In Our Hands

by Larissa C. Moyer

When we love, we strive to become better than we are. When we strive to be better than we are, everything around us becomes better too. —Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

“You Belong with Me” by Taylor Swift blasts at an absurd volume for a near empty bar at four o’clock on a Wednesday. The song is mocking me, and it’s a dumb fucking song. I immediately scold myself for criticizing T. Swift. At least she turns her pain into chart topping hits.

I love watching people enjoy their drink, especially their first one of the day. It’s a small, but gratifying pleasure in this line of business.

I don’t feel like I’ve found a new boyfriend with Otis. It feels like I found a lost family heirloom. Something that was always mine to keep but couldn’t find. I smile at him, feeling like I found treasure.

He had the face of someone wise but not preachy, like people probably sought him out for advice because he had never steered them wrong before.

“You’re part of each other, love. She’s always had a beautiful heart, but you’re her pulse. You’re the pounding in her chest. You bring her to life.”

Sharing trauma or heartache with someone isn’t about getting it off your chest. It gives some of it to someone else to help you carry.

Pain is pain. The severity doesn’t really have a scale because it all hurts. But it’s real and it matters.

This is what making love means. We made our love through years of friendship. We made love by counting on each other. We made love by trusting each other. We made love by knowing what each other needed without words. And tonight, we make love by basking in the love we already made.