She jokes that it's "airport affection" — the kiss we're permitted when she arrives, the all-too-brief embrace, and the same when she leaves. In-between, our hands remain clasped almost constantly to the other's. Everything else is ephemeral: the lingering, wordless stares, the variegated conversation, the easy laughter. By the time she has to go our faces ache from all the smiling. These are visits.
Our telephone calls are virtually a nightly event. The background noise here is not insubstantial, and I know that sometimes she must think there's a riot breaking out, but oftentimes I am so lost within the high vowels and tiny fire of her voice I don't even notice. Let them shout and carry on; I am a man deafened by love. And here is something I never before told her: many have been the times I close my eyes, the clunky handset passed tightly to my ear, and concentrate on assembling a precise mental picture of everything at her end of the line. I imagine myself there, a part of it, whether it's the clinking of plates going into the dishwasher or the mew of a cat beside her on that big, purple sofa, and the world is suddenly a better place because I can visualize our togetherness, regardless of how ordinary our surroundings.
Then there are the letters — hundreds of sheets of paper, thousands upon thousands of words — the reading of which coming nearer to moments of true privacy than any others. When I cannot be close to her I will pull the bulging folder that keeps them safe, and I will re-read. Having the benefit of space, she saves mine in the envelopes they arrived in, all inside a gray box at her desk. They are cherished things; I dream of the day we put the lot of them together, perhaps even bind them, to chronicle how we abided and overcame despite odds, convention, adversity.
I don't expect it to make sense to anyone else; though, the support we have is a testament to how right our union really is. Not many possess the proper proportions of dedication, reserves of inner strength, starry-eyed romantic enthusiasm, and pragmatic stoicism to make love work — even without the kind of obstacles she and I face. Merely suggesting such a thing invites derision from some, skepticism from others (and we should know). But we are made of stronger stuff and tempered by experiences beyond our seemingly limited years. Unwilling to easily cede, or to deny the profound significance of these feelings, we find love non-negotiable. And I need her like — well, you know.
