I nod as emphatically as a woman who has recently suffered a minor heart attack-ish type of thing can nod.
He presses a kiss onto my forehead, still damp from the towel he just removed, and tells me exactly what I’m hoping to hear.
“We can do that. Wait right here.”
He scoots off and returns with a pair of white pants—the bottom half of a Gi uniform, I’m guessing—which feel like hospital scrubs but so much softer. I’m still sluggish and slightly unsteady, with jelly legs and a troubling heart rhythm that feels too slow at times, too fast at others, and flat-out spastic in between. He helps me out of bed, and I shoo him off, wanting to prove that I’m totally capable of putting karate pants on by myself, thank you very much.
I adjust the drawstring waist around my hips. They feel lived in, worked in, like he’s worn them about four hundred times before. I like feeling pieces of him so close to me. He hands me another loose T-shirt. This one is light gray with blocky, black lettering.
Voltage Coffee.
I smile. Voltage is one of my favorite local spots to grab a scone and work on my laptop. I wonder how many times I’ve gone there over the past ten years. How many times he has visited, too—and if our paths have ever crossed before. Maybe so. Maybe not. Maybe I’d been focused on my screen, never glancing up to notice him. Maybe he’d been in a hurry, rushing to teach a class or get to an appointment and hadn’t seen me. Maybe we’d been just twenty feet away from one another, dozens of times, submerged in our own private worlds, never seeing each other. Him, at the counter, ordering an iced tea on a hot summer afternoon. Me, bent over my computer, or lost in a book, idly sipping a coffee, contemplating my third refill. My mind flows into alternate storylines, other lives we might have lived, if we’d met sooner, in a different time . . .
“Ready?” he asks, hovering in the doorway, interrupting my reverie. “So ready.”
We make our way out of the building, walking at an octogenarian speed. He loops one arm around my waist, pulling me close, supporting me as we step a few paces, rest, then a few more, another pause.
“It’s not far, just a couple of blocks,” he explains. “Think you can make it?”
I nod. The cool night air feels invigorating. My lungs respond, filling more deeply than before. It’s that elusive, perfect temperature where you don’t need to wear a sweater, yet just brisk enough to prickle your skin and awaken your body. I feel my heartbeat re-settling into normalcy, my strength returning, and I pick up the pace.
“You look really cute in that T-shirt,” he tells me. I liquefy with pride, because even if I was bleeding out from a gunshot wound, lying on the concrete, if he told me I looked cute doing it, I’d be stoked.
Girl-brains are weird.
We pass stately Victorian houses and a couple of vintage-looking apartment buildings, similar to Ren’s. Some with red brick. Some yellow. Ivy crawling up the sides. Art Deco insignias and bronze lettering marking the addresses.
We turn a corner and emerge onto a deserted commercial street. There’s a laundromat—closed, of course. A public library. Also closed. A bus stop with one lone, solitary woman in a white button-down shirt and black slacks slumped, waiting wearily with heavy shoulders. Probably just getting off her night shift, aching to get home and rest. She gives us a wan smile with a half-nod as we pass. We smile back.
I smell the unmistakable scent of warm cinnamon rolls as we pass a bakery. Closed.
Darkened. But bustling with activity in the back kitchen. I can imagine the night-shift bakers hard at work, blinking sleepily, blasting music to stay alert, preparing for the busy morning rush in just a few hours’ time.
So many people. So many lives. Sleeping. Walking. Waiting for buses. Baking rolls. Jostled together in this strange urban grid. All just trying to do … what, exactly? Stay alive? Live another day? Eat another cinnamon roll? Find love, maybe? And keep it?
Before my mind trails too far away, Ren gives my waist a firm squeeze, gesturing towards a double-sided glass door with Japanese lettering.
“We’re here,” he announces, tapping a security code into a keypad to bring us inside.
