Plans

        

           

             Carl and I were sitting on my bed in my apartment. Those two hamsters were running around the bed as usual. I’m convinced he loved those little guys as much as he loves me. It was originally Lola and Pepa, but Pepa turned out to be a Pepe. In those five months in Spain, I never did get my little Pepitos like I expected. I guess it’s for the best. We didn’t stay in Spain long enough to have little Pepitos. In fact, we really had no idea where or when we would finally land.

       Pepe ran over my foot. I was sitting cross-legged with my back against the headboard, “So, Carl…” I say.
            “What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off Lola; she is dangerously close to running off the edge onto the laminate floor.
            I hesitate. We had already talked about the idea of what’s to come after Spain. We had talked about it a lot actually. I didn’t hesitate because I was afraid to talk about marriage, but I hesitated because I knew I was always pushing for a plan. I wanted to know for sure what we were going to do come June even though we had only been dating since January 2013.
            It was only February.

           “OK,” I go on. Lola is now safely in the center of the bed, so Carl’s eyes meet mine, “I know we’ve talked about the whole marriage thing, but it’s definitely too crazy. We definitely agree right?” I’m secretly hoping he says no.
            “Definitely too crazy. We’ve been dating a month, Leah.”
            “Yeah, I know. You’re right. So do you want to talk anymore about what it would look like if we stayed in Spain?”

Plan #1: If We Stayed in Spain

In Theory: Maria drops me off at the pedestrian crossing just like she always does. I slightly awkwardly get out of the car and say goodbye with all my teaching supplies in tow. I didn’t bring too much with me today because it isn’t a Monday; I only have my regular classes and not any of those stupid tutoring things. Wow, do I hate those. The kids walk all over me. I have no idea how to manage a classroom. I feel so bad for all that crap my friends and I pulled in high school.

            I cross the street and walk around the corner to my apartment. You know, that beautiful four bedroom, two bathroom, dining room, living room, terraces, balcony, laundry room, huge kitchen. That apartment. I pray that the key works. Sometimes it doesn’t, and I stand outside my own front door feeling like an idiot until it finally clicks. The key works this time, and I collect my mail from the steps as I go up. A letter from my mom! I was worried what my parents would think, you know, living with my boyfriend. And of course, they do mind, but they haven’t disowned me or anything.

            Carl will come home a bit later; he has to catch the bus from Bollullos where he works. It’s connected to the academy where he worked last year, so it was a really easy transfer. He comes home, and we finally make lunch together at 3pm. We have the rest of the day to ourselves, and neither of us work Fridays. Perfect.

In Reality: We didn’t want to stay in Spain. And that’s all that happened; that’s how the plan fell through. We just didn’t want to. Carl had been there two years already, and for me, it was going to be a year (though not a consecutive 12 month period). The buses are late. There are always drums banging. The people speak Spanish. Don’t get me wrong, we loved it, but it can be draining living outside your own culture.

Plan #2: If We Went to South Korea

In Theory: I get on the metro after finishing up at the school. Seoul is such a huge city, but I’m starting to get used to it. And at first, I didn’t think my lessons were going very well, but I’m feeling more confident. And besides, even if I didn’t love it, they pay really well. Not only is the salary great, but they pay for my food and apartment. Really it’s like I’ve got two apartments, since Carl lives in the same building I do.

            It definitely took more adjustment than Spain for me, but for Carl, it has been pretty easy. He’s lived in London, and couldn’t feel more at home in the big city. Pretty much everyone speaks English, so the language thing is actually easier than in Spain. Of course we’ve had our awkward cultural mishaps, but you live and you learn, right?

            And anyway, it’s worth it. With both of us making such good money, we will be all set for when we do decide to settle down in America. We will even be able to buy our own furniture instead of only garage sailing.

            I knock on his door, and as he opens it, the smell of dinner wafts out. On Thursdays he gets out earlier than I do, and always has something ready for me. What a gem.

In Reality: First of all, there was no guarantee we would be living close to each other in Seoul. Heck. There was no guarantee we would even both get a placement in the same city. I might be in Busan (on one end of the country) and he in Seoul (on the complete opposite). It’s still only a four hour train ride, but we’d really only get to see each other on the weekends and even most of the weekend would be taken up by train journeys.

And secondly, neither of us really wanted to keep teaching English. He’s a digital marketer. For him, teaching English was just a chance to live in Spain. And for me? Well, I’m not sure yet, but I don’t want to continue doing something I know I don’t like. At least for now while I have the option.

