I think inclement weather and hole-in-the-wall urban coffee shops are simply our things, one of the many common themes that string together all the random altercations and memories of our early years together, a close friendship that developed, thumbing our noses at, and accomplished beyond the grasp of my workaholic husband and Jacob's mountain of studying to be done, back in those early days.
One of my favorite places in the world used to be a tiny restaurant in a tiny, unremarkable, if not downright seedy neighborhood. This diner existed for a little over two years, I believe, before one day the doors were shut and the entire block was torn down to make way for a big-box store.
But while the diner was in business, we were regulars. It was shiny and clean, dimly lit with a couple of coveted booths and a handful of tiny wobbly tables. We would spend hours sitting there and talking over cake and coffee while rain poured in sheets down the windows and the light failed to encroach on the dark's firm hold. There was a coat rack inside the door and we would drape our raincoats over the hooks and lean our umbrellas up against the base. Then we would shake off the drops and smooth our sweaters and rattle off our orders of club sandwiches and hot soup without ever needing menus. Jacob always asked them to light the candle on the table.
Some days I miss that place.
Within the first six months I was too pregnant to fit comfortably in the booths anymore and we switched to one of the tables and I would sit out from it and sip my soup slowly, trying to savor the atmosphere. I hardly ever saw another person in that diner. Jacob would tell me stories about graduate school and he always wanted to know how I had slept and how I felt, what the doctor gave for the heartbeat that week and if I wanted to do anything special after we ate. We discussed the value of introducing babies to tie-dye and classic rock from birth so that free love and harmony would be ensured in future generations on this planet.
The idealism was mind-numbing., our innocence would bring you to your knees.
The barely-veiled attraction between us was effervescent, bubbling out around the edges constantly.
The owner assumed we were married, and would come over and chat with us. One day out of the blue Jacob pointed out that I was married but not to him. She shook her head sadly and clucked at us.
Oh, see, now, you should be married. I never did see a nicer couple together.
Jacob just sat back and crossed his arms, dimples in full effect while I blushed and said nothing.
We knew that already. We heard it everywhere we went.
Those rainy Monday lunches downtown are something I don't think we'll have again. Sure, the diner food can be found everywhere, the rains will eventually return to this new city of ours and there's always time to go out for a long lunch, but what would be missing now would be our naive ease with one another, the idealism quashed by truth, the innocence replaced with the wrinkles of experience and knowledge firmly rooted because we have lived that future now. We found our dreams and fulfilled them and we made it past simple attraction and fell in love so hard. So that makes it okay to have these memories. They don't need to be recreated or drawn out. Life is now.
But if I could return to that tiny diner in that other rainy city I would proudly take the kids in and Jacob too and I would correct myself for demurring and I would say,
Yes, he's my husband and see our kids? They wore tie dye when they were babies, they love classic rock and yeah, we all still believe in love.
It's one of our things.
