by Roy Miller
Eighteen
The first day of February. We're sitting together watching TV in bed when you tell me that it's starting to snow. I mention hearing that we're supposed to get a pretty good storm, and that ends up ringing true as we're both woken up in the middle of the night by a loud snapping sound. The weight of the snow had caused a tree branch to break and fall in the backyard, taking out a power line and ripping the weather vane off of the roof. The power goes out, taking the heat with it, so I grab extra blankets from the closet and cover you up. Order of operations: Fix the roof, call the power company and then the city inspector. Charging our phones at McDonald's meant it was french fries and orange juice for dinner almost every night. It takes five days to get everything working correctly again, and you say you've never been more thankful for a hot shower and a home-cooked meal. I promise you we'll spend more nights talking by candlelight.
Nineteen
Tuesday morning. We both have the same day off during the week, which doesn't happen often, so I wake up early and go out to get breakfast. On the way back, kids are playing hockey in a driveway on a busy street. Cars are parked along the side of the road, blocking them from my view, so when I pass the house and one of the kids skates out to retrieve their ball, I have to swerve to avoid hitting him. One of the coffees tips over in the cupholder and scalds my leg. I hit a parked car on the other side of the street, taking out the bumper and spilling our fresh pastries onto the floor. The kid skates over to make sure I'm okay and apologizes for not looking first, and I smile and tell him it's okay. It takes about fifteen minutes for the police to arrive so I call you in the meantime, assuring you I'm okay through your panic. You chastise me for downplaying the incident after I mention that our breakfast is gone, and the concern in your voice takes the sting out of the liquid burn on my thigh.
Twenty
The last weekend of summer. You get this feeling when the seasons start to change, like a good friend is leaving for a while and you won't be able to see them. I pick up on your little signals and notice the change in your voice, so I start looking for something to help cheer you up. Your favorite band is playing a show in the next town over Saturday night, so I order tickets online and print them off. When you wake up you smell coffee and notice I'm already out of bed, and when you go into the bathroom you hear the lawn mower. In the kitchen, two slips of paper sit next to the coffee pot and upon further inspection, you smile and tuck them away in the towel drawer. You come outside and walk towards me, so I shut off the mower and warn you that I'm sweaty and you might not want to hug me just yet. You wrap your arms around my neck anyway and tell me that we can just shower together when I'm finished outside.
Twenty One
Memorial Day weekend. I get home from work before you and wait, having made plans for us to go away for the weekend and stay in my aunt's cabin. When you're about forty five minutes late I text you and ask how long you think you'll be so I can let my aunt know when we'll be there to pick up the keys. You don't answer. Two hours later I get a phone call from you, your voice is shaky and the words don't quite come out right. You tell me that someone robbed the gas station when you were filling up on the way home and you had to stick around to give the police your statement. I tell you to wait there and take a cab to the gas station so I can drive you home. I offer to postpone the trip, but you say you don't want to let what happened ruin our weekend. You squeeze my hand and I feel your heartbeat, my own matching with the thought that I could have lost you while I wasted time watching trash television.
Twenty Two
It's early. The bitter cold air pains the leg you broke falling off your bike as a child. You always joked how it made you feel old, the way you could tell it was going to rain by the ache in your bones. That was one of the first things we found out we had in common, when I told you how I broke my ankle on a trampoline as a young teenager. I did an old man impression and we both laughed, and through your laughter you pretended to read the Farmer's Almanac and commented on how the corn harvest wasn't as good this year as it has been. You roll over in your spot and snuggle into my back, using my body as a natural heater. On one of our dates I told you I get hot when I sleep and you told me you get cold, and naturally we offset each other perfectly. I reach my arm back and run my hand over your hip, while tangling our legs together in a half-asleep game of footsie.
Twenty Three
It's supposed to snow in a couple weeks and the yard is full of leaves. I keep telling you I'll get them cleaned up, but working a little overtime to cover for a coworker on maternity leave proves more time consuming than expected. You tell me you're just going to hire someone to do it and I say not to, that's what you have me for. My next available day off I head into the backyard first with my gloves, rake and a stack of yard waste bags. Three hours later the backyard is nearly spotless with eleven bags filled, lined up against the garage in an orderly fashion. You step outside in an oversized flannel shirt and baggy sweats, your hair down and pulled to one side. You ask me if I'm done yet because you're bored and want company, and I say that I still have the whole front to do, so I walk up to give you a quick kiss but you take my rake and hide it behind your back. I try to grab it, and you remind me that I have whole nother day off tomorrow, too, and you'd rather I come inside and watch TV with you.
Twenty Four
Wednesday night, the end of Fall. We're sitting on the couch watching TV and browsing the internet when you tell me that you want to get up and do something. It's a little past eleven PM, so I ask you what there is we could do at this time on a weeknight. You say how stores are doing closeouts on summer clothing and we could go look around. Most guys would rather stay home when their girl goes shopping, but I don't mind, especially at night. Empty stores give that feeling of isolation, like we're the only people left and we're scavenging for supplies. We hop in the car and head out, arriving at the store to find about nine cars in the parking lot. Easy listening music plays through the overhead system and it makes me wonder what drives the musician to create the almost inaudible soundtrack of everyone else's lives. You point out a clearance sign above the shoe section and I head that way, looking back to see you eying a yellow two-piece bathing suit with pink edges.