Plan #3: To Heck with It! Let’s Just Get Married

In Theory: “Are you sure you want to marry him?” They are all asking me, “You know, it is the biggest decision of your life. You don’t want to rush into something like this.”
            “Yeah, I know,” I say, “I have thought about it. And I know it will be hard, of course, but any marriage is. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been dating.”
            “Well, alright then.” They say, “If you’re sure.”

            The wedding is small. We didn’t have too much time to plan. I came back to the States from Spain in May, and the wedding is in June. People call us crazy, but we don’t mind. We know we are.

In Reality: Um, hello! You can’t just have an international marriage on a whim. There are visas and relatives and plane tickets.

Plan #4: I get the fiancé visa to go to England

In Theory: The visa for England only took three months, that’s why we choose to go with it. Of course not only that. I love living in England, and learning about Carl’s culture and country. But more than that, I get to know his family before we decide to return to the States.

            We are living in London. Super tiny flat of course, but on Carl’s and my wage we can just afford it and live comfortably. I hear the key turn in the lock. I can almost touch the front door, the couch is so close. Carl comes in bringing the cold air with him.
            “Hello!” He says, “How are you?”
            I put my book down and prance to his side, “Hi, sweet bean. What should we make for dinner? I’ve been thinking about it for ages!”
            “Well aren’t you an impatient little thing.”
            I try to look cute, “You knew that already. I applied for my visa the day after I got back from Spain. I don’t know what I would have done if it would have taken all summer. It was bad enough having to wait to come over here until July!”
            And then he kisses me.

In Reality: We can’t simply apply having both just left Spain. Carl has to meet the financial requirement; he has to have a job in England making x amount of money a year.

Plan #5: Apply as Soon as Carl Gets His Job

In Theory: “So does Halloween look any different in England?” We are debating whether or not to do anything special or just eat a frozen pizza and watch a movie.
            “Mmm,” he says, “Well, what’s it like in America?”
            “To be honest, I don’t really know. I wasn’t allowed to do Halloween.”
            “Really?!”
            “Yep. You knew that. I’ve told you before.”
            “We should do something special then. Dress you up like a fairy.”
            “You’d like that… And what would you dress up as?”

            We go on bantering and flirting and enjoying newlywed life. We opt for the frozen pizza because, let’s face it, there isn’t too much to do in Amersham. We could have gone to London I guess, but we were just there last weekend. It’s nice to just relax in our tiny apartment sometimes.

In Reality: Although Carl got a job that met the requirement in the beginning of September, we couldn’t apply yet. After further emails and questions and searching, we realize he has to hold that job for six months before I can apply. So really, I can’t even apply until the beginning of April.

Plan #6: Let’s Get Married in England on a Marriage Visitor’s Visa

In Theory: My family had flown over the wedding. My dad was downstairs somewhere in the lobby. Probably crying or something. We had to kick him out of the hotel room so we girls could get everything ready. Lydia didn’t last very long. She asked my mom a few more times if she could wear her tennis shoes to the wedding. After one or two no’s, silence was the only response she got. And when Talitha told her to sit down in front of the mirror so she could have her makeup done, she bolted. She was probably downstairs somewhere with my dad.

            I look at myself in the mirror. My mom, sisters (minus Lydia), and Christine are all getting ready around me. There is so much hustle and bustle trying to get ready for the wedding; it’s almost easy to forget what I’m actually getting ready for. I just keep getting focused on the task at hand. Get my makeup done. Do my hair. Do my nails. Plan what to take with me. Last minute details.

            It’s probably good I keep forgetting what day this really is. Whenever I remember, I get a little teary-eyed and way too excited. It’s been complicated getting to this day, but it’s finally here. Sure, the complications aren’t over yet. A few weeks after the wedding, I have to fly home and then apply for my spousal visa, but at least, in this moment, everything is perfect. I finally get to make Carl my husband.

In Reality: First, we couldn’t decide on a date to do the wedding. How about the end of March when my sisters have spring break? Nope, Carl has Purple Day, the day for epilepsy awareness, the biggest day at his work, he can’t take that week off. OK, well, how about when my sisters have off for Easter? No, Carl’s mom didn’t think that could work. Easter is a really busy time in England, she says. There is no way we could get a church. Fine. June then? June it is.

