Marc and I started dating the summer after I graduated from high school. For the past seven months we had wooed each other with the great passion unique only to teenagers – the passion that begets the most brilliant, if tragi-comedic memories.
We did our best to keep our new relationship status under wraps for the first few weeks.
This meant that we would stop holding hands if we ran into someone we knew on the street, and kind of tried not to make out in public.
Each time he would sleep over at the apartment I shared with my sister, and emerge, disheveled and blushing from my bedroom, Kate would take me aside and ask the same thing.
“So, like, you guys are dating, right?”
I would stare at the wall two inches above her head and shake my head.
“No Kate. We’re just friends.”
“Suuuuuuure,” she would respond. “Just friends.”
I told Marc that I wanted to be with him the first week of August 2003. I don’t know the date, but I do know it was the night that he cooked me tofu stir fry at his new place. His roommate was away, and he had asked me to come and eat dinner with him.
His wording was something along the lines of: “come over and help me warm my new abode.”
I knew that this was it. I was going to tell him that I wanted to be with him.
I was living in such emotional agony that I couldn’t concentrate on anything else in my life. Everything was imbued and coloured by such a high degree of physical discomfort and extreme angst. I laugh about it now, but at the time I really felt as though I would die if I had to spend one more minute in his company without touching him.
My sophomoric mind couldn’t make sense of what I was experiencing. I didn’t think he was “the one”. Marriage didn’t even cross my mind. But I knew that something was up. There was something about him that was tearing me apart, and it wasn’t just because he had amazing calf muscles and really good taste in books.
This boy had completely turned my life upside down and, as a firmly minted feminist, it wasn’t in my nature to allow myself to feel like this.
But there I was, intellectually, emotionally, and physically hot and bothered, and all I wanted to do was read new books, kiss new lips, and tell new tales.
I wanted to give my heart in exchange for his.
When I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted to kiss him, and kiss him a lot, he responded in the politest, if most Victorian way.
“Oh!” He exclaimed. “Thank you!”
“Thank you?” I asked.
Marc, being the paradigm of good manners and grace, made it clear that he felt the same way.
Our official (pre-wedding) anniversary is August 16th. We picked this date, seemingly randomly, but in truth because it was the night that we first parted ways as a freshly pressed couple. We were too raw to understand that two weeks apart wouldn’t kill us, and too feverish to properly see the magic that had already begun to sprout in the corners and cracks of our new love.
We said our goodbyes at a corner intersection, at 1 AM, three blocks away from his basement home.
I choked back tears, unable to properly articulate the mess of emotions careening about my heart. Marc, stoic as hell, told me that he: “would write.”
Again, I laugh now, reliving this memory. We were such beautiful Austenian caricatures: our youth, our sincerity, our unapologetic belief in the truth of our truth. How I hold this moment close, and remember the weight of my walk home. My soul, confused and heartsick.
There have been many times over the course of our thirteen years that Marc and I have spent time apart. Summers when I lived and worked in Halifax, and autumns when he built Olympian sites.
We’ve traveled separately, visited foreign lands; made memories of our own.
On June 28th of this year, we rang in eight years of marriage.
We were nine hours, and 7,500 kilometers apart.
I, in Tallinn, Estonia, and he, in our little home in New Westminster, BC.
I have been thinking so much about my time in that city, and how I immediately fell in love with this exquisite piece of the Baltic world.
That Tallinn is a piece of magic, there is no question. But knowing that I was there on a day so important to my personal narrative – well, I cannot pretend that this did not catalyze my immediate love affair with the city.
As I write this, I stand on the cusp of a three-month absence from Marc. Like that night, so long ago, standing paralyzed on that street corner, I am ruminating on time spent away from each other. Me, on the east coast and he, here on the west.
Only this time I am less confused. Less angsty. Less heartsick and heartbroken.
I am sad, but I am alive. Afire.
We are life. We are love. Simply. That is our truth.
And those calf muscles?
Yep. Still there.
5 thoughts on “Speak low if you speak of love”
Nice post Vanessa. Feelings is difficult to articulate let alone when it is in full swing. But be able to do do as you did is what makes the story touching.
Thanks Terry! I always appreciate your notes so much. :)
You’re welcome, Vanessa. The pleasure is all mine.