Twenty Five
Labor Day weekend. A local car dealership is advertising holiday sales of which our town has never seen, and with the recent downfall of your ignition switch, you decide you want to look for a new car. It's been a while and I tell you I think you deserve something new, so we make plans to go lot hunting the next day. When we get there a tall, thin man in a dark colored suit greets us with a fake smile and weak handshake, one that says office and not labor. We tell him we're just going to look for a little bit since you aren't sure what you want, and he says to make sure we find him when we're ready. The first car that catches your eye is red, and I remind you that people with red cars statistically get pulled over more. The tall, thin man follows us at a distance, lurking behind the adjacent row of cars like a predator stalking sustenance. His colleagues watch from inside the main office area, almost as if they're judging. We look for another few minutes before you tell me that the pressure of the salesmen makes you feel weird, and you could probably find something on Craigslist or Facebook instead that would help someone out who needed the money.
Twenty Six
My birthday. I've been stressed at work and it has leaked a little into my attitude, even though I don't mean for it to. I've been going to bed early and pulling overtime shifts, but you tell me over dinner that you want me to take my birthday off. I put in for a personal day, but I don't get it. When the day comes you kiss me and send me off, and then call me at lunch to make sure I've eaten. I haven't, and it reminds me of the time in fifth grade I was supposed to go home from school for lunch and I forgot because we'd gotten a new video game. My mom had lunch all ready and I never showed up, something that still makes me feel bad to this day. I promise that I'll at least eat something small and then head back to work. La
ter when I get home, I walk in to find a blanket fort constructed in the living room, with a note that informs me the floor is hot lava, and I must follow the pillows to safety. I crawl in through the partially open flap and find you in your PJs with popcorn and chocolate, Netflix loaded on the TV.
Twenty Seven
A little past three in the morning I wake up to go to the bathroom and realize that you're out of bed. There's a little bit of light poking underneath the doorway and I walk out into the living room to find you crosslegged on the couch, scratching the kitten behind her ears. You look up and smile at me while the kitten purrs loudly, so I sit down next to you and trace her spine. You tell me that you had a dream about the cat you had as a child, until he was shot by one of the neighborhood kids. A few houses down from you lived a single mother with nine kids and not enough time to look after them. They ran wild through the streets without any supervision, so finding your cat with two BBs in his stomach left you with no doubt who had done it. You said were only seven then, but the loss stayed with you long enough that the kitten we just rescued is the first pet you've had since then. Your parents had a dog but you didn't pay much attention to it, too scared to get close to her in case something happened. I wonder if that same hesitation is what made you turn me down the first time I asked you out.
Twenty Eight
SuperBowl Sunday. You wake up around ten o'clock and find that I'm already up and prepping for the evening's events. I look up from the counter and see you walk out wearing only the jersey I bought you when we first started dating. You didn't know anything about football then, but you said you wanted to learn. I wondered if it was just because you liked me and wanted to show an interest in what I liked, but you ended up getting pretty invested on your own. Our team isn't playing in the big game this year, but we still invited some friends over to watch it anyway. You walk around to my side of the counter and kiss me on the cheek before grabbing a mug from the dishwasher. Live commentary plays on the small kitchen flatscreen and you help me roll some pigs in a blanket while you wait for the coffee pot to finish. In a few hours our friends will show up to begin the pregame activities, so you walk away with your coffee and a smile to go get ready.
Twenty Nine
We've been planning to go on vacation, and now that the time is coming up, we sit down and go through the lockbox to make sure we have all of our documents in order. In doing so, you realize that you're missing a copy of your birth certificate. City Hall doesn't close for another hour, so we take a drive to go pick one up. While we drive we discuss where we're actually going to go, since of the three destinations we've narrowed it down to, we still haven't picked a winner. Originally we had over twenty choices, separated by climate and geographical features. You want warm and I want cold, and therein lies the palpable essence of our bond. Separately I freeze to the bone and your soul burns from the inside out, but together we offset each other to create our own island. Thirty minutes and thirty dollars later, we leave with a new copy of your certificate and I agree to go wherever you want to go. Besides, we have all the time in the world to take another vacation, and next time it'll be my turn.
Thirty
Thanksgiving weekend. We both take some time off and go to your parents for the holiday. We decided that we would switch off every year; Thanksgiving at your parents and Christmas at mine, then reverse. Our decision to leave early wasn't as clever as we thought, as traffic lines the interstate for miles in both directions. After only moving about six feet in an hour's time, I turn off the car and leave the radio on. Some of the people in the cars around us do the same. The sun is in just the right position in the sky to be blinding us through the windshield, so we adjust our seats a little and pull down the visors. You lean back and put your feet up on the dash. When we finally get moving we see an overturned truck, still covered in smoke in the grass of the median, with police directing traffic around it. Three of the four lanes are closed, which explains the delay. I wonder if the driver of the truck is okay, and if he has a family to have dinner with. Or maybe his partner is having dinner with their parents because he's away on the road. When the normal flow of traffic returns I grab your hand as you relax in your seat.