            We booked a church. We booked a reception hall. We booked a caterer.
            Christine and I made wedding invitations. Seventy-five of the damn things. And most of them are going to people who I know won’t be able to come. But we made them anyway, just to show I would have them there if I could. But guess what? The visa was denied.

            They asked me what I planned to do while in England, and I said, “I will plan my wedding, and in my free time, volunteer.” And that’s why I was denied. I guess in hindsight, it makes sense, but I didn’t know volunteering counted as work. They denied me because you’re not allowed to work on that visa, and volunteering is working (apparently).

Plan #7: Happily Ever After

In Theory: Carl and I get married and live happily ever after.

In Reality: Carl and I eventually get married and live happily ever after. 

Obscurity

            

           The last line in George Elliot’s Middlemarch has been running through my head recently. It reads, “But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” To sum it up, if you do what’s right, even if no one remembers you, you’ve had a positive impact on the world, and that’s good enough. And isn’t that what I’ve been doing?
            Last night, I helped watch Christine’s sister’s kids at a wedding. That was nice. And the other day, I went to my old high school and helped with a reading group. That’s pretty nice. I empty the dishwasher sometimes. Kinda nice. And once, I crocheted little animals and left them for strangers. Way nice.
            But is that all it’s supposed to be? Am I contenting myself with the small things when I should be reaching for greater? I have to ask myself these questions because these are the days in which I decide what I ought to be doing with the rest of my life. Oh of course, I’m young, and I can always decide to do something different, but why not get it right on the first try if I can? Why not find myself in something worthwhile from the get go?
            And as I search the internet looking for the perfect job or position, as I look through google maps trying to find the perfect city in which to live, and as I open blank document after blank document trying to type the perfect words, I’m afraid I will never find it. I will never find the great thing that I was always meant to do. I will never find that stroke of genius that I am to be remembered for. Instead, I will rest in an unvisited tomb. And when that fear takes me, I think of George Eliot and her brilliant novel. I think, “Well if Dorothea can live such a good life and be content with obscurity, so can I!”
            And so I make plans how to best content myself with obscurity. “Incredible,” I think as I scroll through Pinterest, “These bacon jalapeño deviled eggs will prove to my husband I am a loving wife.” “How cute!” I scroll, “This Noah’s Ark blanket will show my baby I really care.” “Whoah,” scrolling, “Those abs will be my abs. And I will be so sexy.”
            But why must I content myself with unhistoric acts? Why should I aim to rest in a forgotten grave?
            Fear.
            Fear of failure. Fear of pursuing the wrong dream. Fear of embarrassing myself when I realize I can’t reach what I aspire to.
            But I am beginning to realize that not reaching at all could be so much worse. 

Socks

We each hold our little iPods close to our face.
“Gosh, I can’t believe you guys have another snow day. Seriously, I picked a good winter to get out.”
“Yeah, it’s freezing here,” Talitha tells me, “and we are supposed to get more snow again tomorrow.”
“I know I shouldn’t complain, but I’m also freezing. My apartment’s so cold!”
“Yeah, but what is it in Spain, like 60 degrees?”
“Maybe…” I slowly give in, “but there is no central heating so it’s also 60 degrees in the house! I’m still wearing my winter coat over a sweatshirt and that thick grey jacket I have. I have on leggings under my jeans and I have on two pairs of socks. Normal ones and then the ones we got last Christmas.”
“Me too!” she says, “I have mine over other ones.”
I laugh, “Really? I never take mine off. I think I’ve been wearing them since December 25^th of 2012. They are starting to wear through at the bottom.”
“Mine too!” She sticks her foot up to the camera, and sure enough her pick patterned socks are worn through revealing her sock underneath.
I smile and look at the bottom of my own sock. It’s a deeper magenta but with the same patterns and the same hole.

Tag-Teamed

We sat on the bed quietly watching the two men inspect our phone jacks and attempt to figure out what the problem was. There was the older man who lived with his wife beneath us, very nice, asking us how our schools were and if we had eaten yet and how everything was going. The other man was the couple’s nephew. His deep voice reverberated around the room. Spencer and I sat quietly and listened to their Spanish bounce back and forth.

When they had finished their poking and their adjusting and their talking, they explained the problem to us. We nodded “understandingly.” We saw them out and shut the door behind them.

