Here I am, writing to you from beyond the grave, because I died, frozen and alone in the tundra. Except that it wasn’t that cold, and the only thing I actually could have died from was happiness. Is it possible to die from happiness? I saw Like Water for Chocolate; I fear that that scene at the end? Where he expires in a bolt of white light after finally coming together with his true love? Which made me so angry I ejected the movie from the DVD player and had to actually stop and count to ten before I flung it across the room? Could actually happen. This was a brilliant weekend, and if my flight home hadn’t sucked so much, I would be dead from all the awesome.
There’s nothing in particular to point to, which would make a whole lot of sense to anyone who wasn’t there, or probably isn’t me. It was a low-key weekend, punctuated by the party that had me a bundle of nerves, but otherwise was quiet, snuggly, movie-watching and apartment-looking, a couple of meals out, mostly meals in, staying up late and staying in bed late. Perfect.
I was keyed up all the way there, landed at 11 p.m., waited
impatiently, exhausted, at the baggage claim for the piece of luggage I
had had to check, bouncing up and down and suddenly E. was behind me,
lifting me up into a bear hug and every little thing was perfectly
alright. We were staying in Salt Lake City that night and the next,
and I was glad it was just a short drive to the hotel and our very
silly leopard print robes. I hid my dress in the closet, the bed was
warm and soft, it was so ridiculously good to see him, and I slept like
The next day, lounging in bed while he was at work, doing my freelance
stuff and eating room service as if I were all rich and fancy. A
manicure and pedicure, a long bubble bath, a nap, waking up to E.
coming in, stroking my hair back off my cheek. Being kind of late
getting ready for the party. Coming around the corner from the closet
and seeing him dressed up and looking so very gorgeous. Hating my hair, messing up my makeup, worried about my dress. Clacking down
the sidewalk in my three-inch heels, nervous as hell and wishing for a
cigarette. "They’ll love you," he said. "Don’t worry."
I worried all the way there, and up the elevator. We stopped at the top
of the stairs. "You look gorgeous," he said. "It’s going to be great." We
were in the penthouse, and the walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, and
I felt dizzy. Glass of wine, people coming up to me—oh my god, you’re
Anne! We’ve heard so much about you, god, it’s good to meet you, hi,
hello! A lot of drinks, a lot of love, and the dancing. My shoes
disappeared for a while, were recovered, Santa showed up, more wine?
Yes, please! Afterparty? Sure! When you move here, we are going to be
best friends. Okay! I loved everybody, especially you and you and aw,
do we have to go?
Sleeping in, coffee, breakfast and heading back to his house to see his
puppy and J., looking at apartments, heading back to the house to curl
up on the couch and watch movies on the couch, covered in a pile of
dogs and a comforter. He played video games; I worked on my computer.
Going to bed, covered in a pile of dogs and a comforter. Sleeping in,
coffee, breakfast, looking at apartments and imagining myself living
here, and here, and here, or here. Telling E. and J. I could be happy
here. Needing to pack, not wanting to go. Why can’t I just stay? Why do
I have to go back and why can’t I just start now? Now is a good time to
start. No time like the present, right? Goodbye, goodbye, so long for
now. I’ll be back so soon.
My flight is delayed, and I distract myself with more work, a fountain
soda, more work. Not enough work to distract me. Flying in over San
Francisco, so glad to be home. Realizing, as the lights get closer, how
much I am going to miss this place, but how impatient I am to leave.