It’s one large room. Blonde wood floors. White walls. In the back corner, there’s a registration desk with a slew of trophies behind it, gleaming faux-gold, arranged neatly and framed in a glass case. I walk in slowly, kicking off my shoes instinctively because I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do in a dojo. Ren does the same.
Detaching from his side, I move into the darkened dojo, as if in a dream. I scan the walls and notice a series of framed posters and photographs. Ren bowing to an elderly sensei with soft gray hair. Ren soaring through the air, one leg extended, one leg bent, like an action movie superstar. Ren teaching kids how to karate-chop a wooden block into two chunks—I remember seeing that photo in his online dating profile, hours ago. God. Was it only a few hours ago that we first met? It feels like another universe, another lifetime.
Then there’s a group photo. Ren framed by dozens of students—all different ages, different skill levels, presumably, judging by the multi-colored belts that they wear. A few other instructors stand on either side of him. A stout, older man, nearly bald, with a broad grin. A slim, red-headed woman with a high ponytail. All wearing the traditional white Gis. Am I just imagining it, or is the red-headed woman gazing longingly in Ren’s direction instead of looking directly into the camera?
I feel a twinge of jealousy, followed by a wave of are-you-serious-right-now stupidity. I have no right to feel jealous of a woman that I don’t know, that I will never meet, who may or may not have a crush on a man I’ve know for a scant handful of hours. It’s ridiculous. And yet, I can’t help feeling what I feel. Jealousy is a funny beast. Irrational and primal, unwilling to listen to reason.
I continue scanning the walls, trailing my fingers along each photo, each frame, wanting to memorize this room—this one-room world that my lover inhabits for the majority of his waking hours. I just want to know it.
I arrive at the final photo in the sequence. It’s a sweet photo of Ren smiling broadly with a small plaque below it, which reads: Founder and Studio Director. He looks a bit younger in the photo, though not by much. I’d guess it was taken a few years earlier at most. I feel a flutter of pride. He’s a business owner, a studio director, and apparently a wooden block-chopping master, all at such a relatively young age. And judging by the photos, he’s adored by his colleagues and students. Seriously impressive.
These photos—tantalizing glimpses into his world—spark a greedy fire in me. I want more details, more stories, more information. I want to know everything about him.
“So, AikidoGuy82,” I begin, settling myself into the chair behind the registration desk as if I own the place. “Tell me how you got into martial arts. Start from the beginning.”
Ren flicks on a few light switches to illuminate the room a bit more. Not too bright, just pleasantly dim, like candlelight.
He perches on the edge of the desk, leaning back to press his palms down behind him, making his chest look even broader than usual. It’s a good look.
“Not too much to tell,” he responds, his gaze drifting across the half-lit room, then back at me. “As a little kid, I got obsessed with Bruce Lee movies. I’d watch them over and over until I could recite every line of dialogue by heart. I got into the habit of kicking my mom’s chairs, jumping off the couch, trying to do backflips off the kitchen table . . .” he chuckles. I giggle, too. I can totally envision a miniature-sized Ren terrorizing his mother with wild lunges and leaps through their home.
“Eventually, my mom enrolled me in a kiddie program at a local dojo. I think she was grateful to have somewhere to drop me off after school, somewhere where I could expel some of my energy without destroying the furniture,” he continues.
“I studied karate, first, and then aikido. I kept with it. Marched along. E
arned a couple of black belts,” he adds, as if it’s no big deal. “Martial arts gave me structure—somewhere to direct all of my energy. It taught me discipline, respect, honor, balance . . .” he adds, “You know. All the stereotypical clichés that you might expect. I just love it. It’s that simple. So now, I teach others.”
“And you own this studio? You run the place?”
He nods, standing and moving towards a wooden crate filled with pillows, bolsters and mats. He pulls everything out, arranging them artfully on the wooden floor, creating an impromptu pillow-nest. He plops down, pats the empty space beside him, and gestures for me to join him.
