The Calamitous Ways of Insignificant Days
To my knowledge, this is the first documented case calling for a word that means “bittersweet serendipity.” It’s almost oxymoronic, but not quite.
We were sitting together in a room in the library. He looked like shit — a combination of washed-up drunk and someone who is thirty-one showing their age a little bit among students who are more than a decade younger than him.
Maybe he hadn’t brushed his teeth. He couldn’t open his eyes all the way. He was forty-five minutes late — maybe more — I don’t remember. I remember being irritated that he had not only pushed back the meeting time a few hours, but he also showed up late. After I showed up on time to the original meeting time, his lateness was particularly offensive on my end.
He had a careless attitude about studying, a style I was not impressed with. He wasn’t sitting up straight and would lecture me on the topics like it was assumed knowledge, like he just needed his memory refreshed, and I was indeed in the same boat.
I was not in the same boat. My boat was nonexistent, and I was drowning in the material. I was also drowning in him; I just didn’t know it yet as I hadn’t differentiated drowning in the material and drowning in him. I only knew I was suffocating.
I was overwhelmed, and his laid back, seemingly-irritated-that he-had-been-expected-to-study attitude was infuriating. Our conversation would deviate here and there to different topics, sometimes relevant, mostly not. Either way, I welcomed the deviation and got lost in his puffy, half-opened eyes.
I remember when he was tripping over a word — because he is quite dyslexic — I revealed my first hint to him (before I even knew what was happening in me) that he had me.
As he stumbled, my heart leaped because I was so proud of this man for overcoming such a damning hurdle — I was impressed and proud. This underdog defies all odds and stares adversity down with wild eyes and a cocky, asymmetrical grin. He is an avid reader, an author, and a future physician who only learned how to write his name an embarrassing number of years after his friends in school.
I don’t know why I said it. I knew it was not the right thing to say. Perhaps I was covering up the stirring in my soul, and this is the only thing my mind mustered up, but when he swore at himself for stumbling over his words, I told him it was cute.
I’d never seen a more authentic expression on his face than I had at that moment. It was not a good expression. His short fuse had been spent because I had just called him that. He told me that it stops being cute to be called cute for stumbling over your words when you’re thirty.
Even now, I don’t regret insulting him. The raw authenticity of that brief crack in his facade I will cherish for the rest of my life. In hindsight, it is mortifying to admit that I decided to say that and be insulting of all things the moment I fell in love.
Later, for a reason lost to time, I reached over and deliberately touched his forearm — resting it there in a caring way. The same way I’d comfort my little brother if something is bothering him, but I know he isn’t a hugger, so I reach over for some cheeky comfort. You know, doing the comfort thing without actually making too much contact.
The second our skin made contact, he stopped what he was saying, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back a bit while releasing a sigh. I had already removed my hand (since the duration of my little “pat-pat” had expired) when I was taken aback by his unusual reaction. He told me that it feels so good to have a woman’s touch without any sexual expectations or connotations underlying.
I was happy I could offer him that, even if for a moment, but I also remember almost being offended. For someone who would fuck any consenting adult who crossed his path, I remember wondering for a split second why I was his loin’s exception — but now I wonder if this was his version of clumsily exposing himself. If this was the case, I imagine his poorly timed and poorly controlled unraveling was equivalent to me calling his dyslexia “cute” in my frazzled outburst.
He chose an awkward string of words — just like I did — to try and cover up the raw emotional expression he was experiencing. I don’t remember what happened after that; I remember him being very distant and cold for the entire time we were together.
At the time, I was disappointed in the interaction as a whole, disappointed in myself for thinking that I had a friend closer to my age who I could count on for company and partnership through university. They felt obligated to spend time with me.
I had no idea the significance that this insignificant day would bear, the landmark that it is in my life today. The “aha” moment I can look back on and see with offensive clarity that I think he revealed himself to me and exposed his secret. That perhaps, even if only for a moment, he was in love with me, too.
