It was valentine's day the first time Nash ever told me he loved me. If you're picturing roses and red hearts, however, you couldn't be further from the truth. The date was completely incidental. Lack of romance aside, I'll never forget that moment. Having just exited the passenger door of my little Honda sedan he leaned his head back in and said to me, "you know that I love you, right?" To which I honestly answered, "No Nash, I didn't. That is actually the first time you've ever said that to me."He replied, "Well, I do", and all I could say was "I guess I know now." It was like poetry I couldn't write if I tried. So many writers look to their characters to live vivid or adventurous or romantic lives, such that they may live those lives vicariously through the process of telling their tales. I, however, simply feel compelled to share what has happened to me in my life, because it's been so beautiful I couldn't even make it up.
That same valentine's day Nash and I said a lot of other things to each other as well. We said things like 'I miss you', and we said them more than once. Nash told me all about his troubled relationship and how its time was nearing the end. I wanted to say a million horrible things about this woman, taking advantage of the man I love, but I said only this; "I don't like it." We embraced that night as we said goodbye and clung to one another as though we could change things by the sheer force of poroximity. He kissed my cheek. I kissed the arm with which he held me. We stayed in that embrace until it became unsafe and he pulled himself away. He said, "goodnight", and "if I don't go now I'll stay here forever." I said "ok" and I watched him walk away.