It’s funny how years between events can distort one’s time sense.

When I ponder the courtship of Bayou and myself, it seemed to take place over weeks; one aching, tantalizing event at a time. But in reality the span of time was very small.

I don’t remember what day it was she called and asked if I knew what grocery store was close to her. I asked what she needed, and she rattled off a litany of items.

“Umm… I don’t think you want to try to ride the bus with all that,” I replied. A pause followed; I could feel her wheels turning.

“Look,” I continued. “There’s a Safeway on Broadway that’s pretty good, and not super far. I can pick you up and take you so public transit doesn’t have to enter the picture.”

Another pause, then a tentative agreement. We set a time to meet. I arrived on time and away we went, chatting easily the whole way. But then a strange thing happened once we got into the supermarket. Bayou had no more than picked out a cart when I noticed her get stiffly silent and fidgety. I was baffled; what the hell had changed since we got out of the jeep 30 seconds ago?

We walked the aisles, and I was careful to maintain some distance, but remain close enough to answer any questions. This went on and on throughout the entire shopping trip. Early on we had encountered a pair of lesbians discussing their girlfriends, and I wondered if she were weirded out by the casualness of their discussion. But the silent awkwardness continued so I dismissed that possibility.¹

After we got back in the car, Bayou was more like herself. I helped her into the dorm with her groceries, and we continued to converse easily, like we’d known each other for years.

“Let me make you dinner as thanks for all your help,” she said. I knew she didn’t have a lot of money, so I tried to politely decline.

She would have none of it. “You’ve been amazing and I really appreciate it- please let me do this.” Not wanting to be rude, and secretly enjoying the fact that she wanted to cook for me, I agreed.

Bayou made baked spaghetti and we opened the bottle of champagne she had bought, which I was fine with even though I had to go to work the next day. (And drive!) I knew I wouldn’t overdo it. We ate and laughed and enjoyed the quiet in the dorm, as her roommates were gone. After we finished eating she got out a guidebook of Seattle. It was a little worn and dog-eared; I could tell she had leafed through it many, many times before her journey actually led her here.

“Tell me about Discovery Park,” she said.

“That’s a lovely park- one of the largest I’ve been to here,” I replied. I told her about the trails, the wonderful view of Puget Sound, the lighthouse. “A lot of people walk their dogs there,” I finished.

“What about this one?” Bayou pointed to a tiny dot of a park on the waterfront.

“I’ve never been there, but it’s apparently named for someone. Probably someone who had a hand -or their family did- in founding the city.”

“Hmm.” She scanned the map, her eyes dancing and drinking in the details of her new city. “Seattle sure has a lot of parks,” she finally said.

“Yes, it does.” I smiled. She smiled back at me, and I felt my body temperature rise a tad. I looked down at the book, trying to find something to keep the conversation going.

As I turned a page, I felt her hand lightly but unmistakably on my left knee. I jerked almost as if stung by a cattle prod, and crack!- my knee hit the underside of the table. She smiled, trying not to laugh, and I was able to pretend nary a thing had happened by rambling.

“This is someplace you really oughta see, and oh yeah, this place is great for concerts. Crap, it’s 11pm I need to get home I gotta work in the morning thanks for dinner bye!” And I was out the door, cursing myself as I strode to the elevator. Meanwhile, a certain Southerner was toasting her victory with the remaining champagne.

A day or so passed. I had to ref a double-header, and she tried to call me. She left a voicemail, and as I listened my knee trembled at the thought of her having placed her hand there not a few days earlier. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” I thought to myself. “Seriously, get a grip. She’s young, cute, smart, and you are single. IT’S FINE.” I tried to call her back, but got a busy signal repeatedly.²

We finally reconnected the next day. During the intervening hours, my ex and some friends invited us out. “We could take her to the Rose“, my ex said. I thought, “Why not?” So I invited Bayou out on the town, and she accepted. Somehow, I got elected to be the DD. We picked up Bayou, and my ex Bernie and our friend Gabby were in the back.

At the Rose I ran into an old coworker, Monica. She greeted me enthusiastically, and I introduced her to Bayou. Bayou excused herself to get a drink, and Monica had to tend to something. A bit later she called me over.

“So, that’s your new girlfriend, huh?”

“Umm, no. She just moved here, so Bernie and I thought we’d take her around.”

Monica grinned a wolfish, evil grin. “Suuuuuure,” she replied. I rolled my eyes and gave her a friendly fuck-off and went back to the group. Not five minutes later a man -yes, a man in a lesbian bar- walked up and asked to see Bayou’s license.

She dutifully produced it -a Georgia license- and he pored over it. Then began quizzing her. After several minutes of inquisition, the cop apparently decided she really was of age, and walked off. At that point, Gabby suggested we head over to R Place. I had never been there, but it sounded like fun.

When we arrived I knew immediately that it was a mistake. R Place had a dance club, and Bernie and Gabby made a beeline for that floor. I am not, and never will be, a dancer. And I was not drinking, so there went any shred of courage I might’ve obtained, bottle or not.

We got upstairs and situated ourselves by a wall. Gabby flew onto the dance floor, and Bernie decided to hang back. I turned to look for Bayou only to find her right in front of me, smiling in a very I’m-in-control kind of way. Oh jesus in platform dancing shoes; she wanted me to dance. Before I could protest she grabbed me by the belt-loops and pulled me into the throng.

For the next three hours, I proceeded to do three things: look anywhere but at Bayou, step on her feet, and dance off-rhythm about 80% of the time. I was paralyzed. And this was not normal. I am a confident person, and in almost all of my previous relationships I was the pursuer, not the pursued. This was an absolute role-reversal and I was not coping well at all.

For her part, Bayou never said anything about my obvious discomfort or complete lack of dance skills. For mine, I never commented on how amazing she looked her in fitted black shirt and tight jeans, or how wonderfully she danced. But then, I didn’t have to, because I am convinced she was able to read every thought that went through my mind.

Somewhere in the midst of this, Gabby leaned in and screamed in my ear. Her cockney Brit accent is still vivid in my mind. “Look at you, doll! Go on, ‘av a fling!” I wanted to crawl into a hole. Bayou asked what she said. “I’ll tell you later,” I replied. She looked at me sidelong, but didn’t ask.³

After an eternity of suffering a night of dancing, we finally were ready to go. We headed to Bernie & Gabby’s apartment for a bit, chatting and just hanging out. As the hour went from late to early, I offered to take Bayou home.

We arrived at her dorm in short order. “Do you want to come up?” she asked. The nervousness really was ricocheting in my head now, but I thought “What the hell, why not?” We sat in her insufferably tiny dorm room, on her allegedly twin-sized bed, and she showed me her photos, read me her poetry. We talked about the South, family, experiences, dreams. It was at least 4 hours of talking and connecting. It seemed to pass by in a blink.

Her sense of humor wicked and quick even then, she said something and I laughed, and impulsively I reached out to tickle her. She laughed even more, and then… she was in my arms, looking into my eyes.

Brown, liquid eyes gazed into stormy blue ones, until they closed.

I didn’t stay the night, but I went home for less than 12 hours. We didn’t spend a day apart again for many, many months.

1. Much later she told me she was nervous that I, a relative stranger, was going to see what she chose to put in her body. [↩]
2. Her prima donna roommate was dominating the phone line, I found out later [↩]
3. I did tell her, just much, much later. [↩]