“OK, so basically the problem is the box that the guy installed?” I asked.
“Yeah, and they are going to call the internet guy tomorrow,” Spencer answered me.
“But why does it even matter?”
“I don’t know! I just want internet! They better not mess it up again.”
I laugh, “Yeah, seriously.”

But there was no word on what ever happened with that internet man. Instead, there were new light bulbs for the overhead kitchen light and the fridge. Spencer and I stood in the doorway watching them install the lights. The little old lady had come upstairs this time with her nephew instead of the husband.
“words I couldn’t understand the light is all shuddery words I couldn’t understand and you have to push this button for the lock words I couldn’t understand so funny you didn’t know the gas under the stove words I couldn’t understand or how to work the lock,” And then she laughed her little kitten laugh.
The light they had brought for the kitchen was a dud, so they replaced it with the old shuddery light with no mention of when they would return. We shut the door behind them making sure to press the tiny button under the deadbolt before sliding it into place.

“Gawd, I don’t know why they told me not to mess with the light! Like I could reach that!”
I look over at Spencer, “They said that?”
“Yeah! They were telling us not to mess with it.”
“Oh, I had no idea they were even talking about that, but did you catch the bit about the lock?”
Spencer laughed at me, “You said ‘bit’ again.”
I smile at the British English invading my own. “Did you catch the part about the lock?”
“No, show me.”
And I did show her. Tag-teamed understanding.

We headed back into the kitchen and looked up at our flickery light.
“Should we straighten some of this up before Teresa and Angela get here?” I gestured at the dirty dishes and the pasta sauce stained on the stove. And then Spencer and I were whirlwinds, cleaning the dishes, scrubbing the sauce, hiding the trash. We rushed into the sitting room laughing.
“Of course we wait until the last minute to do this!” Spencer said.
And I agreed and laughed as we swooshed crumbs into our hands and grabbed the teacups we’d been using for wine. But by the time Angela and Teresa called me to tell me they were at the door, we were ready to give them the tour of our flat. Tag-teamed cleaning.

“We need more seasoning!” I complained.
“Do we have butter? Butter is a seasoning. It’s Paula Dean’s favorite one.”
Oh the South. But I put the butter in my noodles just the same. Tag-teamed cooking.

“I just don’t know what I should do with my 4-year-olds.”
“I have The Hungry Caterpillar!” Spencer ran to her room to grab it.
“Perfect,” I said, “And if you need ideas for your tutoring classes, I have loads of things stocked up from when I tutored Chinese kids two summers ago. Here, come see,” I showed her my flash cards and lesson plans and games I had created.
“This is awesome!” She said. Tag-teamed teaching.

Spain would not be as beautiful without my nugget roommate, Spencer Willis. Tag-teamed Spain.

Caffeine

It was about a week ago, and Spencer and I had just gotten our keys. We’d moved most of our things into our new apartment, but we stayed one more night at the hotel to take advantage of the “free accommodation” that we’d already paid for through program fees. That Monday passed slowly. It dragged along and made me weary.

“Hello! My name is Leah.” I stood in front of a class of third graders.
Wide eyes and a lot of smiles.
“I am 22.”
Whispers. “¡Que joven!
“My favorite color is purple. And my favorite animal is a tiger.”
“Un tigre!”
I smiled in front of those many pairs of eyes.

The teacher’s lounge in my school was flooded with smiles and questions. We spoke in Spanglish, and we drank a bit of bad coffee out of tiny plastic glasses. The coffee tasted bad, but I drank it anyway; I had only been drinking tiny snatches of coffee here and there. I missed it.
“Ehm, have you done something like this before? With students?” The teachers looked at me expectantly.
“Not exactly. I have worked with kids before, but not in a class setting like this.”
An exchange of glances.

The afternoon classes passed just as the morning classes. There was a lot of talk about animals and colors and weather and whether or not I had a boyfriend. And by the end of it, I was tired of introductions and new people. I was given a ride back to the hotel and had to small chat in Spanish the whole way back.

Spencer asked me how my day was, and I said fine. More small chat. We, too, were only just beginning to know each other. The day before, Sunday, we had gone to a random café to drink tiny Spanish coffees. Ask for a coffee, they give you a shot of espresso. A mini coffee. Not enough for me. Spencer and I had sat together and talked about what our majors had been and what we hoped to do with them. We talked a bit about boyfriends and a bit about regular friends. We talked about the cloudy sky and the prospect of sun.

