Stories of Terence

Cooking Class

The cooking class is held in a loft in an artists' complex about a mile north of downtown. When we walk in, I'm momentarily dazzled by the racks of colorful cookware lining the walls until I realize that everything is stacked in multiples, and brand new. It's all for sale - not for use in the class. Indeed, the space looks more like a shop than a kitchen; there's an oven and a refrigerator, but no proper stove. Just a couple of portable camping burners on a semi-circular wood-topped island. These burners are on, with food already cooking in them. Several cups of milk warm in a Le Creuset and a massive saute pan simmers gently with a colorless stew of leeks, onions, and bok choy. Steam issues from the mixture but no smell. The individual cooking stations I had imagined are nowhere to be seen, and I start to realize that the format here is more observation, less participation.

Clustered around the island, one couple per cutting board, are our classmates. We join them, smiling hello and taking an empty spot in the middle, directly across from the instructor, Tory. Tory is friendly but not particularly effusive. If not exactly on autopilot, any enthusiasm she once had for the gig seems as faded as the leeks. Her voice rarely rises above medium-low. Perhaps to belie her flavor-challenged personality however, Tory assures us that the goal tonight is fun. "Fun! Because if you're not enjoying yourself in the kitchen, you're not going to want to get in there and cook, right?" Right, we nod dutifully. As if reading our minds, Tory then adds that the wine promised in the syllabus will be available after we complete the knife skills portion of the class. In the meantime there's water and tea. Terence gets us some tea but gives me a look: Really? I give him one back: Apparently. I'm only thirty minutes out of a deep nap followed by a scalding hot shower (our plumbing is jacked). I'm cranky and hungry and starting to suspect Hipcooks is not as hip as we'd hoped.

Tory launches into a lecture on the importance of hygiene while I size up our peers. To our left is Hipster Cooks: she placid and wide-smiling, in a porkpie hat and Anthro ensemble; he a Warby Parker model, frowning obsessively over the contents of the Le Creuset which he's been assigned to stir with a figure-eight motion. To our right is Second Date Cooks: impossibly tall, exhaustingly earnest. They smile a lot but stand further apart than any of the other couples. Beyond them is Sporty Cooks: buff, sunny, giggly. They poke one another and whisper, though there doesn't seem much to whisper about - we haven't touched a single piece of food yet. I tune Tory back in; she's still on hygiene. She encourages us to wash our hands often, warning that it's a must if we accidentally touch our faces, our hair, our phones. She demonstrates the correct way to sample a bite of food: by tipping one's head back and dropping the bite in rather than putting hand to mouth. Tory urges us to always use a clean fingertip for tasting, and when she splays the digits of her right hand one by one to illustrate, I am reminded of a song from sixth grade chorus:

Gloves / on fingers and thumbs! / we know that these highly useful tools with never get numb!

I sip my tea, wondering how long knife skills will take and whether it would be inappropriate to nick a grape from the bowl in the middle of the island. I also wonder what the grapes could be for; tonight's menu is coq au vin, mussels, a two-bean salad and pots de creme. J'aime Paris is the name of the class, which Terence found online and booked as a gift to me, knowing coq au vin is one of my very favorite dishes. He's spent all week listening to me speculate on the likelihood of whether we'll make it properly, with rooster not chicken ("There's no way they're gonna have actual rooster. No way.") Tonight while getting dressed I asked him if he was ready for Cock In a Van class. I may have made the same joke four additional times.

We take turns introducing ourselves and telling "the last yummy thing" we ate. I look at Terence in a panic. Last yummy thing? "Korean BBQ," he whispers. Oh yeah. Hipster Cooks, Second Date Cooks, and Sporty Cooks all name impressive-sounding homemade dishes. Whatever. I help myself to a grape, popping it quickly into my wide open mouth, challenging the others with my eyes while I chew. What? I'm fucking starving, okay? There is no way Tory has four goddamn roosters in that fridge.

For knife skills, each couple is entrusted with a sharpened, 8-inch Wustof chef's knife to share. "Make sure you each get a turn practicing these techniques," she instructs. Unless at some point I blacked out due to hunger, I am fairly sure we still haven't laid hands on a single piece of food. Tory spends some time extolling the virtues of the blade, enlightening us as to the differences between German and Japanese cutlery. She passes around a honing steel, which we obediently glide our Wustofs against once, twice, three times. Terence, recently fed, is in a better mood than I am. Tory has tasked him with periodically stirring what she's now identified as the "sauce base" for the coq au vin. (That is, for the cornmeal-breaded chicken thighs already washed, cut, seasoned and breaded, and ready for the oven.) He laughs, self-deprecatory, at his ineptness. Tory laughs too, more enthused than she's been all night, telling Terence he's doing great. She maintains eye contact with him for longer than it took me to eat the grape. I test the knife's edge with a very clean fingertip.

We chop. We slice. We chiffonade. We do all of this on handfuls of grapes, cherry tomatoes, garlic, bok choy, herbs. To help us remember the correct, safe way to cut, Tory pretends her clenched fist is a bunny, jumping out of harm's way at the last second. "Hop, hop, slide. Hop, hop, slide." There is still no wine in sight. Each couple contributes its efforts to the prep bowls passed down the line. "Wait, is that the basil or the tarragon?" Amidst the low-level, sober chaos, Tory disappears and reappears with two massive platters covered in wet white kitchen towels. Mussels. Ten pounds of them. Alive.

It's finally time for wine.

