Dreams and Spaghettios

"I love you, Irish."

Thursday, February 21, 2008. 5:45 a.m. I was still half asleep, in our Motel 6 room in southern Portland, and he, just out of the shower, was lying on top of me, his through-the-covers response to my demand for an early morning hug. I could feel him smile against my cheek. He smiles every time I use his name, which I don't very often: I explained to him early on that I don't use names for fear that I'll use the wrong one. But I think it often enough, when I'm talking to him, and every once in a while will decide it's not all that awkward to say "Irish" instead of "honey" or "darlin'" or "handsome."

Less than five hours later, we were getting a walk-through of our one-bedroom, in one of Seattle's, as Monica would say, "more colorful" neighborhoods - what we can afford right now. I guess it makes sense that if you pick up, run off, and move three states away, whatever savings you've had time to accumulate in your three months of planning gets eaten up pretty quickly by UHauls and gas to fill them. So you end up bordering the ghetto. We joke about this six-month lease being a good transitional phase for us - there's a taquería next to our local Fred Meyer, and a butcher on the way to our closest 24-Hour Fitness location that specializes in carne asada, tripas, y lengua. The cable guy, after joking that we were his first white clients all day today, assured us there are worse areas, and that our apartment itself is really nice for this part of town. It is. It's pretty nice in general, actually, despite being small. (Then again, I've never lived in a one-bedroom before.)

Our escape plan hasn't worked as well as we would've liked. I still have moments when I think about things I should've done differently, or how I got married - had a whole wedding, for God's sakes - and was supposed to be happy, or how I wish all the lies we've been telling people were true: that we waited a while after my breakup, to give time and space for healing, out of respect to Lui or myself or my parents (who still think we're just friends that will probably eventually end up dating, who still think Irish is going to get in his truck and drive back to San Diego once he's convinced that I'm safe and settled in)... But I'm happy to get the chance to start fresh. We start work tomorrow, at a Trader Joe's about half an hour away - in a rich neighborhood, so we can better relate to the customers. (I jest.) Our new captain is giving us the same shifts so we can carpool. We'll be telling the new people we meet that we came up here for the weather ("rain and coffee"), or we'll be honest about wanting a fresh start, but leave out the parts about dead girlfriends, divorced parents, failed marriages, and Catholic guilt. And yes, it's soon - really soon - to be moving in together, but if it doesn't work out, we can probably each afford to live here, which we couldn't have done down south, so I'm not too worried. We still make each other happy, still make each other laugh, argue effectively and openly when we do argue (I was a horrible opponent to Lui's emotion-bottling strategies), and are keeping up with our New Year's resolution to have sex every day.

Since day one, which, yes, was pretty much the same day Lui kicked me out, Irish has been fond of promising me, in response to my concerns about relationships going stale or making the same mistakes again, that "it will never go away." His latest theory is that if we can make it to April 1st without killing each other - as a lack of money, a lack of friends, and such close quarters will undoubtedly try to make us do - we'll be set for life. For now, this guarantor, protector, caretaker (men always think they are) is face-down on the couch next to me, snoring, one hand still on the remote.

...Any questions?