Nothing Casual
When we were in college, I announced a semester away,
no classes, clanks of plates around us,
in the middle of the dining hall,
a small table for four, voices at a murmur.
"Why?" asked one of my friends.
I lifted a fork, whiffed the lasagna.
"Well, I got to make money."
Everyone nodded.
Then I stuffed the cheesy tomato sauce into my mouth.
That night, a young woman grabbed me
as I passed her in the hall, a friend of a friend.
"I don't know how to ask this," she said,
"but I want you to spend the night."
She kissed me. It felt awkward, but nice.
I'd never thought about being with her
but there was my money problem coming.
"I don't want to lead you on," I said.
"I'm leaving in a couple of weeks."
"Yeah, I heard." Her eyes so clear,
her expression so serious, she did not flinch.
"That's perfect."
For a moment, I stood and waited.
I expected more. And more came, but not in words,
only in her watchful expression,
her tight grip on my arm,
our jeans pressed hard together,
hip to hip. She trembled.
For ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
Until I nodded. "Okay, then."
She sighed. Her grip relaxed
but she did not let go.
And we walked and talked into the evening.
A couple months later, she phoned me and said,
"Why don't you take time off work
and come on up?"
"Well, I can only stay a couple nights," I replied.
Her expression, even on the phone,
remained flat and serious.
She murmured, "Perfect."
When I had a girlfriend, she called
to ask how it was going.
When I had a different one, the same.
Once on the phone she said,
"Let me know when you're between girlfriends."
A year later, she transferred to a different college.
In the spring, she called,
and sounded more confident now
as she stated flatly,
"My roommate is leaving for the weekend.
I'd like you to come up."
Once a year, twice a year,
in five years she called to say
there was a political rally
held a few miles from my home.
"I'm driving down," she said.
"Why don't I stay at your place?"
Once, she wrote to plan a camping trip with me.
Another time, she called to invite me skating.
A few times, she texted, Are you between friends?
"Your friend calls me the butch one?"
she asked, the next year.
"Well, yeah." She had arrived in hiking gear,
hair short, heavy boots,
and talked about her lovers.
She considered for a moment
and replied, "Fine. I'm flattered."
She rooted for me getting married
in the next year
and I asked, "Do you want to be in it?"
"Hell yeah. I want to wear a tux."
But when my wife called us old, casual lovers,
fifteen years later, a few hundred phone calls,
letters, texts, emails, remaining friends later,
the same woman frowned.
"No," she replied instantly.
"I don't like the word casual."
-- Eric Gallagher
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