a mountain full of daggers;
And so it was settled. It was also Saturday.
4:06 PM—“Still wanna hang tomorrow? (:”
5:03 PM—“Yeah, let’s do it! Kinda nervous…”
In regard to grabbing coffee with a gal I’ve known for close to two decades. Took me near an hour to
respond to the invitation because I was deciding whether I should rattle my brain for cancellation excuses
or just strap my nuts on and actually meet someone for once. Why am I like this?
“I’m nervous.”
I probably said that to her four more times in the hour that followed.
It feels right to start making social maneuvers like this again—placing the plane on a hardstand of sorts—
but it’s no mystery to me that this period since COVID lockdowns has left some serious scar tissue on
how I spend the daily social credits. It’s saved the wallet, but I feel lost somewhere in all of the
reemergent noise.
Her and I go back. Like way back. Like we were these two fixed parallel lines in classes here and there in
middle school back, until a bit of AOL instant messaging made us perpendicular, colliding briefly;
casual nothings becoming biking over to her house, code words in chat rooms, and a crash-course on
French kissing and body tours. That year we had one of the warmest summers on record, and the most
burying of winters. Her lips were soft and curious. I remember things like they had just played out
yesterday.
And now we’re adults, both 29, both equally sober. She does AA a few times a week, keeping the wagon
wheels lubed. I asked her if I was crazy for just keeping a tight routine and not a tight circle of struggling
addicts inside my Wednesdays. She said that everyone does things their own way, and in response to
another comment I had made, “it’s so nice to actually produce dopamine again!”
She’s right, especially about the last part. It is.
I can’t begin to tell you how many nights it was produced like a manufacturing facility taking pure
ethanol, and in manipulating some carboxyl groups, rearranging a few hydrogen atoms, etc., crafting
those sweet, sweet neurotransmitters.
She’d agree.
I feel the weight of her past as she carries it. I feel mine as if I’m crawling out from underneath it.
We’re both victims of the same self-inflicted knife play.
Come Sunday, day of. I was two minutes earlier than planned. She spoiled what could have been a
fashionably late walk-in by saying she was running 15 minutes behind. I didn’t mind. The busiest
roundabout in 30 square miles probably wasn’t accounted for, but I needed caffeine. Now. Couldn’t
wait.
The coffee shop was trendy, minimalist, off the beaten path—in between a dance studio and an endless
row of rented and lease-listed repair shops that butted up to the freeway.
It was six tables, all packed with Midwest moms and college kids, who I’m assuming we’re preparing for
finals week. The theme of the place screamed “pick me up by my foundation and throw me smack in the
middle of Portland,” you couldn’t tell the difference, and apparently they roast their own beans. You can
buy them fresh in these posh little oyster pails next to the register. I took a compliment from the male
barista, put a black coffee on credit, and stepped back outside while I waited for my company. I didn’t
know what to do with my hands. Rather they blister from the cold than shake from being the lone-
standing patron, wielding a coffee too hot to drink, wearing a turtleneck too formal for a Sunday sip,
and visually uncomfortable waiting for a group of students to decide they’ve analyzed enough Kafka or
sociology prep sheets for one session.
Clearly he wants a seat.
I can’t deal with wandering eyes, mouths without stomachs, catching me amongst all of the world’s
lines; I just want anything, anything at all to steal your attention back. That’s me, don’t notice me.
Why am I like this? I need to work on it.
And so she arrived, asserting herself inside by claiming a couple of lounge chairs next to some 20-
somethings with beanies on and headphones in. I had gone out to my car—decided I’d cut the cold,
check my hair, twiddle my thumbs, blow on my coffee.
She announced, I re-arrived, and time did that thing where it forgets about you and then shouts its
existence with reminders of moving parts & pieces and gravity. Like the silence between songs. This was
a song of sorts. An hour and 30 minutes felt like the wait for my coffee, and deciding if I put my free
hand in my pocket—all of 180 seconds. She was kind, vulnerable, open; we talked about addiction,
religion, Chicago. I told her about how I was so stir-crazy amidst my sobriety that I almost converted
to Hinduism. She told me about upcoming strikes with her entire nursing staff, failing negotiations, and
making a picket sign with crayon and construction paper: the worker strengthening the legs they stand
on.
I wanted to steal the chair I was sitting on. I’d perused the art. The only Van Gogh was of one his self-
portraits—how interesting. Painted geography lessons with fjords and wide-angle perspective shots—how
inspirational. Boats. Horses. Beaches. Wales. And tons of local artists. I wanted the chair. It was soft like
Saxony wool.
She had to go, eventually—something about grocery shopping with her mother. I decided I was going to
hit the Barnes & Noble. What I don’t know about this town it continues to make up for with hidden coffee
joints and bookstores. We parted, I got a book, The Pleasures of the Damned, read a few pages in line, and
texted her when I got home. Had a great time.
For once.