I look around at the crowd and wonder if someone is playing a cruel practical joke. Like I might see the octopus in human form five tables away, sipping an iced latte and saluting me with one of his tentacles. But the octopus is dead; I know that. And I don’t think this is a joke—I think this is who this guy really is.
“When did you know it was over?” he asks.
“In the days leading up to the election when marriage equality was on the ballot in California, he talked about us getting married. I had such a visceral reaction to tying my life to his that I thought about casting my vote to make gay marriage illegal, denying all gay Californians their basic civil rights, just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation at home.”
Byron laughs.
“I guess that’s when I knew it was over.” I put my hand on his forearm. I don’t know why I do this—and it’s not exactly natural, although it’s not unnatural—except that I really want to touch his skin. It’s smooth, and tanned just a little bit, and feels like summer—like something familiar and warm and good. Like my skin did on the first days aboard Fishful Thinking, before it salted and burned and peeled. “We broke up three years after that.” I sit back in my chair and give a sly smile. Relationships are complex, and sometimes you can’t really explain them to an outside party. “I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“YES! YOU! ARE! LIVING! YOUR! FULL! LIFE!”
A third time. I’m not imagining it.
There you are.
This time my heart does skip a beat. I look down at his arm and we’re still touching and he has made no attempt to retract his arm or retreat.
All my surroundings—the red Formica tabletop, the pink yogurt, the blue sky, the green vegetables in the market—they all come alive in vibrant Technicolor as the sun peers from behind a cloud. I am living my full life.
“Honesty in all things,” Byron adds, lifting his cup of yogurt for a toast of sorts.
I pull my hand away from him and the instant my hand is back by my side I miss the warmth of his arm, the warmth of him. Honesty in all things. I should put my hand back. That’s where it wants to be. That’s Lily’s lesson to me. Be present in the moment. Give spontaneous affection.
I’m suddenly aware I haven’t spoken in a bit. “Did you know that an octopus has three hearts?” As soon as it comes out of my mouth I realize I sound like that kid from Jerry Maguire. Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds? I hope my question comes off even a fraction as endearing.
“No,” Byron says with a glint in his eye that reads as curiosity—at least I hope that it does, but even if it doesn’t I’m too into the inertia of the trivia to stop it.
“It’s true. One heart called the systemic heart that functions much like the left side of the human heart, distributing blood throughout the body. Then two smaller branchial hearts, near the gills, that act like the right side of our hearts to pump the blood back.”
“What made you think of that?”
I smile. It may be entirely inappropriate first-date conversation, but at least it doesn’t bore me in the telling. I look up at the winsome August sky, marred only by the contrails of a passing jet and a vaguely dachshund-shaped cloud above the horizon. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I don’t believe in angels. I don’t believe there’s a heaven and that our loved ones are looking down on us. But the sun is so warm and the breeze is so cool and the company is so perfect and the whole afternoon so intoxicating it’s hard not to hear Lily’s voice dancing in the gentle wind.
ONE! MONTH! IS! LONG! ENOUGH! TO! BE! SAD!
I want to argue with Lily—one month is not long enough. But in dog months that’s seven months, over two hundred days. But none of it matters; to her even one day of my sadness was one day too many. I pick up my spoon and swirl it around the bottom of my empty yogurt dish and think more of Lord Byron’s poem. But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend. I corral the melted puddle of pomegranate yogurt into one side of the dish with a coordinated series of scrapes.
“I recently lost someone close to me.” A few last drags of the spoon in my empty dish before I put it down and turn my full attention to Byron. “I don’t know. I feel her here today. With us. You, me, her—three hearts. Like an octopus.” I shrug.
If I were him I would run. What a ridiculously creepy thing to say. I would run and I would not stop until I was home in my bed with a gallon of ice cream deleting my profile from every dating site I belonged to.
Maybe it’s because it’s not rehearsed. Maybe it’s because it’s as weird a thing to say as it is genuine. Maybe it’s because this is finally the man for me. Byron stands and offers me his hand.
“Let’s take a walk and you can tell me about her.”
The gentle untying of a shoelace.