They met by chance on a balmy summer’s eve after 20,000 people rocked out to the Black Eyed Peas under the Arch.
He was tall, just the way she liked it. She had kind eyes, a sweet smile and screamed naievte.
They exchanged numbers on the cobblestone street, underneath the lamplight. He called her later that night, set-up a date for the next day. She accepted with excitement, falling into a sweet slumber with a huge smile plastered onto her face.
Their first date was a giant red flag that she chose to blatantly ignore: running into his recent ex who began sobbing upon sight of him, causing him to talk in hushed tones with the ex. She walked away, casually glancing back to see how long he hugged the ex; thankfully it wasn’t long. There was no first kiss that day. Not for another week in fact. Finally, standing below the American Flag on the waterfront, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. She thought that her heel rose up to the sky, just like it did in the movies. That was always the problem with this guy, she thought things that weren’t happening.
They couldn’t get enough of each other. Within a month, he took her to his hometown for a quiet weekend in the country. She fell in love with his family. She began to fall in love with him, too. She’ll tell him this, that she loved him, a six months later in a crowded bar on a cold New Year’s Eve.
He rode a motorcycle, would take her on it but drove too fast. 120 MPH. 130 MPH. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and prayed to a Lord she wasn’t sure she believed in, squeezing his waist the whole time, too afraid to look at the spedometer as he weaved the small bike in and out of post-baseball game traffic. She never got back on the bike again after that night. He never asked her to ride again, either. She often thinks that was the real first sign of trouble.
He started disappearing for days at a time, only resurfacing when his wallet was empty, when he was hungry since his start-up business was less than successful. For Christmas he gave her a tiny calendar whereas she, well, she surprised him with the DVD player he wanted, a stack of James Bond movies, and a vintage baseball hat.
She told him alright, in that crowded bar, just moments before midnight on New Year’s Eve, miles away from home, close friends and family. “I love you,” she whipsered. He didn’t respond save for a grunt, marched onto the dance floor, and didn’t look back. She walked back to the hotel, alone, in a city she didn’t know, tears stinging her eyes, oblivious to the fact that it’s dangerous to be walking these streets.
He is the reason she won’t say “I love you,” first. The reason she dislikes New Year’s Eve, Cinco de Mayo, and certain old City Diners.
Sometimes when she sees a motorcycle, she closes her eyes, imagines the wind in her hair and silently thanks him for who she is today- a woman she couldn’t have become if he hadn’t broken her heart.
