I love New England. All the history, the old buildings covered in ivy, the leaves turning colors, the sports, the people. I love it all, except the weather. The winter drags on forever, and just when you think the days of knee-deep snow and dirt-covered slushy sidewalks are over, the flakes fall again. It blows.
I also love my boyfriend. But just like New England, he has his moments. We're complete opposites, and although for the most part that just makes our relationship more exciting, we can occasionally clash.
One cold February night I left work at 7:30, and it was so dark out on the blistery streets that it felt more like midnight. I navigated through the crowded subway, dodging a cigarette seeking homeless man, and multiple rats scurrying across the tracks, looking for a warm nook. Finally, I got to our apartment, taking out my janitor-sized key ring for the front door, and then climbing to our 3rd floor walkup. I was ready to fall down dead, when I pushed my weary body and bags into the apartment, and the first thing I saw was a garish, old bike sitting next to my new Pottery Barn couch.
I found him sitting in the bedroom, looking professorial grading papers.
"Hi babe," he said smiling over, a sheet inked in red.
"Hi," I said, out of breath. I looked around our room, covered with his clothes, much like every other room in our apartment.
"How was your day? Another long night," he said glancing down at his watch.
"Yeah, very long day," I sighed. "By the way, why is there a bike in the living room?" I asked, pulling off my heels.
"Oh, that. Yeah, I'm going green," he said flipping to the next page of the paper in front of him.
Huh?
***
One night some girlfriends and I were at a dive bar, far from campus, on karaoke night. The place was an eclectic mix of students, professionals, and several people who did not fit into either category. After a few rounds of shots, the idea of singing started to sound better and better. When it came down to it though, none of us wanted to sing by ourselves. My roommate giggled after her fourth tequila shot, squealing,
"Jane, I'll give you twenty bucks if you sing this one," she said pointing to the music book laid out in front of us.
I laughed looking at the title, knowing twenty bucks would not be motivation enough to sing
I Touch Myself
.
"Not a chance," I sighed, shaking my head.
"I'll give you another ten," another girl cried.
"I'll give you ten too," her roommate added. By the time we got to fifty I caved.
It was the most embarrassing and shameful three and a half minutes of my life, as I swayed and cooed drunkenly to the breathy lyrics. After the last notes fell silent and the hooting of patrons in the bar stopped I escaped back to our table, blushing from head to toe. But I did get my money. And plenty of free drinks.
A while later I stood up at the bar, desperately trying to get away from the guy chatting in my ear, with his creeping hand on my lower back, when the bartender came up to me smiling.
"This is from the guy over there," he said pushing a beer to me, and cocking his head over to the right of the bar.
I craned my neck to see who it was, and the bartender continued, "He wanted me to tell you that he thought you were the worst singer he's ever heard," he said, shaking his head.
I laughed to myself and met eyes, with a tall, skinny, flannel wearing man. His light brown hair was a mess of curls that he'd tied back in a short ponytail. He looked like a neo-hippie tribute to Kurt Cobain, and was completely not my type.
I immediately shed the preppy, fellow business major at my side, and walked over to my non-admirer.
"Hi," I smiled over the lip of my glass.
"Hi there," he said, nodding his head.
"I'm Jane," I said lamely. He raised an eyebrow slightly and nodded,
"Finn."
"So, Jane," he said taking a sip of his own beer, "how much did your friends pay you for that little performance?"
I laughed, looking over at them. Their gazes were locked on us, no doubt wondering why the hell I was talking to this guy.
"Fifty bucks," I smiled. He grinned, staring at me,
"Well, I'd make it a hundred, just to see you do that again."
The next morning I woke up in Allston in his bed. Blurry images of the previous night came to me, in embarrassing flashes. I buried my flushed face in his pillow as I remembered making out with him at the bar, as I practically dry humped him in public. I'd been uncharacteristically wanton with him, letting him take me in multiple positions, and the soreness between my legs was a testament to his stamina.
I spied him suspiciously while he slept next to me. Without the fog of alcohol lingering over me I realized just how good-looking he actually was. Especially with no clothes on. He was amused in the morning by my embarrassment of the night before, and as I scrambled for my clothes he made us coffee and watched my neurosis unfold. He gave me his number, and even as he was scribbling it down I could see in his face he knew I'd never call him.
Over the next week I bumped into him four times around campus. After four years of never laying eyes on him once, he was everywhere. Each and every time he was unendingly amused by my propensity to dissolve into an awkward mess of politely superficial small talk. By the fifth time, he asked me on a date, and not knowing why, I told him yes.
The morning after our date I stayed cuddled next to him, laughing and kissing. I stayed like that for a year. None of my friends understood our relationship. My waspy family and Connecticut upbringing was completely different than his liberal flower power childhood. He was getting his masters in anthropology. I was applying to business schools. When May rolled around I was the most miserable college graduate I knew. My boyfriend was moving to California with a doctoral program and research abroad study ahead of him. We both couldn't rationalize staying together while he was across the country and planning to live in North Africa for 18 months.
We stayed in touch for a while, and I was always excited to hear from him. But eventually, as the spaces between our correspondences changed from months to years, I moved on. I found a great job, making my money-centric family happy that I hadn't run off to Africa like they'd thought I would. It was just last fall I was sitting in a coffee shop off Newbury Street when things changed again.
I felt as someone hesitated above my seat, where I was penciling things into my planner in between swigs of my latte. Then the foreground in front of me changed as the figure sat down in the opposite seat, laying his coffee on the table with mine. Mildly annoyed, I looked up to see who would be interrupting my first relaxing time of the week, and I went frozen.
"Finn," I said, shocked.
"You changed your hair," he said smiling.
"You changed
your