For the next ten minutes, I clutch my chardonnay and watch in horror as Terence, similarly horrified but gamely partaking in the exercise, prepares shellfish to be cooked. My horror, born of the realization that we are boiling animals alive, is too much on an empty stomach. I feign interest in the process, which involves snipping off the mussel's "beard" with scissors and cupping questionable specimens to makes sure they are in fact alive. He glances at me, stifling laughter, his eyes wide. What the fuck. He ventures a "This is so weird!" but none of the others seem remotely disturbed. Tory picks up on our reticence and we are forced to confess: neither of us has had mussels before.

The sauce for the chicken thickens and starts to give off an enticing aroma, but I'm stubbornly noting the lack of red wine, carrots - of any of the traditional coq au vin markers, in fact. Tory says something about it being a "mediterranean version." Ah. She dribbles mouthfuls of the broth from her large spoon onto our smaller ones, for tasting. "We'll mama bird it like this, so no dirty spoons go in the pot," she explains.

We pile the mussels into two Le Creusets, one of which catches on fire a few minutes into cooking. No harm no foul though; nothing gets burned. There are now multiple dishes being prepared at once, and multiple glasses of wine being drunk. Tory manages and directs. We watch. I lean against my boyfriend, weak with hunger. He smuggles me another grape.

A salad is made. We're invited to put in "as much or as little" of its ingredients as we wish. The "as much or as little" directive has been a theme all night, actually. Rather than give us specific portions, Tory has her students guesstimate how much of each thing we "think will taste good" in each dish. My boyfriend looks adorable in his apron, and the burgundy we've moved onto is actually quite good...

We eat at a farm table, on benches Terence has some difficulty climbing in and out of. I slide over wordlessly to give him room, my head down over my plate like I'm in trouble. Which is what it feels like. I pick at the mussels, nibbling dry bread, privately impressed by the lack of Instagramming going on. No one seems to notice or care when we casually switch plates. We are clearly the odd ones out; the others are discussing recently made (or invented) recipes. Second Date Girl asks the group what everyone's specialty is. "Dr. Pepper ribs," say Hipster Cooks. "Waffle iron sandwiches," say Sporty Cooks. "Microwave burritos," I say. My boyfriend snorts.

The chicken tastes like Shake and Bake. The sauce is barely more than watery, white-green mush. The pots de creme, however, are undeniably bomb. Someone, I think Hipster Cook Guy, suggested we add cayenne. And the flakes of salt we sprinkled on top are almost making me forget that there is no cock in my vin.

---

Outside, Terence is energized, playful. He picks me up, howling, wrapping my legs around his waist and pinning me against a brick wall near the car. "Nooooo!" I laugh. I'm still hungry, we both know the class was a total bust, but the wine's loosened us up. I realize I left my wallet in the kitchen and we sprint back to get it. As we walk to the car, breathless and silly, we compare notes. "Where were the carrots??" he wants to know. I'm still hung up on Tory's cleanliness fetish. "It's cooking for Christ's sake. It's supposed to be messy."

We agree that the next class we do will be in our own kitchen, just the two of us, with as much wine as we want, following an actual recipe, start to finish. We just need a name.

Venice

Okay, we've Eastered. Now what? Beach day? We waffle. Kind of cold, swimming would be out of the question. Lay on the sand bundled up? I'm itching for the ocean, but it's also getting late. "I can get us there in half an hour." Fuck it, let's go.

I haven't been to Venice since high school. The intersection we turn at looks exactly the same, the one where we spent our meager teenage dollars on imitation Ray-Bans, leather bracelets, mood rings. Where the oldest looking among us hoodwinked the liquor store cashier into selling him a six pack of Zima. My first hangover. Long live young Thespians.

Whiplash back to the present: a parking attendant is demanding $30 for a spot in a makeshift lot near the main drag. "You're out of your mind," I scoff, but as we start to pull away I call back to him: "Will you take twenty?" It's packed out here today, and I'm antsy to get moving. But Terence thinks he can find street parking, and a few minutes later, he does. I hoist the beach tote, heavy with just-in-case, over my shoulder. Rash guard just in case. Sunscreen just in case. Flip flops just in case. Blanket just in case.

The wind starts my eyes watering immediately. I zip up my jacket, squinting into the already low sun. We get our bearings, taking in the shuffling crowd: colorful locals mixed with tourists and day trippers, teens on bikes, skateboarders. More pit bulls than I've seen in one place, ever.

Slightly more decrepit than I remember but not much different otherwise. Ethnic food every few feet. Souvenir shops spilling slang-covered shirts onto the walkway. "Ratchet 1" catches my eye, an in-joke with neighborfriend. I debate buying it for her while Terence checks out a hooded muscle tank: I FLEXED AND THE SLEEVES FELL OFF. I'd been wanting to find him a fun tank for Bonnaroo - this is perfect. The arm holes aren't too deep and he'll break his hand from the high fives it gets him. We've got spirit, yes we do. We've got spirit, how 'bout you?

A sunburned, dusty looking kid in neon and cargo shorts latches onto us. Store employee - one of several. They work on commission. He's already trying to sell me the "Ratchet" top, saw me laughing at it. Ten years ago I would have given in; the kid is cute and clearly hungry. But today I shake my head. "It'd be a fun gag for about ten seconds, but she'd never wear it." Quite a little racket they've got going in this place: prices vary wildly depending on clothing article and complexity of design. $35 for a beach tee. Eh, it'll be worth it. It'll be fun. God, Bonnaroo. Just around the corner.

