"I hope we have more moments like these," he said. They’re the words I’ve instinctively come to associate with dating. That, and "we need to talk." Of the former, though, I can’t help but think of beginnings, not endings. When that guy I liked pushed hard for plans, through IMs, emails, texts, and dare I say it, phone calls, I felt flattered. I loved being wooed. He was persistent, always inviting me to events, even, I imagine, where he didn’t have an extra ticket. He always lead me to believe that, for me, he’d make something happen, somehow. He’d pull strings, or cut them, if it meant we could spend time together. "What are you up to tonight?" was never really asked in passing, and as determined as he was to make us an us, he’d sometimes come in quiet, with soft steps, and a simple string of words: I hope we have more moments like these. I don’t remember the moments he’d said it, but I imagine it was on a photography non-date, or, if I know him, right after a goodnight kiss, where I was in the habit of racing off back home, fleeing any type of intimacy. He always let me know that he wanted more.
The other night, I asked him to show me exactly how to de-shell a lobster, step-by-step, where to crack, where to cut, which joints to twist. "No, not like that, like this," he said putting his hands over mine. They’re the hands that hold my children. "That’s it," he said as I successfully managed to ease the last of it from its shell. Then he stepped away, cleaned his hands, and took his medicine. I watched as he jerked his head back to help with the swallowing. He sighed, then added, "I hope we get to have more moments like these." And I hated that the meaning somehow changed.