Porcelain

“Thank you for coming to meet me, baby.” JS looked at me and his eyes were dancing with tears.

 

I had just gotten into the car, the rush hour bustle of Sloane Square and the icy wind still evident in my demeanor. I put my phone and umbrella to one side and looked at him, calming down, “You’re welcome honey, you know I’d do anything for you,” I hinted. It didn’t work. After a few second of him avoiding eye contact, I finally asked, “What’s wrong? I left work an hour early just to see you before you have to go to your dinner.”

 

He looked at me again and the twinkling tears now formed steady streams. My heart stung. JS was emotional but this was a lot even for him. I put one hand on his cheek and wiped off some of the moisture. “What’s wrong honey?”

 

His big, brown eyes looked at me with anguish. “I’m moving to Chicago in a month.” The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if each letter coming out of his mouth were carrying an unfathomable burden.

 

I felt my eyes blur for a millisecond as my thoughts registered. “You found a job? Honey, that's GREAT!”

 

Yes, this was the emotion I was supposed to feel, joy. His long and treacherous 14 months of unemployment have taken their toll on him, on me, on everyone in our vicinity. But now here we are, a month away from the day he puts his days in London behind him. Puts me behind him.

 

The strangeness of the situation must be commented on. JS and I are not together. We haven’t been for almost 2 years. Yet we know that in the 3 years we spent with one another the bond we formed was unusual. He knows me like no one else, and I like to think the opposite is true. In the time we’ve spent apart we’ve both dated, with varying degrees of success, and given other people a real opportunity to make their own marks on our lives. But on those nights when we sit in front of the TV with a bottle of wine, our tongues would betray our pride and admit to one another that nobody has even come close to what we had.

 

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, honestly, but my voice was overcome with confusion. I couldn’t imagine him not living down the street from me. I couldn’t imagine church on Saturday, or my favorite restaurant, the River Café, without him. He is part of the very fabric of my life here.

 

Luckily, I’m not blessed with the gift of tears, or emotional manifestations in general, so I looked him right in the eye as he softly whimpered. “You should be happy.”

 

“I am. I just can’t imagine leaving you behind,” he stammered. That makes two of us. Maybe it was the healthiest thing. I sat in the passenger seat, immobile and waited him out, wiping his tears with my thumb every few seconds. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he said.

 

The car moved smoothly through Holbein Place, down to Pimlico Square and up Buckingham Palace Road. He held on to my hand the whole way. I looked out the window but saw nothing but my faint reflection in the glass.

 

Outside my building door, his grip tightened around my hand. I looked at him and he’d stopped crying. There was a new determination in his face. He leaned over and put his head against my shoulder. I rested my head against the chair and closed my eyes.

 

Seconds later he lifted his head and, in slow motion, moved his lips to my ears. He whispered something softly. A smile slowly formed on my face as the words kept flowing. Nothing ever made more sense. I looked at him and held his beautiful face between my palms. “Of course.”