightful speech bubbles that said things like, “What do you mean Polaroid is discontinuing instant film?” and “Elliot Smith was a GEEENIUS.”
He laughed at dinosaurs, scrolling intently on the iPhone. Knowing him better now, I am sure he was fixated on the screen to fight off some nervousness, but in the moment it felt as though there was just me and him and dinosaurs wearing glasses.
It felt nice.
The afternoon continued and the bourbon flowed as we all got to know each other. His football team, the New Orleans Saints, beat the Falcons in overtime. In one of my bro-est moments, we high-fived…which was the first time our hands touched.
The ice breaker high-five parlayed into his hand planted on the inside of my thigh for the duration of the 4:00pm games. It felt comfortable and surprising—things never went this well.
Every time I excused myself, my Chicagoans grilled him with questions about his intentions with me. He had positive and well-rehearsed answers. Perhaps he had done this before, or perhaps he found them terrifying. It’s difficult to tell.
And every time he left the table, it was grins and gushing about a boy that seemingly came out of nowhere less than 24 hours earlier and had spent the last four hours whispering things into my ear, rubbing my thigh, and scooting his chair closer with every excuse imaginable.
When it was time for my Chicagoans to leave for sushi, I assumed the afternoon was over. That I would head back to the sectional sofa, watch the evening football games, and think back on a fun afternoon. So when he asked if I would take a walk with him, I had to contain my excitement.
Saying goodbye to friends is never easy, especially with the adjustment issues I was dealing with in DC. As we stood underneath the well-lit black awning on a busy street in Chinatown, he told my friends that he enjoyed meeting them. As good friends tend to do upon saying goodbye, we lingered, continuing the conversation as people walked down the sidewalk, focused on their destinations. And when the final final goodbyes came, he shook my friend’s hands and said something unexpected: “I hope to see you again sometime.”
I hope to see you again sometime?
Who was this guy that just shows up at the bar, is eloquent, wonderful, and affectionate…and assumes that he will have the opportunity to see my friends that live half way across the country again? It was innocent, but perhaps brazen, and it gave me a rush of security I’d never felt with someone before. Not that quickly, at least.
It was natural to assume that he would be around for awhile, that was just the impression everyone had.
And as we walked away, hand in hand down 7th street, I smiled and gripped his hand tightly.
The purpose of our walk was two-fold: to get to know one another and for me to get acquainted with DC.
We walked to the Verizon Center and talked about Capitals hockey. I asked a lot of questions about the team that he covered for a living, partly to learn more about the team I’d invariably be supporting as the local option, and partly to hear the passion and excitement in his voice as he talked about the one thing he knew he loved.
As we entered Penn Quarter, we stopped at a statue of someone important riding a horse. We paused and he told me that you could tell how someone died based on how the horse they rode was posed. And as he educated me on horse postures, I took his hands in mine and tucked our intertwined fingers into my coat pockets, our bodies snuggled close, with dignitary and horse above us.
Our faces were just inches apart, the fall air getting colder, and him without a jacket. We stood silently, perhaps awkwardly, as our glasses fogged from the others’ breath, completely alone on this street corner in our huddled embrace.
He kissed me, which I’d waited for patiently, and we continued our walk to the National Mall.
He wanted to show me the museums and monuments at night, which he said was one of his favorite things about the city. I remarked that I had noticed how beautiful the Washington Monument looked at night, though when close enough to see the two flashing lights on top it resembled a klan mask: my southern upbringing at its finest.
We strolled by the Smithsonian he told me what each building housed. When he was unsure what a building was, we would stop and read the placards placed along the sidewalk. A man willing to admit he did not know everything? Novel.
Our conversation drifted seamlessly between our lives, our families, hockey. He promised he would take me ice skating, even though he was a terrible skater; I promised to hold his hand.
He quizzed me on the numbers of Chicago Blackhawks players, and was impressed by how well I did. I told him my mission was to learn the Washingon Capitals numbers as instinctively as I knew my beloved Chicagoans, and we compromised on a challenge:
He would tell me a new players’ number everyday. For every number that I remembered, I would earn a kiss. It seemed like a fair competition for a girl that enjoyed useless hockey knowledge and the affection of men, especially simultaneously.
The walk between the Washington Monument and the World War II memorial took longer than expected, as he made good on his promise to kiss me for every number I got correct.
