Marriage

A month before I asked cute-girl kate zimmerman to be my wife, we got in a fight. We never fight, but that night we did. Honestly, I've got no clue what we fought about, which is comical considering how big of a deal it seemed at the time. The air hung heavy as my Subaru idled outside of her place. Here she was, the person I loved most in the world and I felt like I didn’t know her. Couldn't find what once was. 

When I'm hurt, a couple of things happen in a predictable fashion. First, I feel the emotion in my stomach: knotted socks rolling in the dryer feeling. Second, I run. I run away. I'm a 10 year old boy who just skinned his knee falling off his bike in front of his crush, Wendy Peffercorn, and with shame-tears streaming, I run around the nearest corner.

I didn't want Kate to go, but I yearned to be alone. Shame does that. A tear rolled off Kate's cheek. She fumbled with her house keys. She placed her hand on the door handle and tried it. Locked. I mechanically hit the unlock and she reached for the handle for a second time. As she did, she looked back. She looked back and I saw her. I saw her. I saw her like I had never seen her. I saw her more flawed than I had imagined and more beautiful than I had ever hoped. In a literal breath, the swirl of shame and heat was replaced by an urge to tell her how incredibly lovely she was. How sorry, scared and stupid I felt. How incredibly grateful I was for her and for who she encourages me to be. How I loved her no less in this moment than any before and that wanted to be with her forever. 

None of that came out. Those words collided into a once-in-a-lifetime lump in my throat and she closed the door behind her. Then the tears came, but they were of joy. Driving home, listening to Sigur Ros, I thanked God because it was the only thing that made sense to do. The next morning, I was on her doorstep before she awoke and we made up, but strangely, I didn't tell her about the what happened inside me. Instead, I decided to marry her.