She walked right into the story, just like she had always done before. And exactly when I fucking needed her the most—funny how we always seem to work that way.
Through a string of ridiculous occurrences, a significant collection of my doodles ended up on an actual art gallery wall. In an official show. In all their quirky, unrepentant glory.
Such was my excitement at the stupid shit I drew garnering some actual attention, I broke the cardinal rule of “coolness” and showed up early for the opening celebration, rather than fashionably late. And I cannot help but blame that faux pas on the nature of my day job. Which is actually a night job. One demanding a strict adherence to time if we are going to hit all the marks and make that big tin bird, with a belly full of your packages, fly out on time every evening.
I forced myself into a few introductions when I noticed people lingering over my work. I had perused the other art during two separate circuits around the gallery. I even snuck out the back to have a quick smoke and take in a bit of the clear blue Mitten sunshine.
Those two hours on my feet indoors were a challenge. One different from the one I’m used to when kicking tin off the ramp. It was also a staggering amount of social stimulation for someone who tends to cling religiously to the periphery of the overnight. Those empty hours when the streets are mostly silent and the urban shadows meld into a tapestry of surrogate friendships.
Needing a break, I eventually worked up the courage to sit on an oversized blue velvet couch towards the back of the gallery. The one whose status I had spent twenty minutes internally debating. Was it an art installation or functional furniture intended for actual asses? The hilarity of that sitcom cliché conundrum playing out in real life tickled me immensely as I settled in.
I checked my phone. Responded to a few congratulatory messages. Then I locked the screen and counted the faces. Did my best to keep a map in my head of where those faces were in relation to my station. Reminded myself the number of counted steps to the exits.
That’s when I heard the front door woosh open. The sound, combined with the sudden change in atmosphere, caused me to instinctively look up.
And there she was.
Still gorgeous. Still a bad-ass under that mystique of graceful femininity. And to blatantly steal a line from a man I don’t think will notice, it didn’t take long until we were like peas and carrots again. Because even though I fucking hate carrots, I have always really liked her.
We shared a powerful, finally in the same fucking room, hug. I delighted in the smell of her hair. And had forgotten just how perfectly she fits in my arms.
I couldn’t believe that she had made the drive north up that awful highway connecting our cities to support me on the day of my artistic debut. But there she was. And I could already feel myself starting to miss her.
Because so much of our history came rushing back at me in an emotional tsunami. A jumbled, crashing wave triggered by a simple touch. But rather than try to scramble to safety, I instead stood firm on that unstable ground. And allowed myself to experience the significance of her.
Once her deep caramel hair was freed from prickly grey scruff in a way that tickled, we began admiring the art together. Before critiquing other works, she stood beside me and absorbed the collection of my creative madness tacked onto that Old Town gallery wall.
She wasn’t shy about calling me out for hiding behind my self-deprecating defenses as we talked—probably one of the things I dig most about her. I attempted to explain that it was simply a reaction to being overwhelmed and overstimulated. The whole art scene is still very new to me and I don’t feel as though I’ve quite found my footing.
But she wants me to be confident, not hiding behind my clever words and jokes. And I have only ever wanted her to have whatever the hell she wants. It’s just going to take some time, I think.
But I loved what she was seeing in the other art, once we began exploring together. Leaning in, shoulder to shoulder. Sharing ideas. And the intimacy of that same room conversation about color and characters.
The connections she made and the conclusions she drew were sharply on point. Not that I was terribly surprised. Her brain always did fascinate me for its uniqueness.
She did take me by surprise, however, when she casually mentioned that she thought I would pair well with one of my coworkers who had shown up to offer her support, the one with fairytale hair destined for a remarkable gift. I could only laugh at the suggestion, given the marriage and the total lack of romantic expressions involved. It wasn’t until later that I realized maybe she was just trying to deflect, fearful that I was going to pull out the full on love bombing.
But that just wasn’t the scene. Or my intention—I wasn’t on the hunt. And it was important that she felt unmolested. Even though I admittedly kept pushing the conversational boundaries. Mostly because it made her laugh.