Already feeling like we've won, like we've made the trip worth it, we step back out into crowd, getting swept along mindlessly until I spot a sign. Soft-serve ice cream. Yes. Tiny little place, staff scurrying to shove hot dogs and pretzels and slurpees into the hands of hungry children and frazzled parents. Terence gets a corn dog, spraying me with mustard when the pump on the condiment table sticks. I retreat back outside but he comes after me with a fistful of napkins. "Where did I get you?" No matter: I'm already busy with my own mess. Dripping swirls of chocolate and vanilla, melting much too fast considering the cold, as if it knows it's in Southern California, has a reputation to uphold.

We eat besides an outdoor gym: parallel bars and rings and climbing ropes mounted into concrete, inches from the sand. No serious contenders here today, though, just a few toughs in undershirts showing off for their girlfriends, or each other. They shimmy self-consciously up thick cables, refusing to look at anyone when they reach the top or slide back down, obviously pleased with themselves. "Do you think you could do it?" "God no. You?" "Maybe."

I notice the color. Look left at the row of businesses, begging with all their might for attention, see a splashy wonderland. Painted walls, painted plastic. Some of the people beg for attention, too. Spiked hair, spiked shoes, leopard print and leotards. But look right, out towards the water? A desert. Wasteland of grey-beige sand, much of it dusted up into the air, hazing over the sunshine. The beach looks barren.

We notice the sound: the wind, whooshing through palm trees whose fronds are lifted and flattened as if against a wall, on the ocean side. Here away from the crowd it's all you hear. We look at one another, marveling at this small thing.

Snacks consumed, we amble on in search of - what? More food? Sights? Not sure. We just amble. The sidewalk grows narrow and chokes up with foot traffic; we skirt along on the browning, brushy grass hill beside. So many dogs! I smile down at them as if they'll notice my appreciation. Mastiff sighting! Huge, wrinkly, pensive looking as he watches passerby. "He must have had his smarts brought up too high", a reference to our practice of rubbing Chaucy's "smart bump" every morning in accordance with what he'll need that day.

Cluster of actual sit-down restaurants. I don't feel like shopping around; there are too many people, it's starting to feel complicated, let's just go here. So we go here. Outside table, sure, we can seat you right away - only there's no alcohol served outside. Hm, okay.

We're arguing. Are we arguing? What happened? What am I annoyed about? Indecision, confusion, we were on a track but you suggested something else. My brain gets overloaded. I want to copilot together. We eat in silence, each nursing a pointless anger. Turkey burger's really good; I feel guilty on top of everything that I'm Not Speaking To You Right Now or I'd share a bite. It's really damn good.

Meal goes mercifully fast, though we bicker a good five minutes more, clomping back down a suddenly sparser path. Maybe everyone heard us fighting and decided to clear off. Don't blame them. But now we're getting somewhere. Something's been unlocked. Was it you? Usually you. You have more keys than me. And now we're hugging, clinging actually, two is stronger than one against this wind. It's made your face red, the wind. Mine too, that means. So goes the selfie.

What are we talking about? Us? Today? The little bump we hit or the landscape of the whole mountain. It doesn't feel like it matters, because we've made ourselves understood. You asked me what I remember from my teenage visit. I told you there was something I wanted, that I didn't get - a piece of jewelry, something cheap and silly that made an impression on me. I'd planned to go back to the shop and buy it but for some reason I didn't. "Let's try to find it," you say. As if we could. But my god how sweet.

For a moment we just stand there, hanging in the space between pain and peace. The wind is a wingman, conspiring to push us together. A guy in dreads stands on a tree stump, silhouetted against the sunset, twirling balls on a rope. What's that called? You see it sometimes at festivals. Just for the fun of it. Just for the thrill of balance and coordination. It must relax the mind. It relaxes me to watch him. A pretty young couple hop up on stumps beside him. He's going to teach them how to do it, I think. But I won't know for sure because now we're in a candy shop.

Gummi bears. Every last motherfucking kind of gummi bear. 

Now. Now we're ready. I unlace my tennis shoes, dropping them into the tote. Holy fuck the sand is cold. But it's an unspoken rule: you have to go to the water, no matter what. Touch it or don't but you have to at least get close to it. Wrapping the blanket around me, trying to anyway. The wind turns it turns into a sail, slowing me down while you charge ahead. Hipstamatic time. I shake and tap, shake and tap. Random pairings of film and lens. You are so photogenic. And you love the seagulls, who make you laugh as we return to the paved walkway. You think they're playing, showing off as they ride the breeze. And they might be, baby. They might be.

The sun is really dipping now, and the temperature. We're dragging our feet back to where we turned in from the street. We should probably go home. I veer off here and there to take pictures. Shake and tap. I've missed this app so much. Why did I ever stop?

And then we hear it. I've been listening for minutes now without realizing, but you extend your hand. Look. Out there. I can't comprehend what I'm seeing. Some mass on the sand, towards the water. Something. I can't understand at first what you do right away: it's a huge group of people. A hundred or more. "It's a drum circle." But I'm incredulous. No way. What? Why? Just a bunch of strangers huddled together like that? "A sunset drum circle," you repeat. "I've seen them here before."

