I am not sure I will ever understand why things tend to get weird around this time of year.
Maybe it’s the turn in weather away from the arctic nothingness. That seasonal pivot towards the mushy in-between time. Maybe it’s the fact that the days are getting noticeably longer. Or perhaps it’s the lingering threat of springing into some as yet unknown direction.
But something is triggering all this seasonal uncertainty.
There are too many variables left lurking. Too many unanswered questions; too many chances to take another wrong turn. Too many tests still left to take. And too fucking many important things yet to be said.
So I have to be careful.
It had been a typical mittened Monday night spent kicking uncooperative 517 metal off the ramp. But after reading her text in the shadow of a tin beast spooling up, everything suddenly shifted into 137 miles of mixed-media asphalt. The ones chewed up and promptly spit back out. Because their unpalatable taste lingered in a mouth left craving sweeter things.
Even though it’s never really been about me, I was already exhausted. And fearful of the reception. Because the text that sparked that overnight run was unexpected. And had me worried at the tone—it wasn’t the usual code. And had been sent outside the normal irregularity of our schedule.
Foxes tend to be burdened with an almost catastrophic level of intuitiveness. So I knew that something significant was up. And I learned long ago to always trust the nagging impulses of my magnificent dong gut.
Fueled by shitty truck stop coffee, and an unreasonable amount of ephedrine, I ground through the playlists while chewing up those miles. Pushing hard over wet roads. Bellowing through the mixes to keep myself awake. And to entertain the drab fields of broken corn sloshing outside my window in an 80 MPH smear.
Every mile marked in memory. Every song, and every cigarette, stealing more minutes off my life. And hopefully transferring themselves over to hers. Because she needed them more. And I was happy to make that sacrifice.
I raced in red hot. In a little green car. Parked sloppily by the side gate. The one with a squeaky hinge that I’ve been meaning to address. Because it’s been nagging at me in my dreams; because at least it’s something I can fucking fix.
She was sitting in the kitchen.
I took in the sight of her through the checkered curtain not quite covering the bubbled lead glass of the door. She was fidgeting with her phone. Spinning that overnight glass of Merlot—probably her third, if the nearby bottles were to be trusted.
She sat stealing glances up at the clock on the wall. Probably wondering where I was after having sent her the traditional “wheels up” message when looping down out of the Capital.
She turned at the sound of the door opening behind her.
Her music was playing; her hair was a mess. Puffy eyes betrayed another of her sleepless nights. And the pile of crumpled tissues told me it had been a hard-won insomnia.
We fell first into a hug. And then into conversation.
She offered me some of the wine. But I knew if I had a first taste, I’d want to stay with her there in that sweetness. Forever. So I settled instead for whatever else was most convenient.
She surprised me with a proper cuppa.
Knowing that her pale-skinned, tin can kicking, hard drinking writing Irish lad prefers tea, she thoughtfully stocked her cupboard with the necessary components. And made for me the best cuppa I have had since those early days back in Ireland.
That thoughtfulness made me want to marry her right then and there. The kettle could officiate. And her derpy cat with the droopy, crooked tail could stand in as the witness.
Respective drinks in hand, we migrated out to the back steps.
Instinctively, I knew that the conversation would soon pinball into something serious. And it somehow didn’t feel right for the house to hear her secrets said out loud.
I was worried about the impact the chill might have on her. But she said that it felt good. Almost refreshing to enjoy the first blush of spring weather after a long, difficult winter.
She leaned into my shoulder as we settled on the wooden slats of the top step. Our combined weight caused wood, expanding from recent increase in temperature, to creak. We both giggled. And she had to slap my arm to remind me that it wasn’t the appropriate time to simulate farting intrusions into our conversation.
Above us stretched the limitless of the universe. A view not often enjoyed under polluted flyover skies. So I took advantage of that clarity by making up new constellations.
