20 April 2018

    It's you and me standing on the corner of the sidewalk down the street
from the pub, which we just left because they unexpectedly started hosting
karaoke. If this were a movie, the camera would be across the street, shooting
us with a long lens and shallow depth of field, with the two of us staged
symmetrically on opposite ends of the frame, emphasizing the negative space in
between, even though in reality we can't be more than a couple of feet apart.
    As we walked out of the bar together I felt honored and privileged that
you made me the last person you said goodbye to, and that it could happen
outside, where we could be alone and hear ourselves talk. That felt important.
Heading down the street to our parking spaces, we talked about how surreal it
all feels and how frightening change can be. Then we reached this corner where
we'd have to diverge to get to our respective cars, and stopped walking.
    The last few days have been even harder than I expected. Yesterday a
surprise going-away party in the office, then today a goodbye lunch, and
tonight a send-off at the bar. We can't stop saying goodbye to you. If it were
anybody else it might seem like a bit much, but I went to them all; I wanted
to savor every remaining minute with you, within socially acceptable limits,
while I still could. But I didn't have much left to say, after spilling my
guts in an email last week with the things I knew I'd be too tongue-tied to
say in person. Most of them, anyway.
    But when you hug me and tell me you love me, I have no difficulty
replying, "Oh, I love you, too." The "oh" is less a word than an involuntary
exhalation, a sigh of... relief? contentment? maybe just happiness at finally
hearing you say those words in person after six years. I know they don't mean
quite the same thing to you as they do to me.  But that's OK, because I think
you have at least some idea of what they mean to me (you're way too smart not
to have picked up on it by now, and I'm not that good a liar), and you were
willing to say them to me anyway. It feels like we understand each other, and
that’s honestly the best I could hope for.
    I was worried about that email. Especially when I didn't get a response
for a few days, I thought maybe I'd gone too far somehow and crossed the line
into creepiness. It seemed fairly unlikely, given our previous conversations.
For years I'd been like a velociraptor testing an electric fence for
weaknesses... well, sort of the opposite, I guess: gradually revealing more
and more intimate information about myself and my feelings and taking note of
how you responded to try to determine where the line was. So far, I hadn't
crossed it, and we'd always just ended up closer, but you never really know
until it happens. The last thing I wanted to do was screw up one of our last
interactions before you left town, so I played it relatively safe, but I
didn't want to pull my punches either. I dropped in my "I love you" in the
middle of several other statements about how you're a wonderful person and
deserve happiness. I didn't qualify it, but didn't call attention to it
either. It was a huge relief to get a reply and see that you closed it with:
"... please know that I always care about you and want for you every happiness
and love you very much." Not just reciprocation, but one-upped with a "very
much," and not buried in a bunch of other stuff but the finale of the email!
    Am I reading too much into it? Almost certainly. But I know you choose
your words carefully, as do I. I've known that about you ever since you made
an offhand comment to me at a party shortly after we started working together
and then texted me afterwards saying, "I think what I said came out wrong." I
don't even remember what the comment was anymore, but the fact that you cared
enough to worry about how I'd taken it and contact me to clarify meant a lot
to me.
    Anyway, all of this is going through my head in a split-second as we
embrace each other. I continue, "I'm gonna miss you so much." You return the
sentiment and tell me again to take care of myself, and I say the same to you,
even though I know that in your case I have nothing to worry about; you’re
going to be just fine. I am less certain about myself, but I will make the
effort, because you seem very concerned about it. I don't want to let go. But
I do, because again, I'm afraid of making it weird.
    We say our goodbyes, you first, and my reply is a quick and awkward "bye"
and I immediately turn and start walking to my car. I immediately feel weird
about how awkward that was. I look over my shoulder as you're walking away and
I want to say something else, about how we should do something together before
you leave town, but I don't; I can't. I regret that I never got a picture of
the two of us together.
    I think I might cry, but I can't do that either. I get in my car, start
it, and pull up "Under Pressure" to listen to on the drive home, imagining the
karaoke duet that you had suggested we could do together if you hadn’t had to
get home to your spouse and child. I sing David Bowie's part. I feel like a
sentimental fool. I’ve never felt so sad and so happy at the same time.