And just like that, we're off, running to join them. Running, running, running, the expanse between us and them feels endless. Why are we running? Because we didn't have a choice, feels like. So dry, blank, cold, colorless even with the sun radiating across the water, rushing now it seems, to say goodnight. You're faster, several feet ahead of me, though you look back and we laugh, breathless. What is this? What's happening? A pair of teenage boys passes us, leaving the beating throng. "You should go in there," they say, smiling big. "It's really fun." They mean the center of everyone, which now that we're upon it is like a slow-shifting animal with a single throbbing heartbeat.

Dozens of drums sound, though we can only see a few. Tambourines. Even a whistle. The crowd is locked in tight in the middle, looser at the edges. We watch, wordless. Women in sarongs sway and whip their hair. Men with crossed arms stand stolidly as if at attention. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible, sneaking a few photos. You hold me, and quietly we agree that this is the closet we'll probably ever get to Burning Man. And that's okay.

Time to go home. The last drops of light stretch our shadows across cold sand. The houses a safe block away from the chaos are cheery yellows and blues, but they look sleepy. One final look back: everything dark save for a daub of pink on the horizon. A short visit, but intense. I'm glad we came.

Stowaway

We should get a candle, I said, when you told me it was the first day of fall. Maybe you figured I didn't realize, because I lose track of things like that. Maybe you know fall floods me with an optimism that dips but doesn't really crash until the holidays hit, and you wanted to give me a boost. Or maybe it just made you happy to announce it, in the same way you love to say "Rabbit Rabbit" the first morning of every month.

We should get a candle, I said, and you smiled.

Yeah?

Yeah. To commemorate. Something scented and yummy, like pumpkin. It could be our new tradition, I went on. Picking out a fall candle. Then we could get duck fat fries. 

Yes, you said. I love it. Let's do it. And the next day I met you after work, at the shop. Candy sweet smells pouring out into the plaza. Bottles and jars with silly, sentimental flavors like "Sweater Weather" and "Tailgate". I showed you my favorite, almost sold out, and you mmmm'd appreciatively.

Or should we try to find something nicer looking? I wondered, frowning at the ugly orange wax and tacky label.

No, let's get it. You love it.

So we did. And we walked back home slowly, luxuriating in the coolish air. But we didn't get duck fat fries, because I wasn't up to it. And later that night it got worse, my thoughts twisted into black knots, as they do, until bedtime came and I couldn't sleep. So I crept out to the living room with my blanket and my pillow, and I shut the door carefully on the both of you, snoring almost imperceptibly in unison, a sound that keeps me alive more nights than you know.

And I watched a movie about broken people accepting themselves and finding love, a beautiful movie that should have lifted me up. But my thoughts were still twisted and black so it didn't. It made me feel worse, and more broken by comparison. Less lovable, less capable of accepting those parts of me that made me relate to them.

I tried to read, but the story hadn't pulled me in yet, so it couldn't compete with the blackness. I put the book aside and just sat, reminding myself that feelings are temporary visitors. But the visitors did a number on me in those small hours, and I let them. Idiot, they said, and I didn't correct them. Failure, they scoffed, and I didn't object. Loser, they sneered, and I only sighed.

Slivers of dawn framed the drawn blinds, but I didn't move until I heard the crows. (They make me think of fairy tales, I explained a few days ago, telling you about the early morning calls which you sleep through.) Only then did I return to the bedroom, climbing back in to your warmth and peace. I waited a little longer, listening to you, to Chaucer, to the birds outside. I pictured the eastern sky as it looked from our roof Saturday at six am when, again, I couldn't sleep. A streak of peachy pink watercolor behind the still-dark city.

Finally, I moved close up against you. Just enough pressure to let my presence sink into your sleepy subconscious, because I hate waking you unnecessarily. Slowly, you became aware of me. You stirred and took a deep breath, and I wondered what your first thought would be. Or if you were still dreaming and whether I was now in your dream. I rolled toward you then, because I knew you were coming to, and because I needed more. And you turned, and put your forehead against mine, and we didn't speak, and instead just enjoyed the wordless space of gentle coexistence that I know fills you up.

And here's what I did that you don't know: there in the stillness, in the semi-dark, my eyes shut tight - I passed it over to you. I reached in and pulled it from my chest, bruised and dirty from so much kicking, and I passed it over to you for a day of safe-keeping. Just one day. Because I knew I could, because I knew that when I was ready to be gentler with it, I could take it back from you none the worse for wear.

Afterward, I turned away, finally giving in to exhaustion. You wrapped yourself around me and your hand found mine, and I marveled at the way your fist stayed clasped around my thumb even as you drifted back into sleep. Was it unconscious? A reflex? Did some part of you know to keep vigil, to keep holding some piece of me tight and safe? I can't sleep tangled up like that but I couldn't bring myself to disturb you again. So instead I just lay unmoving and pictured the street below, readying itself for the day. Bread trucks and laundry service vans filling up the loading zones. The serious-faced husband carting supplies from his car to the tiny lunch counter his quiet wife runs alone, cooking up batches of curry and beef bulgogi that sell out every day. The freight elevator descending with a mechanical groan into the sidewalk, stacked high with crates of whiskey for the pub below. Bustle. Faces tired or friendly. All of it familiar in the best way.

And then the alarm, and you have to get ready.

I'm fading, quickly, mercifully, so you let me be except for a soft kiss on my cheek once you're showered and shod. Messenger bag. Light fall coat. And a stowaway you don't know about, taking a break from me, hitching a ride with you for the day.

