A Moment Without a Word

They’d met in college. Friends of friends of more friends. Years later, when reflecting back on how they met while at dinner with people they hadn’t met yet, they would agree that the actual friend who introduced them was Amy. But the one who went on to study some kind of bacteria at the bottom of the ocean, not the one who decided to follow a band one summer and was now somewhere in the Midwest with a family and lots of shirts with slogans she liked to try to sell on social media.

Today wasn’t that dinner date. That wasn’t for years to come, as would all of those dinners spent reminiscing and exchanging stories with future friends and acquaintances about how they met their respective partners. Today was a Thursday. Uneventful, but, like many Thursdays, it had an undercurrent of potential thanks to its proximity to the weekend.

Jacqueline and Jacob, both in their late 20s, were spending an evening of take-out and television. Currently reclined on an aesthetically faded orange couch, the drone of the laugh track from a familiar sitcom echoed softly in the background. Comments were consistently exchanged between them; a comfortable rhythm of commentary sometimes focused on the subjects on the screen, sometimes on shared memories, and sometimes on something new and surprisingly not yet shared.

They were sitting very close to one another, a habit formed at the start of their friendship with long nights in dorms and starter studio apartments, which were always inevitably cramped. While not close enough to touch, a small shift of weight from either party would’ve resulted in some kind of impact. Neither of them had thought of that potential reality because their proximity was never something either demanded from the other. It was just something that happened anytime they were sharing space. As inevitable and as natural as gravity, though never an imposition, whether they were alone or with others.

Speaking of others, Jacqueline’s boyfriend of the past few months was supposed to join them, but decided to go to a friend from work’s birthday instead. Not an important enough event for her presence to also be needed, and enough of a change in the routine that it added some variety to their quickly stagnating relationship. He knew about, and was often around for, this particular ritual, and luckily wasn’t like some of their other partners who had viewed the other as competition or pity. There was the feeling, though, that he, like most of the partners, was just waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.

Jacob didn’t have a partner at the moment. His last serious relationship had been a few years ago and ended because he didn’t want to move, and she was always going to go somewhere she hadn’t gone yet. With other things pulling his focus, he had maintained an easy attitude towards the idea of romance and spent at least one evening a week meeting someone new.

The night wore on, and the glow eventually switched hue to signal the change in programming. Too comfortable to layer back up and brace the winter cold outside, the offer to spend the night in the guest room (a.k.a., the office with a fold-out futon) was made and accepted. While not necessarily part of the routine, this part of the evening had played out enough times that neither of them felt anything was out of the ordinary.

And, for them, as well as for anyone looking in, it wasn’t.

He used the restroom as she got blankets and things ready in the room. He turned off the hallway light, knowing she wouldn’t need to go back that direction, and crossed the threshold just as she finished putting the blankets loosely on the flattened pallet. He saw her flip the pillow to the assumed cool side.

He paused.

And in that pause, something warm filled his chest and spread through every nerve of his body to connect in a rippling current along his spine. It was something familiar, but also something he hadn’t completely felt before. It didn’t shock him, and there was no firework feeling between the eyes. No drop in the pit of his stomach or lump in his throat. Years later, when retelling this moment as the one when he knew, he never used the L word to describe the feeling - the one that is so often used as a catch-all that the usage leaves little or nothing to be caught at all anymore. Instead, he liked to share that he couldn’t be sure that there was a word in any of the languages he knew that could really express all of that feeling in a few characters and sounds. He kept saying it that way because, as much as he liked people’s confusion or commendation, he liked the way her eyes twinkled during that part of the retelling the most.

And, in that moment, without a word, he felt like home. The smile she gave when she noticed him in the doorway grounded him. He felt powerful, in a way. Like a fog had lifted, and he was suddenly very clear. Clear about who he wanted to be moving forward. Clear about what was really important to him in his life. And clear that no matter what form this relationship was in and would take in the future, that this feeling was part of it.

She said something he didn’t catch. When asked to repeat, she asked him what he was doing. He answered that he’d never seen her do that before. Her brow wrinkled before asking what.

The pillow. He’d never seen her flip the pillow while setting up the bed. And yet, he’d always said that the pillows at her house were better. Now he knew why.

She laughed. It was the same laugh she always used in moments like this - carefree, easy, simple. She shared she always did that when people were staying over because she always did that for her own pillow before going to sleep, and just wanted to make sure people were comfortable.

It made sense - he confirmed it while laughing with her. He thanked her. They hugged. He moved in towards the futon as she moved out and closed the door. Adjusting the blankets and settling in, he realized this feeling wasn’t something new. It had always been there.

He contemplated the mundane nature of the event. She was just doing what she always did, living in her own kind of considerate way (although she would likely argue that it wasn’t considerate, it was just “normal”, which, upon his reflection, only made him appreciate the action more). He wondered how he’d never considered what it meant to experience that kind of treatment from anyone, particularly someone who treated people kindly because they had no reason to consider treating someone poorly. He hadn’t thought of the honor it was to be a person who someone - especially she - wanted to have the cool side of the pillow when they went to sleep.

Buzzing with contentment and slowly being overwhelmed by his exhaustion, he settled into the pillow, resting easily in the knowledge that the day really was just like any other.