“It’s not much. Just a single room. Me plus two other instructors. But our classes usually fill up and our students tend to remain for many years. Running a small business is tough, but we do well enough,” he says humbly. He’s sitting cross-legged, so I mirror him, arranging myself so that our knees touch.
“I think at least one part of our bodies should be touching at all times,” I say, shifting the conversation entirely.
He grins.
“I agree.”
He clasps my hands in his, kissing my knuckles.
“Anyway. Enough about me. I want to talk about you. Who are you? I love you, that much I know. But I barely know you. Which is crazy.”
“Not crazy,” I respond, because the feeling is entirely mutual. When two people are crazy together in the same way, it cancels out the crazy. “Just … major-league wonderful.”
His face warms as I reference the poem that initially drew us together.
“I know that you love poetry, and pancakes, and skinny-dipping underneath waterfalls . . .” he teases. “So, what else? Tell me something. Tell me everything.”
I sigh audibly. Everything? For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself being forced to sum up my entire life, my entire thirty-two years of existence, in a handful of sentences. First in Tasha’s office—providing fodder for the dating profile she crafted for me. And now this.
Where to begin?
I decide to keep it simple.
“I like to draw. More like doodle, really. I never made art professionally, but I often thought about it. I like to write, too. But I never did that professionally either. I kinda hopped from job to job. Mostly waitressing, which I’m actually pretty good at. And hostessing. Being a barista. Serving coffee. Things like that. Hmm. What else . . .”
My voice trails off. Compared to him, I feel like an unfocused dabbler who never realized her potential. “Nora is so bright, if only she would apply herself . . .” comes the echoing voice of every schoolteacher I ever had, booming in my mind. And despite Tasha’s very generous assessment of me—as a “daymaker”—privately, I still believe that all of those teachers were probably right. I didn’t focus. I didn’t apply myself. Not to anything. Not really. Unlike Ren, I am not, and never will be, a black belt in anything.
I’m sinking into an oily puddle of self-criticism, but Ren seems unaware. He’s nodding as if everything I’m saying is delightful and fascinating and eagerly prods me to continue.
“Tell me about your friends.”
“My friends? Well, most of my closest friends don’t live here—they all went off to college in other states, got married, had kids, and all that. Our lives separated. I don’t have very many close friends left here in town. None, actually. Aside from random people I’ve worked with, here and there . . .”
I didn’t think it was possible, but yup … this summary of my life just became even more depressing.
I’m grateful when he prompts me with a new question. “Tell me about … what you love.”
My back is pressed into his chest. He cradles me with one arm, using the other to stroke my hair tenderly. I lean into his warmth and comforting solidity, completely soothed by his embrace. As his heart beats steadily into my spine, I feel protected from the world, like nothing could ever hurt us.
“I love my mom. I love my dad, even though he’s gone. I love coffee. I love poetry. I love drawing. I love beautiful things. Pretty paper, candles, girly stuff like that. I love getting lost inside of a story, whether it’s a TV show or a book or just a random person telling me their life story at the airport for no particular reason. I love making people smile. I love surprising people with gifts. I love giving compliments. I love throwing surprise parties. I love people, period. If there’s one thing I’m really good at it, I guess it’s making someone’s day a little better, a little brighter than it was before. At least, that’s what I try to do.”
He gives me a squeeze. “You certainly made mine.”
I blush. He can probably see the pink creeping all the way around to the back of my neck.
“Next question: what is your worst quality, and what is your best quality?”
I smile. I typically don’t enjoy talking endlessly about myself, but I’m enjoying Ren’s playful interrogation. I can tell he’s listening to every word that I say so attentively, almost sensuously, as if he wants to lap up every drop.
“Worst quality: I’m easily distracted. Best quality: I’m very punctual.”
“Punctuality? That’s your best quality?” he teases, nudging my ribs and driving me to the edge of a tickle meltdown.
“Yes! Haaa. Nooo, stop.” I swat his arms away.