In Six

1. the tweet

A hint dropped, by a musician we love. English singer/songwriter we saw at Coachella last year and whose scream-along populist ballads get me through housework. He's doing a secret show tonight, just like Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist! Somewhere in Hollywood. Piece of cake - train ride away. We set him to mobile notifications and track the game until one of his followers cracks it: Madame Siam, a speakeasy near Vine. Perfect. You nap; I'll paint my nails dark blue. Yes, let's definitely get there early. Bet bigger fans than us will be around the block.

2. the scramble

Went for a run and now I'm running late. Goddamn it, why can I never manage my time? Can't decide what to wear. You zip me into a long sleeve dress - it's cold but I don't want to mess with a jacket. Nope. Too hot, too constrictive. Cropped tank and jeans? Good god no. Whose clothes are these? Where is that girl? I haven't seen her in ages. Fuck it. T-shirt, jeans, bomber, sneaks. It's Frank Turner, FFS. You sing and fix yourself a drink, in a fantastic mood that levels me out. I toss my own back and it's time go, now, we've got to get moving. Running to the subway. Running back to the apartment; I forgot something. Running to the subway again. No trains to NoHo from here tonight? What the ever loving fuck? What are the chances? We hop a bus to the next station. On the way over, I fill you in on my web adventures the night before. My new obsession: slaughterhouses, factory farms, meat packing, Temple Grandin. Captive bolt stunners, livestock behavior, restraints, bloodspotting, the whole nine. I tell you some of what I've learned, the good and the bad. Back out on the street, running again, a text comes. Holy shit. Kerry and Ross have won a trip to Japan?!

3. the wait

Bigger fans indeed have beat us there; we won't be getting a spot up front, that's for certain. Blame the Metro, but really we should have known. A solid hour's wait, in the cold. But our mood is fantastic, bubbly and giggly. The way you hold me, and kiss my cheek if I look at you too long and smile. Where did this come from? So nice. This. So easy. Your affection, the playfulness. I am so lucky. We read tweets and watch videos. We text Kerry back, joke with our neighbors in line, and cuddle in the cold. You offer to go grab us pizza. I'd rather wait, hungry as I am. It's all lovely though. Such a great space we're in. Hi. I missed you. 

4. the show

I make a beeline for the stage while you get drinks. I can't get too close, but I don't begrudge those in front of me; they know every single word to every single song. True fans, they have my respect. We end up against a bit of brick wall, not more than five feet back. You've got something to lean against, and now so do I. Depending on whether I know the lyrics, whether I can belt them out along with the others, I jump and dance and fist pump - or I melt back into you. Hearing you at my cheek, watching this performer we both love. This is a really, really good night for us. Frank's brilliant, of course. The music matched by his jokes and stories, the way he flirts with the crowd like an old flame he'll never get over. He loves us. We love him. We are all of us drunk. He is a poet. And I tell him this, afterward, in his ear while you sneak a picture though I told you not to take one. Poor guy is wasted and exhausted, only a few hours off a plane. But I had to meet him. Don't know when I'll ever get the chance again. "You're my favorite poet" I say, and draw back a bit to see him smile. "And my favorite discovery of the past few years. You inspire the writer in me and I hope to someday see you across the pond, too." Holy shit I got it all out without stumbling. Thank you, vodka. He is grateful. Says it means a lot. Or something. Not sure; I was still pretty nervous. He's thinner than I'd thought. Taller, too. Let's go get pizza, baby. 

5. the pizza

We go to my favorite place, even though it's already late and you have such an early morning. Two huge slices of cheese that we eat on the steps of the El Capitan, as is our tradition. Tim Allen's star at your feet, Roger Ebert's at mine. People watching. You can't beat Hollywood people watching. Post-mortem on the show. You're embarrassed by what you said to him ("Great show, man") because you think it was lame. But it was sweet and perfect. Something magical about seeing him hug you thanks, this stranger who's nevertheless meant so much to me, and you. Two of my favorite musicians. We should have taken a photo, we agree. Together, with him sandwiched in between. A Frankwich. Next time. Maybe across the pond, even. Crust isn't very good tonight. Let's go. But I'm still hungry? Ghiradelli? Yes! But once inside I change my mind. We skedaddle with our free squares of chocolate and head to the station. You are wiped out, poor thing. Way too long a day for you, with way too little sleep.

6. the train

I'm in the most comfortable plastic seat in the world, sinking sleepily into your shoulder. Selfies, in between yawns. You're so damn beautiful. So was tonight.

Joshua Tree

We were giddy on the drive out. A feeling of escape, of slinking early out of school to get the jump on summer recess. The backseat was piled high: bags, groceries, blankets, pillows. We'd packed light, clothing-wise, but had brought plenty of creature comforts from home. We previewed festival music, joking and dancing in our seats as I poked around on Spotify. Being out of the city had unburdened us, and the quickness with which we sometimes fall to bickering evaporated. Companionabilty eased into the space left behind.

Southwestern desert looks and feels the same no matter which state you're in. "It's exactly like Tucson," I informed Terence, who's never been, but who has mentioned wanting to see my Arizona roots. "Now we don't have to go." Around sunset we passed through town - a scraggly stretch of strip malls, antiques shops, saloons. We stopped to get a few more food items; I wanted to fix pasta for dinner, to fuel up for hiking the next day. Terence foraged in produce while I wandered down the breakfast aisle. When he found me a few minutes later, I was staring blankly at a box of cereal. I'd been distracted by the music playing in the store: Willie Nelson's version of City of New Orleans. I turned to Terence and tried to explain, but choked up before the words got free. "My dad loved this song."

