Love, Hate and Other Filters(66)
When we finish eating, Phil switches the playlist on his iPod. Our prom theme song fills the room: Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” Which is a million years old, because you can think classic rock was left in the last century, but it sneakily took up residence in Batavia. But like everything tonight, it’s gorgeous.
Phil puts his hand out. “May I have this dance?”
I slip my hand in his and let myself be pulled into the center of the room. Melodious tones warm the cabin. For all I know, the song is on repeat, because this moment is liquid amber. I’m keeping it forever. A part of me wishes I could capture this moment on film, a memory of something good and true in my life.
Phil holds me tight. I rest my cheek on his chest. He twirls me out of his arms and brings me back, his green eyes smile as he looks into mine. We continue to dance without words, clutching each other, spinning around the room, while time slides lightly by.
Phil sneaks us into the Fabyan Visitor Center, and by sneak, I mean entering through an unlocked back door. Apparently, they’re not concerned about thieves stealing all the visitor maps at night.
I take my bag and dash into the restroom. It’s heaven to slip into a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and cardigan, and out of my uncomfortable heels. I rifle through the pack and find a toothbrush and a little bouquet of new lip glosses tied together by a silver ribbon. Violet thought of everything. I also find a note with a condom attached: In case of emergency, rip open. Have fun! XOXO. I shake my head, then comb my hair back into a ponytail and layer on lip gloss.
Phil’s changed into a pair of jeans and a fitted thermal Henley that perfectly follows the curve of his biceps. He looks like his everyday self. His best self.
We drop our bags at the cabin and head directly to the pond. The last time I’d walked this path, it felt like the setting of a horror movie. But in the warm night air and with Phil’s hand around mine, it’s a gorgeous romance. As the woods give way to the clearing, I see paper lanterns hanging from tree branches, illuminating the pond. A red flannel blanket covers our little square of sand.
There’s no scenario I could’ve imagined that would have ended in this moment of perfection. I blink back a couple tears. I don’t want to cry, not tonight, not even if it’s from joy. I pause and take in the entire scene. I’m not filming, but I’m etching this into my mind forever.
Phil kneels next to a cooler and a small grill and starts building a little fire. He turns to me and smiles, then motions for me to join him. He reaches into the cooler and hands me a skewered marshmallow and produces a Tupperware full of dark chocolate and graham crackers. He nestles into the spot next to me as we roast our marshmallows. The gooey alchemy of s’mores draws us closer together. We devour them, trying not to burn our tongues. Chocolate dribbles down the side of my chin. Before I can be mortified, Phil swipes it up with his finger and puts it in his mouth. The darkness is a relief; it cloaks my face that blooms half a dozen shades of red. After a few more s’mores, we lie next to each other on the blanket, holding hands, gazing up beyond the fluttering leaves into the canopy of stars.
Phil kisses me on the forehead.
I huddle closer to him; he wraps his arms around me. The warm spring night has given way to a slight chill, but the heat radiates from Phil’s body into mine. I inhale deeply, tracing the hard lines of his jaw with the tips of my fingers, pondering the winding paths that life presents—ends leading to beginnings and back again.
Some love stories are tragedies—epics, spanning years, and built on dramatic irony, wars, Russian winters, and hours of film. Others are romantic comedies, a meet-cute ruined by mishaps and bad timing, finally leading to a kiss atop a tall building—the metropolis glimmering in the background, moon rising, love song playing over the credits.
But other romances, like this one, are simply short-subject documentaries—lacking traditional narratives and quippy dialogue. Everyday people lying next to each other on a makeshift beach, the mottled spring light passing through the dense trees before softly surrendering to dusk.
O Me! O Life!
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1892.
“Chapter thirty for next time. And don’t forget there’s a screening of Meet the Patels tonight at the Cantor Film Center,” the professor calls as my fellow students and I gather our notebooks and backpacks.
I loop a green silk scarf around my neck and lift my bag onto my shoulder.
“Are you walking back to the dorm?” Rajiv, another film major in my class, asks in a British accent so lovely and warm it could star in its own rom-com.
“Actually, errands. Also I’m headed to the campus store to get my parents some school gear before I head home for Thanksgiving.”