500,000 and One (an excerpt)

We ate at a Subway somewhere near the north end of Union Square before going to Beth Israel.  It was a Sunday night and it felt like a last supper.  I wished there was wine instead of Diet Coke.  In fact, I had eyed the pub next door before we entered Subway.  A glass or two of wine would have calmed me down and helped me deal with my second emergency room in one weekend.  However, I had figured it wouldn’t help my case if the doctors smelled wine on my breath.

As I picked stale bread flakes off the edge of my sub, I asked you if you remembered how we used to have breakfast at Subway when we first started dating.  You remembered.  Well, not breakfast really -- just a first meal, around one or two on Monday afternoons, after having spent the morning lying in bed together. 

“I think I first realized I was falling in love with you at that Subway by your apartment,” I smiled. 

I could still see it, the two of us sitting at a table in the far back, by a window.  September sunshine streaming in and soaking us in light.  You in your t-shirt and basketball shorts.  Me still wearing last nights’ clothes.  My hair tied up in a bun on the top of my head because it was still greasy and unwashed from last night’s sex.  You had reached across the table and taken my sunglasses and put them on.  I told you your head was too big for them and that he was stretching them out.  You looked at the Marc Jacobs label on the side of the sunglasses.  “I like nice things,” you commented as you handed them back to me. 

Then somehow we had started talking about The One.  I gave my standard line about how I think there are a couple right people for each of us and in the end it just comes down to timing – two people who are right for each other being ready at the same time.  You agreed but you said you thought there are more than just a couple right people.  Your theory was that there are 500,000 right people for each person on Earth; it’s just a matter of how many of them you meet.  I thought this was crazy.  And by crazy, I mean I thought it was horribly unromantic.  You said that if a person were to visit every city, village and remote location on Earth and meet every single person, that person would meet 500,000 people who were right for them. 

I hated you for saying that.  And that’s when I realized I loved you.  I thought of the men I had once believed I loved – who maybe I had loved in a way at the time – but there in that Subway, looking across the table at you, I already loved you more.  I could believe that it was good timing.  I loved the person I had grown into more than I loved my former selves, so maybe because I was more right, you were more right for me.  But, honestly, I didn’t truly think that was it.  You were just right.  You were wrong about the 500,000 thing, but you were right.

“Our first breakfast was pizza and yellow Gatorade,” I smiled at you from across our current table in the Subway on 16^th Street. 

“That pizza place burned down,” you replied. 

I nodded and took a sip from my bottle of Diet Coke.

You watched me as I placed the bottle to my lips.  “You still take such tiny sips!” you laughed.  “They’re like half-sips.  I don’t know how you ever drink anything.”

“I can’t help it.  I have a tiny mouth.” I placed a chip in my mouth.

“And I see you’re still putting yourwhole finger in your mouth whenever you eat chips.  You’d put your finger all the way down to your stomach, if you could.”

“Well I want to make sure the food gets there.”

Right then, we were how I liked us best. 

I didn’t want to leave Subway.  I also wished I hadn’t eaten Subway.  It was not the kind of food one wants to re-taste and I felt so sick that I was sure I would do just that very soon.  Nevertheless, you took my hand and we walked towards Beth Israel.  It was already dark outside and the streetlights shone like the forgotten halos of fallen angels on the snow.  

As we walked along, I could see the silvery illumination of the Empire State Building in the distance.  Then I looked up at your face.  I could still see your face as it had been the first time I really saw you.  It had been 5a.m. on a Wednesday morning.   I was squinting at you through tired eyes that were just sobering up from a night of unnamed shots, beers, and a Long Island Iced Tea.  You were sitting with me on your couch, a cushion of space between us.  You were looking at me like I was an angel, but the look on your face made me feel like you were the one who was an angel.  I had said, “I’m not going to kiss you.  I’m tired.”  And you had just sat watching me. 

“It’s okay that this happened,” I said as we walked along.  I was still watching your face.  “I’m going to be okay.”

You didn’t say anything.  We walked up the steps into Beth Israel.