Forty was a birthday I'd love to have shared with him. My mom, too. Their reassurances that I was doing okay, that the middle isn't the end, would not have gone amiss.

The house we rented was nestled up against a small mountain ridge about half a mile from the highway. It shared a dirt road turnoff with a smattering of other homes, each spaced a respectful distance apart. Breathing room for everyone, privacy for all. The property had a name: Sandpiper, "a hideaway in Panorama Heights". By the time we pulled up to Sandpiper's standalone garage (past an electronic gate requiring a passcode for entrance), I was already unbuckled and half out the door. The sun was starting to set the western horizon ablaze, and I couldn't wait to take its picture. There's nothing like a desert sunset. Nothing in the world.

Terence unloaded the car while I made ever widening circles around the yard, snapping photos, reconsidering angles, then snapping more. Joshua Tree gave us a stunning welcome, showing off with a fiery display of purple, blue, and orange. Perishables put away, Terence joined me on the dusty driveway. "Do you like it?" he asked, a question rendered absurd by the smile on my face.

"It's perfect."

"It's so quiet," he said. "I feel like my body is melting."

Inside, the rooms were even more spacious and minimal than they'd appeared on the website. Mid-century modern with a healthy dose of quirk. The front sunroom, the feature that had sold us, was lined on three sides with windows whose gauzy curtains we pulled immediately, letting dusk seep heavily into the space. The silence, intense after the constant din of downtown, felt like a third guest.

After a quick tour of the rental and the discovery that neither of us were hungry yet, we went back outside. Equipped with a flashlight, we climbed atop one of the loveseat-sized boulders to the side of the carport and sat watching headlights on the freeway. Our nearest neighbor was puttering around in a quaint little shack just down the hill; we could hear him clearly through open windows. We talked, our voices low in automatic reverence for the beauty around us. We listened to the desert. I put my head against Terence's shoulder and in the warm night air we plotted our next two days.

I was already itching to explore, though. We were on the edge of the park, minutes from the main entrance, but I was anxious to see it spread out before me. My suspicion was that if we got over the ridge behind the house we'd see, illuminated by a nearly-full moon, an expanse of land covered in brush and cactus and crawling with invisible wildlife. I convinced Terence it would be safe. "Snakes are most active at dusk and dawn," I lied, more to myself than to him. I hadn't spent fourteen years in a climate I'd loathed only to be scared of it now. "We just need another flashlight."

But another flashlight wasn't to be found, though we checked several drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Terence lit up, remembering something, and I followed him out to the car where from the trunk he pulled a small tote bag. "It's a windup radio," he explained, unsheathing what looked like an old-fashioned transistor radio. "And it has a light. It's from RH," he said sheepishly.

"You and your gadgets." But it was the perfect prop to dispel the tension on our dangerous, dark trek. As we carefully picked our way along the rocky path, Terence continually wound the little radio. It would reward his efforts with ten or fifteen seconds of Christian rock and weak light from a bulb on the side. We laughed every time the music faded and he had to re-crank the handle, which whirred and whined painfully. Before we knew it, we'd reached a clearing about two hundred feet above the house. The moon flooded the ridge with an eerie glow.

"What about coyotes?" he asked suddenly. "And mountain lions?"

"You're such a city boy," I teased, but I was secretly glad for an excuse to turn around. The desert will always be in my bones, I'll always feel at home there - but it's treacherous and callous in the extreme. I'd collected the bites, bruises, and twisted ankles to prove it.

Back in the house, we realized we were too hungry to start cooking. We opted for the quick fix of cereal, which we ate side by side on one of the retro floor lounges in the sunroom. There were two of these lounges, which were a cross between a futon and a recliner, with massively thick white vinyl cushions on adjustable wooden frames. These lounges would be where I'd spend most of my LSD trip the next day - where I'd cling in terror and gasp in wonder, mere minutes between the two extremes. For now, though, they were where we planned tomorrow's hikes.

Our next day figured out, I wanted to go back outside again. The sultry desert night was intoxicating; I'd missed it so much. But first Terence wanted to give me my birthday presents, which he did in the cooler, smaller spare bedroom. Lights off - less pressure that way. Blue moonlight spilling across two gift boxes. The first held a delicate silver bar necklace - I'd been wanting one for ages. The second, a slippery handful of midnight blue satin and black eyelash lace. Kiki de Montparnasse. Another something I'd always wanted.

Later, when we realized the master bedroom was too hot to sleep in, we dragged the sunroom lounges into the colder living room and lay down on those. We shut the lights and put our heads together in the dark, our bodies separated by the gap between cold plastic cushions. Terence played the ukulele he'd brought, and I marveled not for the first time at his ability to play an instrument without looking at it. "What time is it?" he asked drowsily.

"Go to sleep," I ordered, knowing he was exhausted from an early morning, and from the drive.

"What time is it?" he repeated stubbornly.

I sighed and rolled over to grab my phone off the floor. "Eleven thirty. You'll never make it."

He plucked at the ukulele and looked over my shoulder as I scrolled through the day's photos. We talked about Chaucer, whom Krista was keeping watch over back at home. We luxuriated in the quiet, so exotic-seeming. We looked out the windows at alien shapes: porch lamps and joshua trees with long, lanky shadows. "The cactus have so much emotion," he said. "They look like people." Then, a moment later: "What time is it?"

