How I Became a Heartbreaker

I find myself aware of Dan’s presence throughout the weekend. He often has an entou-rage of friends, yet is pleased whenever our paths cross.

We exchange numbers the last day of 
the workshop. It’s OK, I tell myself, when I won-der if I’m being disloyal to Paul. I had friendships that felt sparkly during my marriage. It’s natural.

A week later, Ethan and Paul have dozed off on my bed while watching a movie. I sit at the computer, revising an essay. The phone startles me.

I’m not at all surprised that Dan has called. What does surprise me is how relaxed I feel, and how quickly we begin sharing our most personal thoughts and stories. We talk about what our marriages were like, read our favorite poems aloud and recount childhood memories.

Dan tells me he’s been blind since birth. I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to have never seen the sky. Or a face. For the names of colors to hold no meaning.

“How do you define beauty?” I ask.

He describes being surrounded by music so that it reverberates through his bones.

“Do you know I have a disability?”

“Yeah, I felt it when we walked together,” he says. He asks good questions about my cerebral palsy. I find myself revealing ways in which having a different body has left me feeling 
vulnerable. There’s no need to explain. He gets it completely.

When I mention that I’m living with someone, I sense disappointment in his voice, but we’re so happy in this conversation, we don’t dwell on regrets.

“When would you like to talk again?” he asks me, four hours later.

I can’t help myself. “How about in 10 minutes?”

Soon after, I climb into bed next to Paul. He’s snoring rhythmically.

“Do you want to marry me?” I whisper too softly to wake him. I have this strong sense that I’m heading somewhere, and if he doesn’t want me to go, he’d better hold on to me very tightly.

Dan and I