If there is anything I learned about adulthood, it is this: adulthood is hard because you remember too much. All the details. All the feelings.
I still remember vividly what happened to me this time last year. What I was thinking. What I said. What I felt. Why I cried and why I laughed. What author name I mentioned.
Why I was sitting there at Dollop in River North, reading First Amendment cases for my finals, which would end in two days. Why I was there and not the library. Why I was sitting by the window. How I knew he came to the wrong store. How I waited another hour because his Uber took the route where there was a protest. What I thought when he showed up in his tweed jacket and it was over 30 Celcius in Chicago. What he said when he grabbed a bottle of green juice and paid for my second cup of coffee.
What he said when, after talking for a while, I was thinking I'd go home and read. But we took a walk down to the Willis Tower instead.
Walking-and-talking is what I'm pretty good at, but I did find him to be extremely irritating. But lovable. I remember wanting to throw him down the Chicago River. How I thought he's an asshole. How he kept on making me find a job, so as to say, "I'd put in some good words for you." And I remember what I thought to myself after that. "You hardly know me."
I remember how I did not want to stop and go up the famed skyscraper, citing possible visit the following week. What I offered to do afterward. What he said when we suddenly stopped in front of the Lyric Opera. What he said about the cruises and wanting to get on one. Then, two minutes later, a comedy club. What kind of ticket he bought (but didn't tell me) when we sat down outside of a Starbucks. The Filipino driver who took us to Old Town. What they talked about. The jokes about how the younger generation does not really want a wedding. The business advice for the driver who is also a wedding photographer. What the driver joked about his first and second wife.
The Italian restaurant was packed. I remember what lies I told him. What I told him about my profession. How he wondered about how young I am when I started working. How he let me finish up the Chardonnay and walked to the Second City while telling me stories about his past substance abuse. How I realized that he bought tickets for the wrong kind of show--a stand-up, instead of improv--but we sat there anyway. In our VIP seats. Ordering drinks he didn't let me pay for. Why he traded his cocktail with my beer because he did not like it. When the comic says, "Everyone is a little annoying when you get to know them better." and he whispered in my ears, "I feel like I have not known you well... I do not find you annoying at all." Because I actually thought, "Dude. I find you annoying."
I remember being drunk and offering him to wait until he will be good enough to drive again. I remember ordering Lyft, entering my place, and his observing of my passport that was just sitting on my desk. I remember preparing the airbed. What he said when he saw what I was doing. What we talked about on the couch.
What he said before it all began.
How it all happened.
What he said after that.
What he kept saying when I tried to read again, feeling guilty for not reading enough during the day. I remember when I surrendered. How hot the apartment was. How bright and dark it was. I remember when I woke up suddenly because of my own noise, and heard him softly laughing.
In the morning, when we thought of breakfast. The booth he chose. What he said when I said that it was hardly the best breakfast place that I know. His, "Why are you like this to me?" When he talked about his usual business attire--which was more business casual than business. When we came back and remembered that he needed a charger for his phone. How I helped him talked to the Walgreens girl.
How he said he's looking for something he did not have the night before.
The smile. Oh, the smile.
I remember feeling nervous. How I tried to suppress it. How he pulled my hand while asking me to hand him his watch. What I thought to myself when it was going on.
What he asked me. And then realized that he knew the answer--which was, definitely, wrong.
When he almost fell asleep, face facing mine, but suddenly opened his eyes like he forgot that he had work to do. How he rushed and told me how to keep in touch--his LinkedIn name, which bears a resemblance to the author's name. What he said while he was putting his shoes on--a sentence I actually got from an episode of Saturday Night Live.
And then he's gone. Poof. After the most remarkable 18 hours of my life. He was gone.
Had, and always will be.
Damn. I really miss him all this time.
