Learning How to Die

October 15th, 2009.

Our first date.

She wore high-heeled black ankle boots, skinny jeans, a white thermal shirt, a black leather jacket, a matching bag, and a red and black scarf was tied around her neck. Her startlingly gray eyes were lined with smoky charcoal and her chestnut-colored hair was a waterfall of unruly curls.

As we sipped the coffee she insisted on paying for, I learned that she loved to dance. She had started with ballet at age three, and continued to experiment with contemporary, ballroom, hip hop, jazz, tap, and any other form of dance she could manage to try. The idea to become a professional dancer had never crossed her mind; dancing was something she was passionate about, but it wasn’t going to pay the bills.

But psychology was. The mechanism of the mind fascinated her as much as the contortion of the body. She specialized in working with children. She had always loved kids; she had two younger siblings and had babysat in her teenage years, spending hours playing with LEGOs, Barbies, Play-dough, and coloring books.

When I told her about the band, she raised an eyebrow and with a smirk on her face, she told me not to expect any rockstar treatment. A grin cracked through my closed lips and contagiously spread across the table to her own mouth.

I wanted to buy endless cups of coffee just so I could stay at that table with her forever.

But the cups were finished, as was our time together that afternoon. Before we parted, she touched my arm and told me she’d love to do this again. I can still remember the butterflies in my stomach, their delicate wings tapping against my insides with a liveliness I had never experienced quite like this.

For the rest of the day, it felt like the clouds were under my feet, the sun was trying just a little bit harder to peek through the sky to warm my skin, and everyone was on my side.