dust in the wind

when love eludes again and again

I walked to three, maybe four grocery stores, inspecting the flower selection of each one. All of them felt disgustingly insufficient — most stocking the same sorts of wilted bouquets, probably sourced from some shared supplier. The last store I checked was the smallest of the grocery stores, but had the largest flower selection: bunches of all sorts of flowers of all shapes and colors. I picked one bunch of white chrysanthemums, one bunch of lavender asters, one bunch of purple blazing stars. In my kitchen, I threw away the plastic, cut the stems shorter, removed wilted leaves, arranged them into a small sea of white and purple. I cut up a paper bag to wrap the new bouquet. I stared at my work with a deep satisfaction, took several pictures of it, thrilled by how easy it was to make something beautiful out of something beautiful.

My hands shook as I waited to give the bouquet to her, standing outside the restaurant. I hope she likes them, I thought a million different times. She smiled when she saw them, thanked me for them. That day, after dinner, we walked towards the river as the sun set. The flowers were a prediction of what was above us. Clouds white. Sky streaked with purple. We walked with our arms interlocked. We talked like we'd always known each other. All I could think of were synonyms for joy. It was a good fourth date.

Our next one was on Saturday, and we went to the Noguchi Museum in Queens, a long journey that involved a train and a bus and a walk. We walked around the museum, commented on the art, on the weather. But I couldn't focus on the art, excessively conscious of the silences between us. How uncomfortable they felt, unlike before. Despite my best efforts, it felt like our speech was stilted, an invisible dam ruining the flow of words. Each silence seemed to stretch longer and longer, until it became clear that whatever we once had was gone — dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, dust in the wind.

When I got off the subway afterwards, I walked a few blocks slowly while staring at my phone before I realized I was headed the wrong way. By the time I got home, the city was covered in a thick layer of clouds. It was 5PM and I went to bed, head spinning.

Lying in bed, I told myself all of the truisms. You only knew her for a few weeks; there are millions of people in the city; the sun will rise and fall, rise and fall. What does a heart do with all of these facts? What sort of knowledge could erase what had come before? For a few moments, it had felt like we were perfect for each other, that there was an answer to my questions about what the future would hold. Maybe I was mistaken, transformed into a fool by my desire for love. It didn't feel like delusion; it felt like I was clairvoyant, witnessing a future life. One that would never be.

I want this story to be more dramatic than it is, try to match the depth of feeling I reached that day. I want to tell you that there was such an intensely strong connection that I would've been a fool not to believe it, that every date had me floating through the air. In reality, we got along well enough, I was excited by our shared sense of humor and interest in art, how pretty I thought she was and her fashion sense. Ultimately, five dates isn't long enough to know someone. Not enough time passed for the weather to change much, even though we wore coats on our first date and light coats on our last. We never knew each other's last names, we were barely ever a we at all. But it's the hope that hurts.

I met her following a long string of dates that hadn’t gone anywhere, making me question if there was anyone I could even see potential in. For the first time in a long time, I met someone that I could even imagine being hopeful about. And the hope had brought this despair.

But, in the depths of feeling, a part of me felt comforted that I was still able to make myself this vulnerable, that I hadn’t become as cynical as I thought I had. I hadn't lost the ability to fall hard for someone, to want to buy them flowers, to imagine a better life. No, I was closer to the romantic I wanted to be. I find solace in the words of the Priest from Fleabag: "I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope."

To spend time in the soaring heights of hope, you have to be able to deal with the crashing disappointment of reality. You must be able to find the strength to realize what isn't right, to avoid the instinct to harden against hope and feeling. To be a romantic, to be the person that I know that I am, I must be strong enough to hope again and again and again.

A day doesn't end when the sun sets. Even when clouds fill the sky, when the shape of your future diverges from the fantasies you conjured up in your mind. I woke up later that day and made dinner, remembering the leaves I cut from flower stems as I sautéed greens with garlic.

I got ready to go to the DJ set I had bought a ticket for. At the show, my friends and I danced to repetitive techno music. Bodies swayed back and forth. Every dance move repeated once, twice, thrice, a million times. Hours disappeared in the trancelike movement, in the flashing lights, among the shimmering mirrorball above us. Every song was five or five hundred minutes long, the ending of one a perfect start to another. Feelings came, feelings went, all released by movement.

On my way home, I thought about my conversation with my friend before the show. He told me about the amazing date he went on with someone visiting the city for the weekend. He glowed with an excitement so genuine that it was infectious. The possibility of love illuminated him, and even as I moped, I couldn't wait to be like him some time soon, bursting with hope.

---

---

💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• ALBUM - DJ-Kicks: Logic1000 by Logic1000 - a good, chill mix

• POEM - “There Will Come Soft Rains” by Sara Teasdale - There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, / And swallows circling with their shimmering sound