Troy Brouwer? (20) Alex Ovechkin? (8) Mike Knuble? (22) Dennis Wideman? (6)
We stood, largely alone at the World War II memorial, among the pillars that represented every state. We talked about our families. He held me close as he told me about his sister’s battle with cancer, and he swept the bangs out of my eyes while I told him about my parent’s struggles as well.
It felt nice to be close, but it felt even better to be vulnerable. And when the closeness of telling someone I hardly knew my secrets scared me too much, I pulled away and wandered the path along the memorial, on a mission: to find all of the states we had lived in.
We stopped at each state, and I told him a light hearted story about all of the places I had lived. When we got the Illinois, I took an extra moment of pause and snapped a photo of the pillar that represented the Land of Lincoln. And in that moment, perhaps the only since my arrival, did I feel content to be in DC. I had found a reason to smile, and I wanted more of it.
We got lost on our way to the White House. Not because we were unsure where it was located, but because we were too wrapped up in the excitement of our company to pay attention to where we were headed.
It was a Sunday night before a holiday, and the streets were empty. He did something I have never had happen on a date before: he asked me out again…but in the middle of our date. It was nowhere near time to say goodnight, and we had already shored up plans to visit a bourbon bar on Friday. And when I told him I was excited that the Capitals played Winnipeg that week, he invited me over on Thursday to watch the game with him.
Lining up future dates, committing to see someone again, is usually something that I do not do. I am always hesitant to show my cards and admit that I would like to see someone again, but here I was, standing on the corner of Constitution and 17th programming our dates into my calendar as we walked. And against my usual judgement, it felt right.
We walked miles that evening.
From Chinatown, to the monuments, to Dupont Circle for coffee and dessert. And while we walked, always touching in some fashion, we talked tirelessly. When it came time to take the train home, we snuggled in the tiny metro seat for the three stops we had in common. I nuzzled my cheek into his neck, and whined that I did not want him to leave the train. Mainly, I did not want him to leave me.
He asked the one question that is my benchmark for a chivalrous date: he asked me to text him when I arrived home safely. We kissed goodbye on a crowded train, with onlookers disgusted and jealous of the connection and our public display. As he left the train I could not help but smile…shrugging at the leers of on-lookers who witnessed our kiss.
And for awhile, we carried on this way.
We spent quiet evenings on the sofa watching hockey; we had nice dinners with deep conversations about our futures. We compared ambition as I rested my head on his bare chest before falling asleep, using him as my pillow, my springboard for ideas, and security blanket in one.
I slept better in his bed, in his arms, than I have ever slept anywhere.
And not surprisingly, he decided that he would rather spend his time being single and exploring what it meant to be independent. As someone who has been in his situation, the one of having someone standing in front of you, ready to be with you, I know how difficult it can be to catch your breath and remain composed. Sometimes the prospect of someone better coming along, or dating and fooling around until you find enlightenment seem like the only option.
So it ended. It had to.
And it’s been a month since I last fell asleep in his arms, but every time I see a monument at night, I think of him; and I think of us.
Every stroll through Penn Quarter reminds me of our first kiss.
I stop at every dignitary on a horse, trying to figure out how they died.
And sometimes there is sadness. And sometimes there is a smile and laughter, remembering the fun and happiness that he brought into a very joyless period of my life.
And as I cross the Potomac, Washington Monument in my rearview, I get closer to my home, which brings me closer to his home. I think I miss him more knowing that just a mile separates us, though emotions and reality keep us miles apart.
Tonight as I drove home from an evening in Maryland, I saw the monuments.
Instead of watching them in my mirror, I veered off of the highway and drove along the tidal basin, taking in the lights and letting the history of the city, and the history of us, sink in.
I remembered a promise I made to him while we were together. He read my blog regularly, and he had seen some of the stories of sadness, bad dating, and longing. He wanted to be a chapter in my life, not just a story in my blog, that recounted happiness.
He did not want our story to be one that happened once things fell apart; he wanted to be an exception to the rule that has been the last four years of my life.
I never got to tell this story before things ended between us, because the end was abrupt, unfortunate, and a blindside. We still talk, and though I have not asked if he is seeing someone else and enjoying single-dom, I trust that he has made the right decision.
I am sure he will read this; and I am sure he will smile when he thinks about the monuments, which I am positive he does already.
I suppose sometimes it’s just important to keep promises, which now I can say I have done.
