a story. part 13.

she'd spent her entire life being patient. she never said something she didn't mean. and even though she knew it was unrealistic and small-minded, she expected the same of people. but people aren't always kind and she knew a lot of loose tongues. so, for years, she patiently forgave people who were not like her.

but he was just like her. and the waltz they danced through life had been incredible. if she was having a terrible time with a painting, it didn't matter because they had each other. if one of them was anxious about the future, the other one would say something inspiring and calming and true. if they walked in the park, they didn't talk about the park. they talked about real, deep things. if a storm ruined their plans for a picnic, they made love all afternoon instead.

and at the end of the day, when they realized the bread had gone stale and the meat should be thrown away, they just sighed and held hands.

sometimes, he would tell her stories and in the middle of a sentence about something he'd done 15 years earlier, she'd think to herself, "i know this is the first time i've heard this story, but wasn't i there?"

everything about him felt familiar.

and when she explained that to him, she began with the fact that as soon as she could comprehend what sort of person she was, around the age of 6, she knew there had to be someone else like her out there.

and then she'd tell him that after awhile, the ache to find her person had gotten so strong that she'd taken to pulling her car over to scream.

and he'd say, "i hate that. i hate that you had to feel that."

when she did find him, she wasn't looking. and because she never wanted to scream in her car again, she told him she'd missed him since the day she was born.

that's what she was thinking about the day he stood in the doorway as she made dinner.
she wanted to cling to him tightly. but he needed to step into the kitchen.