I reached for my phone again. Midnight exactly. We laughed. The ukulele started up again. "Happy Birthday to you..."

After Terence fell asleep, I wandered from room to room, thinking about my half-life ahead and how it will different from the one I just finished. I took my phone into the bedroom to read Krista's birthday message, a list of 40 reasons she's thankful for me. I hadn't yet mustered up the strength to look at it, fearing it would overwhelm me. Which it did. 

For a few minutes I just lay on the bed, absorbing. Knowing she'd be asleep with the ringer off, I texted her. All the good things you see in me you recognize because you have them too.  

It took me hours to fall asleep. Might have been the green tea I had at lunch, or might have been the million thoughts I'd accidentally packed along with my hiking boots.

Terence woke me with more ukulele, then coffee. "I saved you the better mug," he declared.

"Why is it better? Is there Bailey's in it?"

"No," he said, "but it has coyotes on it." He sang me a song he made up on the spot, about a sandpiper who'd come to tell us how much Chaucer missed us. It was adorable and I made him immediately record it on his phone while I brushed my teeth.

We dawdled, lazy in the thrall of our first real vacation together. Much of the morning we spent in the sunroom, sipping coffee and discussing our creative lives. We had a very long, very emotional talk about art - what constitutes it, and what does not.

It was early afternoon before we left for the park. We hit Arch Rock, then Barker's Dam, then just stopped here and there as we pleased, slowly making our way through to the opposite entrance. The trails we chose were short and easy; we wanted to reserve some daylight for later.

The desert was beautiful to me in a way it never had been when I lived there. The dry, acrid air; the scarcity of green that I used to hate; the hot dust settling into my pores - it was all strangely seductive. We scrambled up and over boulders, pausing to take in the view and catch our breath. We shimmied through slots tight enough to merit nervous jokes about getting stuck. We clomped through thorny tangles of boot-sticky spurs to reach picturesque petroglyphs. We took sweaty selfies and slow-motion videos. We got hungry and punchy. And after three hours of exploring Joshua Tree, we decided to head back to the house for the other big adventure of our weekend: my first LSD trip.

Malibu

"Wanna go to Malibu?" he suggests, when he sees the Santa Monica exit choked off with traffic.

"Sure. Why not." It's only another ten minutes further, and I'm happy just to sit in the passenger's seat and gaze out the window.  

We've driven to the coast on a whim, because it's a pretty Sunday afternoon and we're already out and about. We're already out because we've just finished a reconnaissance mission to check out the venue for a New Year's Eve event we're considering. Tickets are pricey; I don't want to commit until I approve of the place in person. I want to wear the floor-length chiffon gown that sees action maybe twice a year (Valentine's Day being its other night out), and I'm hoping for an event that's fun but also a bit glamorous. Two-thousand fifteen seems like a year worth dressing up to greet.

The recon mission is mostly a bust, though. The venue doors are locked tight, not a soul in sight. Peering in through stately (if dusty) doors, all we can see is the sweeping staircase just inside the entrance. Rather fancy looking, I have to say. I'm just about sold. 

Walking back to the car a slice of low winter sun hits my face. The crisp cold feels like an invitation to play, and back inside a stuffy apartment is the last place I want to be. "Let's go somewhere," I say. Like Chaucer, I'm asking to be walked. I need stimulation and fresh air. If I don't get out of downtown every so often, if I don't refresh my eyes with the sight of trees or sand or just different buildings, moodiness sets in and the loft starts to feel like The Stanley Hotel. Terence gets it, and obliges, nodding. "Let's go to the beach."

The beach it is.

---

There's a seafood shack a little ways past Pepperdine on the PCH that I like. The food is overpriced and nothing spectacular, but I don't go for the food. I go because it sits opposite a movie-scenic bluff, over crashing waves and aimed at sunsets that never disappoint. There's only outdoor seating and it's chilly even in summer, but sourdough bread bowls of clam chowder help with that. So does hot apple cider, which they're serving today.

Terence orders a fish sandwich, and I get fried clam strips (along with the bread bowl) so he can try those, too. They come in a red and white paper tray and are never fully rinsed of sand. The occasional bite of grit doesn't bother me, though. Neither does the cold, which is bracing. We pull up our hoods and huddle close, and I glance furtively at the other patrons. I once sat a few tables over from the kid that played Draco Malfoy, and I've seen both a Ferrari and an Aston Martin in the parking lot. 

Malibu isn't what I imagined it would be, before I moved to California. Or maybe it is, and I just haven't seen the parts of it that would match my expectations. It's beautiful but largely inaccessible. All the best parts are closed off to tourists, which I guess is how it should be, considering what it costs to live there. 

When we drive back after sundown, I marvel at how tightly packed together the homes are. Not a single sliver of space in between them through which to see the beach. Like a finger wagging at me: nuh uh, not for your eyes, outsider. I picture clean, wide stretches of sand below sharply dropping cliffs. Living rooms with massive picture windows through which the contentedly rich or the creatively tortured watch the peaceful sea. I wonder what they think about while they enjoy that view, and if they, too, sometimes pine to get away.  

By the time the houses open up enough to see in between, we're past the prime real estate. I crane around in my seat, but it's too dark to make anything out. Malibu keeps its secrets another day. 

Some date nights

Some date nights are what you do because you love one another, and you love one another's company, and because you have the time to share it. They are the evenings carved out of busy schedules, prioritized over personal time, or housework - pursuits selfish or selfless that can eat your life if you let them. Some dates nights feel cut, measured, and portioned. Which is not to say that they're not great. But some date nights, nice as they are, just fill a few hours between days.

