When We Had Coffee 12 Years Ago

Before we had coffee twelve years ago, I used to kind of have a dating uniform. I wore the same thing on first dates and only changed up the necklace. Never the rings.

But for you, I wore a color not my usual. My upstairs neighbor played Guitar Hero all night and I had zero sleep, so I thought red would make me look not tired. Because I wanted to remember everything, and I didn’t yet know that sleeping was your superpower.

Before we had coffee twelve years ago, I changed clothes twice. Because red is lucky somewhere, and I liked you.

Before we had coffee, I used a lint roller for the cat hair on both outfits. Because before we had coffee, I had a cat. She was honestly more like a dog, and she was only one of two cats that claimed me.

I sprayed on perfume, but not too much. Because I didn’t want you to be allergic to me.

Before we had coffee, my friend shoved me out the door. My neighborhood was flat, so I wheeled myself to a restaurant that used to be a firehouse. Because before we had coffee, we had lunch.

I broke most of my rules for this date.

And then, you were late. But you called and asked me to order us drinks, so I knew you’d get there. I hoped.

I thought about another drink but didn’t want to be in the bathroom when you arrived, which you did.

You walked off a late train, and into my life about forty-five minutes late, but somehow right on time.

You still remind me that it’s not too late.

When we had coffee after lunch twelve years ago, I knew you were my last first date. I knew we’d be talking about books and bands forever, dreaming of accessible festivals.

I knew I’d have to eat pizza in secret because you didn’t like cheese.

I knew we’d be looking for Bruces in movie credits forever.

I knew I could show you all my scars, even the ones I forgot, until we didn’t see them any more.

And after we had coffee twelve years ago, when you asked if I liked to hold hands at the movies, I knew I’d always look for your hand and always find it.

And you kissed me first. My last first kiss.

But before we had coffee twelve years ago, I didn’t know that people could fight and then make up. I didn’t know that I could lean on you and you’d sit on the stairs with me. Or that a picnic on a broken stairlift would be an event. I didn’t know that opposites could attract so much.

You drink tea.

But the first time you came to my place with beer instead of wine, I knew I wanted to unpack all my days with you.

Like the day we put our book collections together, the day I quit the only job I ever quit, the day they glued my eyebrow back on, the day I proposed, and the day we made it so.

The day we got lost in Barcelona was the day I knew I’d let you annoy me for the rest of my life, and even getting lost was fun.

The day we had a girl, when I didn’t think I could y’know, do that.

The road trips, the moves, and the time we moved right before a pandemic.

The time I fell.

The days I don’t know the difference between me and my anxiety.

But you do.

All the times you tell me it’s not too late.

The nights you sleep and I read. Those are all the nights.

The nights we watch TV and I should be writing. And then you read me.

When we had coffee twelve years ago, I wasn’t looking. But I wished for you, and there you were.

Let’s go around again.

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