We were getting really good at small chat, and so I told her about my first day of school and how it was fine and all that. But after we said goodnight, I sat in my room with a headache. A headache for all the newness, for all the new people. I knew I should see it as an adventure, but in that moment, I just wanted sameness. I wanted people I already knew, and I wanted coffee to come American sized.

That Monday night, I dreamed about coffee. I dreamed of it steaming hot and swirling black. I woke up with an epiphany. Maybe I wasn’t so tired of new relationships after all. Maybe it was my caffeine addiction crying out to me, demanding attention. I left the hotel earlier than I needed to get to school. I had twenty extra minutes, and I was on a mission. Is there time to buy filters? Probably not. Doesn’t matter. I let myself in our new apartment and marched straight to the kitchen. I looked in the draws and cabinets. No filters. Fine. No matter.

I tore a paper towel off the role and set it sweetly into the coffee maker where the filter should have gone. I poured the grounds in. Lovely. The water next. Beautiful. Flipped the switch. Fantastic. And waited for the slow drip of coffee.

The coffee maker purred for me.

Tuesday, I walked to school with a bounce in my step. I ran through English games and activities in my head. I planned. I schemed. I looked forward to smiling big at the new faces with all the new names. I was ready to conquer.

I knew it was the caffeine coursing through my veins, but it felt a lot like confidence. 

Getting to Spain

            I sit in the Miami airport at gate D64. It has taken a lot to get me to this point. But finally, finally, I am waiting for them to call my group number. I repeatedly check the time hoping that nothing will go wrong. I still have hours before boarding, but I keep thinking that something will prevent me from getting on this flight to Madrid. Two days earlier, I sat in the Indianapolis airport also checking the time over and over again. My flight to Chicago was pushed back and pushed back until it would have been impossible for me to make my connection. After ten hours of sitting in the airport and after having multiple flight reroutes, they tell me I’m not leaving that day.

            I call Claire, and she picks me up straightaway. The next day, she drops me off with plenty of time to catch my new flight. Instead of flying to Chicago or New York, this time, I get to go to Miami. No snow, baby. The flight is delayed of course, but I make it to Miami. I’ve missed my connection, but at least I’ve gotten on a flight. I stand in line to be rerouted just like everybody else. They tell me I’ll probably have to go tomorrow through London. I sigh and resign myself to a night in the airport, no hotel vouchers for weather. But wait! The lady with the tight pony tail smiles at me, “I think I can get you on a flight to London tonight,” she says to me.
I hold my breath, “That would be perfect.”
She prints off my schedule and hands it to me, “Just go to the desk and they’ll print your boarding passes.”

No they would not. “You’re not on our roster.”
I deflate.
A lady takes my schedule. “Yes, but it says right here she’s supposed to be on this flight.” They confer for a minute or two.
“Sorry there’s nothing we can do.”

            I breathe deeply to stop the tears. I turn and head in the direction I came from. The handle of my suitcase is giving me blisters. Ridiculous. That’s proof how easy my life is. I shouldn’t have anything to complain about; my hands are smooth with laziness. I shouldn’t have worries; I get to stay the night in a warm airport, Miami. But I do have complaints and I do have worries. I rush to the bathroom and hide in a stall. I let myself cry for approximately three minutes before figuring out the next step.

            After four more hours and three more flight reroutes, I am finally settled down in a corner of the airport. My luggage is between my body and the wall, and the leg of an extra pair of jeans is draped over my face to block the fluorescent airport lights. An ad of a young woman smiling with beautiful teeth, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes, watches me through those morning hours.

            I get up around 6 AM. The airport has awoken. I thought about exploring Miami, but the thought of my luggage biting into my hand as I walk down unknown streets and look into the faces of unknown strangers scares me into remaining in my corner.

            But here I am finally. Waiting at my gate. This is it; nothing will go wrong.
“Hello, folks, we have a full flight today. The flight is overbooked by 8 passengers, so we are looking for volunteers to go to Madrid tomorrow at the same time. We are offering a hotel voucher for tonight as well as a $1000 voucher to be put towards your American Airline account.”
A thousand dollars. That could be nice. And my trip is ruined anyway. What’s one more night? I’m an adult; I can stay in the hotel. I’ve been rerouting my flights for days now. But I can’t decide, and like the true adult that I am, I call my dad.
“What do I do?”
“Go for it! That could be a trip to the Dominican or England!”