Some date nights, however, fill the space between two people - space that sometimes builds up inevitably, despite the best of intentions. Because misunderstanding and impatience and a host of other things conspire to worm their way into that space.

Some date nights are how the street looks after a storm, clean and glinting with light. They're laughing until you cry, logging a dozen new inside jokes, and remembering why relationships are worth the hard fucking work. They're (for instance) a subway ride to K-town for barbecue and not caring that you have to wait an hour for a table, and then another half an hour for the train back home. They're not caring because something has shifted and you're back in that awesome, easy place, and because this date night could last a week and probably not stop being fun. Some date nights are makeup sex with your clothes on.

And you don't understand it, not even close, but you're glad for it anyway.

MY DOG’S HEART

The first time Terence, Chaucer and I went for an Epic Walk together, I was less than impressed by his performance. Terence's, I mean. He walked too slow, for one thing, ambling and distracted by the sights. He didn't hold the leash correctly when I passed it off. And worst of all, he complained about a bit of drool Chaucer got on his pants. You do not complain about Chaucer drool when you are trying to impress Ellie, oh no you do not.

Terence had gone on short walks with us together before that, but this was his first Epic Walk. EW's are serious business around here. Up through the financial district, a fetch session at the John Ferraro Building, then down through the park to socialize in the dog play area before heading home. Sometimes we add in stops at Walt Disney Hall or the pool at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. All of it sacred space for Chaucer and I, a long-established, much treasured path we've perfected in our years downtown - years during which Chaucer saw me through a divorce, the deaths of both parents, a handful of breakups (romantic or otherwise), a broken foot, dry socket, and a host of depressive episodes. The least I can do for him is give him a nice, long, stimulating and tiring walk, whenever I have the time. Hence were born Epic Walks - my dogspeak thank you for seven years of constant companionship.

Then Terence came along and screwed everything up by making us both fall in love with him.

Chaucer didn't make it easy, in the beginning. Doleful stares from the side of the bed, inches from our faces. His expression clear: I don't know about you, buddy. I don't know about you at all. It can't have been easy to break into the space between me and my dog, I know that. It is very, very narrow, that space. Even on my worst days, when I'm at my lowest and most withdrawn, I still have endless cuddles and kisses and affection for Chaucer - and he is the only creature on this planet who can make that claim. I love my dog with a fierceness that is knowable only to those who have experienced grief. One part terror of losing yet another thing. One part knowing that loss is inevitable. All parts soaking up each minute with him gratefully. So, so gratefully.

But in spite of how intimidating my attachment to Chaucer may have been, Terence opened his heart to him - all 130lbs of him. He came to know and accept Chaucer's quirks and challenges, and to even find the humor and joy in them. He learned Chaucer's schedule, got familiar with his needs, and started helping me with the daily chores of dog ownership. He was endlessly patient with me as I insisted on the particular, precise ways in which things needed to be done for Chaucer, because I am a pain in the ass but also because I want my dog to have stability and routine, so he feels relaxed and comfortable. Slowly Terence took on a greater role in Chaucer's care until one day I realized that he's got it. I never have to worry when I'm not around. My dog will always be fed, walked, safe, and loved. For his part, Chaucer fell as fast as I did. He grew to trust the man in our life, who was gentle and calm and never raised his voice. Add in tug-o-war and treats, affection and attention...and Chaucer's trust soon turned into love.

None of this was expected. I've always firmly believed: my dog, my responsibility. I'd come to accept that messy Mastiffs are not for everyone. And I honestly would have been happy had Terence just tolerated the very big place that Chaucer takes up in my home and in my heart. The fact that the two of them have moved far past friendship is a thing I never would have dreamed of.

We have our own secret language, the three of us. Silly voices that no outsider will ever hear. Inside jokes and memes and made-up songs and references some of which are a year deep. All the things we express to one another wordlessly. Cuddling in a heap on the floor, on the bed, weekend mornings or movie nights. Our hands touching as we stroke his broad, soft back. It's hard for me to use the f-word, so much invisible and implied weight attached to it. But when we're all laying together like that, it feels more like an f-word than I've felt in a long, long time.

Loving Chaucer is loving me by extension. And every bit of love that Terence pours onto my dog I feel my heart swell with twice as much to give him in return. The kindness with which he treats Chaucer - and the bond that the two of them have formed - have secured Terence a place in my heart more sure and meaningful than any vow I could utter. I used to say that the way to my heart was through my funny bone. And it was, back in the day. But that was before Chaucer padded into my life. Now I know without a doubt that the way to my heart is through my dog's heart.

---

Recently, Epic Walks had to come to an end. Chaucer just isn't up to the hills anymore. It broke my heart to have to give up our beloved path, through the quiet and stillness of the banking towers. But we readjusted and struck a new course through the middle of town instead. Then, a few days ago, Terence had a thought: what if we bypass the hills and take elevators up through the lower levels of the US Bank Building instead? I wasn't sure if we could get high enough, but Terence assured me we could. So we tried it. And yep, we can. We can get back to the same area we used to - wide open sidewalks and grassy areas for roaming; no steep hills to challenge Chaucer's aging hips.

Terence saved Epic Walks. And in doing so, he gave something back to me the value of which I don't know how to make him understand. Except by maybe writing this post.