Some were based on our story still unfolding. Others were more adult in nature. And I nearly spilled my tea when I gently exploited her gullibility for the sake of a laugh, only to receive a much needed slap of redirection.
Pointing at a random spot in the sky, I brightly exclaimed “Oh, look! There’s Uranus.”
She looked in the direction I was pointing and replied brightly, “Oh, really? Where?”
And I said “Open that robe and I’ll show you!”
It took her a second to process what I had said. And then justifiably smacked my arm as she laughed, calling me a dork.
We settled into the rhythm of our conversation. Took simple delight in sitting together. Sharing an overnight inside the same zip code. Watching the stars. Listening to the far off traffic. And the sounds of her music still drifting in from the kitchen.
During a pause in our vocal shenanigans, that odd mixture of flirting and confessions, I lit a smoke. There’s just something about how well tobacco pairs with a heartfelt conversation. And I had been craving the burn from the moment we first sat on her stoop.
At one point, delicate fingers extended in anticipation of sharing in the polluted rush. A habit in which she never really participated before. But which now appealed to her. If for no other reason than it sparked the opportunity for more of our dark jokes—what’s the worst that could happen? She’d get that disease whose name I still refuse to write?
The sharp inhale caused her to cough forcefully in comedic sitcom fashion. Her wine threatened to slosh out of the confines of crystal containment. But the sudden rush of foreign chemicals punching into her brain made her delight briefly in the lightheadedness of it all.
And that dragon gave her the bravery necessary to ask me a favour beyond just writing her story.
She was asking me to be a participant.
She framed her arguments well; I could tell she had practiced what to say. My previously expressed beliefs were exploited in flawless fashion. But not in a mean, or manipulative way. That’s just not us.
Legalities prohibit sharing too many details. Unfortunately, parts of this story are, and will forever remain, private. Those moral implications warrant a strange caution not often required when I find myself, drunk, in front of a typewriter. And that’s a strange place for a fox accustomed to running forever feral.
I confessed to needing time to fully process what she was asking. The enormity of it all made my hands shake.
I attempted to hide them as best I could.
But she took them into hers. The delicate ones that despite the chill, felt warm. And soft. In the best possible ways.
She asked me to look at her.
Her deep brown eyes locked onto my grey ones. A hand which had been holding mine suddenly pressed against the greying scruff on my cheek.
“Whatever you decide is okay. You will always be my favorite fox. That will never change.”
I wanted to frame a rebuttal. But found myself suddenly at a loss for words.
“But I…” was the best that I could manage.
“I know what kind of man you are. And the things you’ve lived through. That’s why I trusted you enough to even ask.”
A long pause entered the chat.
She continued to caress my face.
She saw the tears beginning to form in my eyes.
“Oh, baby. You don’t need to decide tonight. It’s okay. There’s time.”
And then she wiggled her ass in the fashion required to coax fart noises from the step.
The rest of that visit was an odd mixture of silliness blended into an underlying sadness. Because we both know there will come a day when the laughs are no longer there.
So we tried to be productive.
I fixed that squeaking gate shortly after the sun came up over Indiana. We played Bubble Beard Pirates when we did the morning dishes together. And spending the time to dry the kitchen floor was worth letting her win the resulting water fight.
Eventually, the adulting world came knocking. I still had the drive back north, although I debated letting others fight the tin for a change. But I knew if I didn’t show my face back in Michigan, I would collapse in Indiana with her.
And never leave.
So I had to go.
I fought tears more than traffic on that terrible drive back north. Because I sprang from a generation that learned the language of our fathers. The ones that taught us the sterility of stoicism. And the virtue of helping to absorb the burden of those who looked to us for strength. Or protection.
But outside my window, there were constant reminders of a world struggling to spring back alive again. While inside the rearview, I could only see images of a girl preparing herself for that last, long winter.
It was impossible to ignore the shift in seasons.
And I will never understand why things tend to get weird around this time of year.
