He says, “Do you want to keep this pasta cookbook?”
And I say, yes, of course. When what I really mean is keep everything. File it all away, store them on shelves and in stacks and hanging from the wall. Hide them in cupboards, even if they tumble out on top of you, just push them back in until the door stays. It doesn’t matter if I can find it again, I just need to know it’s there.
We move to a new apartment. We spend a week painting the colours I picked out in ten minutes and I love them all, even the “Just Peachy” that was supposed to be “Farmer’s Almanac” because that’s life, right? Sometimes we get the wrong shade of yellow, but it still looks good.
The seasons change again, like they do, haphazardly, reluctantly. I wear the wrong clothes and too many layers and then not enough, shivering in shorts and his jacket, appearing nude as I pack box after box into the back of his car.
We signed a lease. I said, “It’s scary.” He said it was the least frightening thing in the world. But, we put our names to a piece of paper that says “we’re going to last”. It’s the confidence that scares me. I’ve often had the wrong reactions to the right things, I’m learning to ignore it.
It’s like this: If my life was a paint swatch, it would match the walls.