Is She Really Going Out with Him?

by Sophie Cousens

There is a whole new chapter waiting for you, all you need to do is keep turning the pages.”

I am not a phoenix. I am a dazed pigeon, looking for crumbs. But I am fine with that; being a phoenix looks exhausting.

What is it with married people and their assumption that all single people must be just yearning to get back into a coupled state? People are not chopsticks; they do work alone.”

There’s a window of opportunity where you can correct someone who calls you the wrong name; after that, you have to either never see them again or just be that new name forever.

“My grandad used to say fishing is like life,” he tells me, looking wistfully across the water. “You don’t know when you’re going to hook something good or when your line is going to break, but if it were easy, where would the satisfaction be? Fishing’s the thing that’s kept me sane this year.”

Am I world-weary? Is that why I focus on the risk of humiliation and disappointment rather than delight in the joy of possibility?

“Ah, the ‘older woman,’ ” I say. “Poor you, how will you cope being in the vicinity of such decrepitude?” “I’ll try to be strong. If you could send me some talking points for people of your generation, that would help.” “Sure, I’ll e-mail you, is it still douchebag@fullofmyself.com?”

I guess some things in life you don’t get to choose; you can’t choose

“For me, falling in love feels like gazing up at a dark sky. First, there is nothing but blackness, then gradually your eyes adjust, a few stars come into view, then suddenly, you see everything—thousands of stars, an infinite spectrum of light. It’s mind-blowing. Falling out of love feels the same but in reverse. One by one the stars recede, gray clouds sweep in. Then one day you realize you are alone in the dark, there’s nothing out there.”

“Anna,” he says, still holding my arm on the pillow, “I’m not going to touch you or kiss you unless you ask me to.” His voice is a low growl, as though he’s struggling to keep his composure. “I need to be sure I’m not taking advantage of this situation.”

“I’m going to show you exactly how unprofessional I can be.”

“There are forgeries on people’s walls all over the world. If they like the art, it hurts no one. If they bought it for the value it holds to others, then maybe they’re valuing the wrong things.”

As we listen to the rest of the concert, Will reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Heart full, I squeeze back, reluctant to let go. But my pleasure is tempered by an uneasy feeling. Our boundaries are blurring. I had Colleague Will and Archive Will clear in my head as separate entities. But here is Will from the woods. This is the person he is around his family; here in this room is what matters to him.

“Don’t let life make you hard, Anna. It’s the soft, gooey middle that makes it all so delightful.”

“If you want to know whether you could fall in love with someone, this is the ideal place to find out.”

A few months ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of sharing this photo; it is too personal, unfiltered. But now I know that if I can share a picture of myself in my most vulnerable state, then I am not broken. I have loved and I have lost, but my heart still works. There will be other chapters. I will love again. Because—whatever the fallout—to feel like this about someone, to see and be seen so entirely, it is worth any risk. What I really reconnected with at the retreat was myself—what I need, what I want, and what I am capable of feeling.

Even if I’m too late, even if he doesn’t call, I still needed to say it. Because true love does not cower in the shadows; it roars, loud and proud, until it has given its all.

“So you’re happy?” I ask. “So happy. You?” “Yes. Happy on my own, but even happier with you.”