            But the fates decided for me. They ended up not needing me, but they made me wait to board the plane until the very last to be sure. Everyone glared at me as I finally got on the plane. I wanted to explain I wasn’t the hold up, I was the martyr here.

A martyr. Sacrificing days of my life to the airport. Spending months of my life away from my family and country.

But does a martyr get a thousand dollar voucher? Does a lonely extranjero get to spend months and months soaking up sun with some of her favorite people?

That extra miserable night stuck in the US would have been a business investment, just as these five months spent in Spain are an investment in relationships, language, and culture. Where would I have been able to go had I gotten that voucher? And what will I be able to do with the experiences I will store up while I’m here?

The Sunset

            Lydia and I sit with our backs to the wooden fence. It stretches tall above us, leaving us to wonder what sort of yard lies behind it. Green or dead? Flowers or bare? Empty or a family sitting quietly on their patio? Or maybe it’s only me who’s wondering.
            “My butt hurts from that bicycle seat.”
We had ridden our bikes just outside of our neighborhood to lean against this fence.
            “Lydia! There could be people just on the other side of the fence! Do you want them to hear you talking about your butt?”
            “Like I care.”
            “Fair enough,” I shrug and fix my eyes on the reason we came, the sunset.
In front of us, sits Duncan road, a field, Interstate 57, and the sunset. The view is unobstructed by houses or trees which is why we made the short trek over in the first place.
            Lydia glances at me and then back to the sky, “Is something supposed to be happening?”
            “It’s a sunset, Lydia.”
            “I know, but when will it get dark?”
            I snort, “I don’t know! Soon, but it’s not going to happen in five minutes.”
            “So we just have to sit here?”
            I roll my eyes at her, “Yes.”

            She settles back to watch the colors fade into each other. The silence doesn’t last long. I didn’t expect it to. Her speech gushes forth prompted by my mmmhhhmmmm’s and yeah’s and uh huh’s. She tells me about her first days of seventh grade and about the new kids and the old ones. She tells me about her classes and the stresses of her life. She tells me about her girlfriends and the boys she wishes could maybe be her boyfriends. And she tells me she’s a hoper.
            “A what?” I laugh. She had said it so seriously.
            “A hoper! Why is that funny?”
            I compose myself, “It’s not really; I just think the word is funny. Sounds like hopper. Like a frog or something.”
            She’s not amused, “Anyway, yeah. I’m a hoper. I just can’t help it. But I figured out that when I have daydreams, it makes me think of those people in the way I dream them. Like, if I daydream about a boy, I think he actually is that way when I see him.”
            “I know what you mean,” I say. The sky is burning a deep pink. “So that’s why I stopped daydreaming. Because when I daydreamed, the guys were always doing heroic things and adventurous things. But more than that, they liked me. Loved me. And you know, it never actually happened like that. So I forced myself to stop daydreaming because I didn’t want to keep being disappointed.”
            The corners of her mouth pull downwards, thinking about what I said, “Yeah, but I can’t just stop. That’s not who I am. I’m a hoper. Daydreaming is one of the beautiful parts of life. One of the best parts.”
            I look over at her twelve-year-old self. I begin to contradict her, but she keeps going.
            “Sure people let you down. Take so and so. He turned out to be a jerk. So poof him!”
            She has me laughing again, “Poof him? Poof? Where did you get that one? I should start using it.”
            “I just made it up. But yeah, so he turned out to be a real jerk, but I’m not going to stop hoping.”
            “Yeah, but Lydia, don’t you think actions are better than just daydreaming? How can daydreaming be one of the best parts in life if it’s not even doing anything?”
            “I’m twelve! What do you expect me to do?”

            I sat quietly. The sky was getting darker. The cars driving by had their headlights on. What did I expect her to do? As a twelve year old, what should her outlet for passion be other than daydreaming? As a twenty-one year old, what should mine? Surely by now, mine should be something other than daydreaming?

            “Leah?”
            “Hmm?”
            “You’re a really good listener.”
             I look over at her.
            “Honestly, you are one of the most important people in my life.”
            I squirm uncomfortably. “Oh stop. You’re going to make me cry.”
            And as she puts her head on my shoulder, the tears do blur my last look at the sunset. Maybe my outlet for passion doesn’t need to be any grander than this.
            I sniff, “I love you, Lydia.”
            “I love you too,” and she puts her hand in mine.