Like Love We Often Weep

Last night it began to snow, fluffy puffs coasting meanderingly to earth. As I stood outside the office under the streetlights, I smoked slowly on a rare cigarette and just let them melt on my hot cheeks, lie cottony on my eyelashes. I felt dizzy, stomach empty of everything but ire and nerves and the phone in my hand buzzing with messages from friends.

Would I come out for a drink?

Have I seen a red leather jacket lost last Friday?

Where is the best place in Paris to get pain au chocolat?

The day had been endless and endlessly wretched. Clients were unreasonable, boss was absent and lack of staff  due to winter illness had forced me to double my workload. My head was fair swimming with letters and emails, all swirling in some sort of musical number – Sesame Street by way of Edmund Gorey. I wanted that drink, wanted to eat a pain au chocolat dans un petit boite somewhere in Montmartre.

But I was going to see him instead.

Hours later, after the late metro and the shy smiling bisous, we are in his kitchen. I section grapefruit, he roasts almonds and we hum along to Charlotte Gainsbourg. He has bought me new shampoo, and draws me a bath. I am reading us a novel aloud, Somerset Maugham’s "Of Human Bondage". We both hate Mildred and he sighs in frustration At Philip’s naivete every once in a while as he lathers my head. He sings nonsense as he makes tea and I dry off, putting on a grey cashmere wraparound sweater and boy cut underwear. He gathers up his beautiful Egyptian blankets, bought by his mother many years ago at a Cairo market; nile blue, white and a colour like spilled blood and I make the same lame joke I always make about coveting the covers.

He neglects to laugh. He insists on thinking me unfunny, only, I suspect, to cause me eternal chagrin. I insist that this is the difference between people who laugh at Jerry Lewis and people who laugh at John Cleese. No contest really. 

We watch a French film, something about Marseilles and criminals and soccer. I am sleepy and warm with him lying between my legs, back against my torso, his wet hair curling under my fingertips. He holds my hand, tracing my skin with his fingers and as I lean in to kiss his forhead all I can think is how I never want this to end.

He does not lie to me. There is no bullshit. He is quiet, he understands duty. He is the kindest person I have ever met. Sometimes at night, I awaken and look at him in the dark. Tears come to my eyes because I cannot believe that someone, someone out there who doesn’t even know him and may never appreciate him…that person will be lucky enough to have him by her side for the rest of her life.

And that will never be me.

Like love we don’t know where or why,
Like love we can’t compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.

-Auden