“Well, I happen to find punctuality very, very sexy,” he informs me, nibbling the space just behind my ear. “But you forgot about the part where you’re beautiful, loving, open-hearted, playful, sexy, and so incredibly courageous.”
I stiffen at his compliments. It just sounds like … too much.
“Courageous … ?” I trail off. That’s not an adjective I would typically choose to describe myself.
“Yes,” he confirms, his voice soft but insistent. “You chose to rise from death to live again, without knowing how it would feel or what might unfold. That is a very brave thing to do. You chose to go on a date with me, spontaneously, just to pursue the possibility of connection one last time. You chose to open yourself up to adventure, even with limited time and no guarantees that anything would pan out the way you had hoped. You allowed yourself to love me, immediately and fiercely, with no reservations. You shared your fears and greatest hopes with me.”
He pulls me close, wrapping his arms completely around me.
“Do you know how many people go their entire lives without ever doing even one of those things? Do you know how many people live and die with their hearts closed tight like a fist? In just a few hours, you have shown more courage than many people display in an entire lifetime.”
I’ve never thought of myself as particularly courageous. I always thought I was an underachiever—smart but disappointing, creative but directionless. But hearing his words, I feel a flicker of understanding. Maybe I haven’t seen myself clearly. Maybe, in my own way, I’m stronger than I thought.
“You make me feel like … I am … a special person.” I say, falling into his chest. I can barely believe the words coming out of my mouth. I feel sheepish. Stupid, even.
“You are,” he says, covering me with kisses. “I hope you know that. I hope you never forget.”
It’s funny how it takes something so dramatic—cancer, a car crash, a near-death experience, or actually dying—before things become simple, vivid, and clear. Before we can appreciate what really matters—the small moments of pleasure, the taste of maple syrup and butter, the smoothness of a beautifully swept floor, the warmth of someone’s embrace—and the truth of who we really are. I didn’t see it. My eyes were half-fogged. Now I’m awake. And I just wish it had happened sooner.
Hour Twenty-One
He doesn’t say it, and I don’t say it either. But we’re both thinking the same thing.
Three hours left.
What should we do with this time?
As much as I like the idea of Ren bending me
over his gleaming, perfectly polished desk and ravaging me all over again, I don’t think my body could take that right this second. I am thoroughly spent.
I find myself strolling over his desk, nonetheless, as if tugged by invisible cords. An idea strikes me.
“Ren, do you have any paper?” “Of course.”
He comes to my side and rummages through one of the desk drawers, removing a stack of crisp, ivory paper and a few pens.
I gather up the supplies and retreat to the pillow-nest he’d created earlier. He follows.
“I have a few people I’d like to write to,” I explain. “If I give you their addresses, will you make sure these get delivered?”
He nods.
“I’ll make sure. I would be honored.”
I roll onto my stomach, propped onto my elbows with a fan of papers in front of me. I uncap one of the pens and formulate my thoughts. Ren arranges himself on the floor, lifts one of my feet into his hands, and begins to rub the center of my arch with decadent pressure. Slow, intentional circles swiveling upwards into the spaces between my toes.
After giving each foot a generous amount of attention, he works his way up my calves, to my inner thighs, and all I can think to myself is “Mmmmfffnggh” because his touch strips my vocabulary right out of my brain.
Eventually, he settles onto his side, propped up on one elbow, studying me in the semi-dim light. I reach for a pen and tap the tip against my temple a few times. An old habit that formed I don’t even know when. Automatic pilot. Tap tap tap with the tip against my bare skin. As if summoned by a knock at the door, my thoughts return.
There’s moonlight, white walls, bare floors, a sheaf of paper, the pressure of Ren’s form against mine, and in the sparseness of this space, I find all of the words that I need to say.
Mom,
You might not remember, but recently, I called you on the phone and I asked,
“If you only had a few hours to live, what would you do with that time?”
You told me:
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