I have always been a sucker for her smile. And, the sound of her voice.
We slipped the gallery an Irish goodbye right as the time was running out, ducking around the back and making our exit unnoticed. We planned to sling around all the construction so I could show her the rest of what Old Town had to offer on a random Michigan Saturday night.
Parking in my usual spot, we reconnected on our day of reconnection, and I began to share with her some of my favorite haunts and secret places I’ve discovered in my time spent exploring The City.
We walked along the river on the boardwalk as the sun began to tire and the sky started to fill with clouds threatening rain. I didn’t warn her about the squeaky board that made us both jump when it cried out, the sound echoing thunderously out over The Grand.
I showed her my favorite tree on that little hill. And then we laughed at over-engineered contraption designed to ladder all fish. Because not a single fish was laddered the entire time we were there.
Maybe they were all waiting for the elevator.
We then walked all the shops. Browsed at some, ignored others. I tried on hats and we laughed at inappropriate, kitschy things. And then bought matching dish towels. The hilariously rude ones.
Then it was dinner at the Cajun place. Because we were only a thousand miles away from the bayou and that fact alone made it the most reasonable choice.
Inside the darker atmosphere of the restaurant, we were immediately assaulted with a confusing mixture of physical menus and QR codes. That’s a modern convenience that I have always found utterly annoying. People are glued to their phones too fucking much as it is. So why foster even more social isolation by forcing their use just to peruse their dinner choice?
Once the menu issue was sorted, after everyone, including our baby faced waiter who appeared to be all of twelve, agreed that physical menus are the superior choice, I ordered a beer ahead of the fish and chips I knew I’d be ordering.
She planned to get the Olive Burger. And I had to fight the urge to propose to her right then and there. And that hesitation was probably for the best considering she ended up ordering a beverage that would scar me forever after only a single taste.
Trying my best to keep an open mind when she offered it to me to sample, and to hold myself accountable to the promise of openness of exploration, I tried a sip.
I immediately regretted my agreeability.
In an instant, my not unsophisticated palate was brutally assaulted by a beverage that tasted like Satan himself dunked his big veiny ballsack into a vat of clear alcohol in which was steeping various cuttings from a lawn.
It was so damn bad when judged against my malt and peat sensibilities that I kept burping that shit back up in some gastrointestinal tug of war. Gin and juice might admittedly combine into a great fucking song. But not so much a quality cocktail.
I did, however, admire how she preferred to take it in the can. And when I vocalized that admiration out loud, to the point the people at the next table over did a double take, she laughed despite the fact that I could tell just how badly she longed to reach over the table to smack me. A stinging rebuke in the manner which I happen to adore.
We eventually stopped gently harassing our child of a waiter and decided that we would wander over to the piercing place, given that the tattoo shop was closed tighter than an Amish girl’s legs at the church social. Because what’s a proper reconnection without a celebratory hole in the head?
The shop was just around the corner. Not really enough time to back out. Which was exactly what we needed in that moment of ridiculous spontaneity.
But the clapboard sign out on the front sidewalk that greeted us gave us pause. The one advertising a special. But only if the head jewelry installation was performed by a Junior piercer.
And that left me with…questions.
Were we about to get pierced by a little person? Some overly ambitious tween? An inebriated toddler with a needle and a business license?
The sign was very confusing.
She just shrugged her shoulders. Cocked her head towards the door. Smiled playfully and simply said “Let’s go!”
Having always said that I would do anything for her, or follow her down any path, I was presented with an opportunity to prove just how determined this fox is in pursuit of that next ridiculous adventure. Especially if it’s one we could share.
So I took a deep breath, steadied myself for what might be next, and followed her inside the shop.
I thought we were simply popping in to get new holes in our heads on a random Michigan Saturday evening to help permanently celebrate the uniqueness of the day. But instead, we walked right into the middle of what instantly felt like an Old Town piercing shop reality show.
And I couldn’t help but to wonder just what in the hell we had gotten ourselves into…