Thirty One
Two nights in a row I've rolled over and found you sitting on the edge of the bed with your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. The first night I asked you if you were okay and you said yes, you just needed to get some water, so I went back to sleep. I notice that it's about the same time as last night, so instead of taking you at your word I sit up and slide over next to you. You lean into my side and I kiss you on top of the head. You tell me that you've been having a hard time sleeping lately, and I tell you that I've noticed. You've always had trouble sleeping now and then, and I just chalked it up as something we would have to live with. I'm reminded of my mom telling me that she slept so much when she was younger that she used up all her allotted sleep time, which was why she had difficulty with it later in life. I don't say anything because I don't want you to assume that you'll be the same way, I just wrap my arm around your back and bury my face in your neck.
Thirty Two
Christmas morning. For the first time since we've met our whole family has decided to get together for a big holiday gathering. My parents get a hotel room and we use the guest room at your parent's house, and all of us meet up early to have breakfast and watch the classic Christmas shows. We coast through the day, telling stories and sharing pictures of us and our families throughout the years. My mom and yours dive right into the photo albums while your dad takes my stepdad to check out the den. I watch your eyes as you flip through the albums and smile at some of the pictures, even getting red-faced at some of the more embarrassing ones. I'm careful to take a snapshot of this moment and keep it safe in my memory. Later in the night we sit in the dining room to a nice Christmas dinner, courtesy of your mom's hard work. Everyone knows that dinner is the culprit of intense interrogations, and before I've even had a chance to try the mashed potatoes your dad asks when he's going to have a grandson to watch football with. The rest of our parents stop and wait for an answer, and you and I just smile.
Thirty Three
We decide to take a walk around the neighborhood after dinner, hoping to get some relaxing fresh air while the sun goes down. The kids a few houses down are playing catch with a football, and as we pass the younger kid throws it to me. I make a quarterback move and throw it to the older boy, who catches it and spikes it in a touchdown dance. You laugh and put your arm around my waist, and I put mine around your shoulders. Watching the kids play reminds me of my first time playing organized sports when I was ten, with one of the memories bringing a smile to my face. You ask me what I'm smiling about, so I tell you my team was called the Blue Devils, and I once hit a quarterback so hard he threw up on the field. You scrunch your nose when I mention that. Wind blows the leaves around and one lands in your hair, so I pick it out and kiss the spot where it landed. The retired couple wave from across the street while they walk their Scottish Terrier, and you mention that you're glad I'm a cat person.
Thirty Four
Friday night. You tell me that you want to go out, so I wait for you to get ready and then we head to the bar. Neither of us drink much, let alone go to the bar, but occasionally playing pool with a couple of beers is relaxing for both of us. Even though it's Friday there aren't many cars outside, and inside I only see about nine people. It's immediately apparent that the group in the back corner, made up of two girls and two guys, is heavily intoxicated. They're being loud and rowdy, spilling food on the floor and throwing things at each other. The bartender looks over at them with a grimace, and I return his look when we go up to reserve a table. He hands us the ball rack and two beers, and I throw him an extra five dollars to pick him up a little bit. You set up at the table closest to the door and I smile, remembering the stories you told me about how your dad taught you to protect yourself.
Thirty Five
You wake up to get ready for work and find me asleep in the bathtub. I peak with one eye and see you with a mixed look of amusement and pity, hands on your hips. You kneel down next to the tub and I tell you that I got sick during the night, and after throwing up twice I decided to stay in the bathroom because I didn't want to wake you up by getting in and out of bed. You press the back of your hand to my forehead and the amusement half of your look slips into concern. My shirt is soaked with sweat but I'm shivering with my arms crossed in front of me. I tell you that I've called out for the day and you help me back to our bed. I crawl into my spot and cough a little. You take a shower and finish getting ready, then stop back at my bedside with a bottle of Gatorade and some cold & flu medicine. The sun pokes in through the blinds, illuminating specs of dust and cat hair. I mumble something resembling an ‘I love you' and you kiss me on the forehead, then tell me you'll be home as soon as you can.
Thirty Six
Someone hit a pole and took out the power in our neighborhood, and instead of spending two nights tossing and turning in the sweltering heat, we decide to get a hotel room. A thin blonde woman checks us in, and I can't help but notice how she sticks her ring finger out at every opportunity. There's a raisin-sized diamond on a white gold band that sparkles brilliantly in the front desk's overhead lighting. She hands us our keys and as we're walking to find our room, I tell you I'll get you a ring like that someday. You wrap yourself around my arm and kiss my shoulder, and tell me that you'd rather save the money to go on vacation. Once we get everything in the room you tell me to go with you and check out the pool. You reach out to feel the water with your toe but I cannonball in, splashing your whole front. You jump in and push down on my shoulders, and when I resurface you tell me that you're going to leave me at home and go on vacation by yourself.