rainstorm

saturday 14 may

In the morning, we start talking, and he tells me, “My parents thought we seemed very comfortable together, like we’d been together longer than we have.” I consider this, and wonder if that also means that they like me. He goes on, “They asked me, ‘What do you like most about _________?’ And I told them, ‘I don’t know if this is something to like about someone, but she worries about the things that are important, and she doesn’t worry about the other things.’ And they said, ‘Oh yes, yes, that’s definitely something to like about someone.’” I hug him, and am amazed and flattered and hope that he’s right.

We somehow get into a discussion about the difference between men and women with regards to relationships. He analzyes us: “You seem to think more like a man, at least more like the traditional way a man thinks, and I think I’m more like a woman, trained by my mom and sister, in that I analyze things, and notice subtleties.” The topic changes, and I now wish I had asked what he had meant.

Somehow, we start talking about work, and about my long-term career plans. “I think I would be willing to work for ____ (my client),” I say, thinking out loud. “They have offices all over the country.”

“Someone has to run the Portland, Maine, office,” he says. And as the words, “No, I don’t think they have offices in Maine,” are coming out of my mouth, I think, Oh my god, did he really just say that?

I don’t really respond to that, because I don’t know how.

We get up, and the three of us clean the apartment. S volunteers to make breakfast, and Clerk and I lounge around on the sofa, my head in his lap. He smoothes my hair with his fingertips, lightly touching my forehead each time. We debrief about the evening: the girls S had hit on, which ones were cute, which ones seemed interested. I laugh at something Clerk says, and S steps out of the kitchen. “You have such a great laugh,” S says, and I feel shy. “Thanks,” I say, grateful for his approval.

We start talking about shopping with his parents, and I mention how silly I felt, admiring him with his parents around. We joke about inappropriate comments I could have made: “That suit is hot!” “Damn, who raised this boy?!” And we are both laughing, and he says, “Yeah, things not to do around both your parents and girlfriend.”

Pause.

I smile, but don’t make eye contact with him, a little afraid that he doesn’t mean it.

Suddenly it is time for me to go. Shower, costume change. The boys sit on the sofa, eating bacon, eggs, and bagels, and watching “About a Boy,” and I am sorry I have to leave.

My girlfriend K picks me up from the train station, and her sister L, and her friend E are also in the car. One of them asks me if I’m in DC just for the baby shower, and I answer, “No, I’m visiting...this guy I’m seeing...” And K laughs, “I was wondering how you’d answer that question!”

At first, I am skeptical; how will I possibly spend three hours with women talking about babies?!?!? K looks lovely, if occasionally overwhelmed, and the women are all friendly and interesting. The food is girly and fabulous: salads and quiches and lemonade and cake, and the activities (decorating baby bottles and bibs) are surprisingly fun. We spend hardly any time discussing offspring, current or future, but when the conversation actually turns to baby poop, though, I am ready to go.

After I return, I tell him about the baby shower, and he laughs appreciatively at all the right times, and looks wide-eyed when I tell him about the decorating activities. Loud thunder sounds outside, and a sudden storm darkens the sky. Suddenly, I hear a loud crack. The DVD player and TV shut off, and sparks and smoke pour out of the DVD player. Clerk inspects the damage, and is remarkably unfazed. I compliment him on his calmness. “This safely falls into the category of ‘Things I Can’t Control,’” he says. I think, This is why he doesn’t seem young. I would be cursing and slamming things around.

When he goes to get ready for dinner, I snuggle under his covers. “Hey,” he says, emerging showered and shaven, “how did that happen?” He lies down next to me, and soon we are asleep.

Finally, we drag ourselves out of bed and walk, holding hands, toward Dupont Circle, where my girlfriend M, her husband, and some other friends from another baby shower are having a drink at the Ritz.

“So did I tell you my dad’s comment about mixed marriage?” he asks.

I look at him, scared of what I might hear. “No...”I say.

“He said, ‘_________ seems great, but you know what I think about mixed marriages?’” He interrupts his own story to explain, “Which is clearly a joke, because he’s Jewish and my mom is Catholic,” and then continues, “You know, with her being from the Midwest, and you being from the East Coast, I don’t know if it’ll work out.”

I smile at the joke, relieved and happy and amazed. I don’t make jokes about marriage. So do his parents think we are serious? Does he think we are serious?

We walk in the wrong direction for 10 minutes, as I try to find my bank’s ATM. Eventually, I give up. “Sorry,” I say, but he simply shrugs.

He says he wants to travel somewhere for two weeks next year, after his second clerkship, before he starts his firm job. Somewhere relatively easy to get to, and relatively adventurous.

“Would you bring a backpack or a rolly bag?” I ask.

“I don’t think I could respect myself if I brought a rolly bag.”

“Right answer,” I grin. He says he might go to Japan, as it fits all of his criteria, but he worries about getting around without speaking English. He hasn’t actually said, “Where should we go?”, so I hesitate before offering, “If I go with you, we could stay with my aunt.” He looks puzzled. “Her husband, my uncle, is Japanese,” I explain. He ponders this, and I continue, “She was an exchange student, and she married a Japanese man. It must have been very controversial 40 years ago. I should ask my father more about it.”

On the way to the Ritz, we are caught in a sudden, violent, windy rainstorm. We are both soaked, despite his very nice umbrella. Inside, M and the others cluck sympathetically as we try to pat ourselves dry with cocktail napkins. Clerk, out of character, sits quietly, as I try to make conversation. I start to feel slightly irritated, and then slightly sheepish. I lean toward him, “If we hadn’t looked for the ATM, we would have gotten in before the storm,” I admit. “I was wondering whether to make fun of you for that,” he grins.

Eventually we give up and leave. As we approach the valet, I turn and ask Clerk, “Do you have your umbrella?” His eyes widen. “Good catch,” he says, and turns around to retrieve it. The bellman hands me an umbrella, and I am confused. “Oh no, no, I’m waiting for...my boyfriend went back to get his umbrella,” I say, trying out the phrase. It feels...ok.

In M’s car, he says, “I’m usually more talkative, when I’m not completely soaked,” Clerk says to no one, but I hear it. Is this an apology?

We drive around, and try multiple restaurants before we find a cozy Mexican place with a corner table in the back. We are starving, and the salty warm chips taste good, even with the slightly watery salsa. Clerk is himself again, and even M’s husband, usually wordless in groups, jokes around.

Back at the apartment, G, Clerk’s summer roommate has appeared. The three of us sit around and talk: politics, movies, Sunday activities, and then get ready for bed.