Yesterday a man in line behind me at the grocery store asked me if I always smiled so much. I felt my forehead wrinkle instantly and he quickly assured me that no, it was lovely, just surprising to see someone so happy these days. I told him that I’m not happy all the time but that it creeps up on me far more often that I expect, right into the muscles of my face. I signed the receipt and wished him a good evening.

Outside in the cool night air, I realized that I’m much happier these days and that you, wait, You have made all the difference.

I learned when I was 18 that you shouldn’t talk about your ex-boyfriend on a first date. I was going out with this guy I met once and who I spent a lot of time talking to via IM. I was freshly plucked from the grips of my family and away from home, at college, for the first time in my life. I had dated someone for the first three months I was there only to be dumped. Dumped. I had heard the word before but wasn’t sure what it felt like, I was always the dumper. Now I knew. It felt like shit.

I spent weeks trying to figure out why this had happened. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what went wrong even though the tiny voice behind one ear kept whispering, “He wasn’t right,” to me. No. I just didn’t understand what had happened. I talked to this new boy a lot. He listened to me as I typed IM after IM about how there was no exact moment where things went wrong, they just ended. He was patient. He told me that The Sea and the Rhythm by Iron & Wine reminded him of me. I told him that my ex didn’t like Iron & Wine. Somehow, he still wanted to ask me out. My roommate pushed me out the door.

We were going to have lunch on a Sunday afternoon. I drove to the restaurant, a small Spanish fusion place in downtown Gainesville; all I knew was that it had ropa vieja. It was raining and I parked right in front. I looked up and he was standing in front of the restaurant under an umbrella and holding peonies, which I mentioned that my ex never remembered were my favorite flowers. He came to my car door and handed me the flowers and held the umbrella over my head as we walked up the restaurant. We were seated and we looked at each other awkwardly.

He told me about how he was studying film and how he was going to do an internship at PBS, working on a documentary about sea turtles or something. I told him about how my ex was a vegetarian. He told me about he really loved The Long Halloween, which I’d mentioned before to him. I complained about my ex not reading enough books. We ate our lunch. He was beyond polite and wonderful, attempting to engage me in conversation about anything. He paid and we walked outside. It had stopped raining and the air felt thick and dewy. We said goodbye and he kissed the side of my mouth. I drove home and put the peonies in a vase on my desk. I went to bed but not to sleep.

He never called me again and we didn’t talk anymore. I was mortified but I realized that I had acted like a real bitch. I got back together with that ex, the one who wasn’t right at all, two weeks later. He moved in with me and we fought all the time. I’d smoke cigarettes out the open bathroom window after slamming the door shut. I thought about the boy with the sea turtles and how he brought me flowers on our first date. I knew I had made the wrong choice at the time but it was like, falling off your bicycle and getting back on with scraped knees. I made the wrong choice for the time but the right one in the long run because I learned what I didn’t want and what I deserved and the kind of man I wanted by my side. I learned how to keep an eye out for the right man and when he came along, I knew right away. I had dreamed him. I wasn’t sure how to handle it when I found it but if I had learned one thing, it was to look forward and forget, to just go and move with it.

And most importantly, to be kind, so kind, to anyone who is also putting himself, his heart, out there. Do not stomp, do not be cruel, do not forget that you have a heart as well. Use it.

girlperson travelogue: on taking a drive in Florida

(Because it’s almost spring and this is something we could all do with.)

If you come see me in Florida, here’s a short list of things to look forward to:

1. beaches
2. orange trees
3. my grandma’s empanadas and other assorted foods
4. my pear and gruyere pie
5. driving with me

This is a short list and not that impressive aside from the empanadas but that last one, driving with me, is kind of a special thing. I like public transportation whenever I’m in a big city, I like reading on a train or bus, it’s peaceful and allows your mind to sort of wander as the traveling is put in someone else’s hands. But driving is really wonderful in a specific setting.

I’m going to share with you the drive I would take you on if you chose to ride shotgun with me. You can pick my car out easily, it has a Batman sticker on the back windshield. You’ll be pretty happy with my car at the moment as well since I just cleaned it so it no longer has old pumpkin spice latte to-go cups and water bottles in it. You’ll have to put on your seatbelt because my car beeps annoyingly until you do. Also, you know, safety. I practice safety by unrolling the windows so we can feel the post rainshower breeze.

I’ll turn the engine over, cupcake keychain dangling, and make my way onto the road. We’ll spend some time driving down University headed north, passing your average suburban restaurants and neighborhoods. When we hit where Coral Springs and Parkland meet, we’ll turn left to take the Sawgrass Expressway west. Well, west before it curves south. I’ll take off my left ballet flat, close the air conditioning vent closest to my face, and put my foot up on my closed cup holder, pedicured toes hanging out the window. I’ll grab an emergency cigarette from the center console and light one for each of us in my mouth. We’ll smoke them quietly while we wait for the light to turn green. When it does, I’ll press my right foot on the gas and turn onto the highway.

This section of the Sawgrass Expressway isn’t very exciting but as it begins to curve around and become southbound, you get closer to the Everglades. Everyone I know says I’m crazy and that you can’t smell the Everglades from the highway but I can. I can smell the swamp with its tall grass and boggy wetness, filled with birds standing on awkward long legs on land, mindful of the alligators whose big eyes pop out of the murky water. Things are more developed around this expressway now but I remember when I was little, my dad told me he was driving on this road late one night when an alligator ran across the road in front of his speeding car and caused him to swerve. Even now, I keep an eye out for possible reptile road kill.

We’ll drive south for a while as the Sawgrass turns into I-75 south, headed towards Miami. Don’t worry, this drive won’t include Miami unless you’re really desperate for pastelitos de guayaba y queso. Oh god, now I want to go to Miami. Task at hand, Anaïs. It’ll be sunset by this point and we’ll look to our right to watch the orangey pink sky over the Everglades, lit up by the sleepy sun. As it gets darker, I’ll nod at you and you’ll light one cigarette that we’ll share. I watch it spark and reach my hand to squeeze your thigh as you take a long drag, the slim cigarette’s glow lighting up your face. You’ll hold it at my lips so I can take a drag as we get closer to where we have to merge at I-595 east.

I-595 east is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite highway in Florida. It doesn’t have the packed insanity of I-95, which stretches north into countless states up the eastern coast, but it is a pure madhouse at all hours of the day. It connects Weston, a newer development so far west that they drained parts of the Everglades to build exhaustingly douchey and trite gated communities, to Fort Lauderdale and the Atlantic Ocean. I hate it because everyone drives like an asshole but they have no idea that I am the biggest asshole driver of all time. I mean, I learned how to drive in South Florida, and who are South Florida drivers?

1. Insane old people
2. Ex-New Yorkers
3. New immigrants to this country
4. A combination of any of the above categories

Exactly. So don’t you worry when I begin to press my ballet flat-shod foot even harder on the gas, just relax and remember that the only time I’ve been in a car accident that was my fault was when I was looking in the mirror to check my hair. My hair’s already windblown from the open windows! You’re fine! We’ll weave through traffic, each exit closer and closer than the last, as we get closer to the actual city. You’ll see Fort Lauderdale’s skyline and lovely buildings and I promise that you can smell the salty ocean air even from this point. Maybe I just have a good nose. Keep yours ready, regardless.

We’re not heading to the city though, we’re merging onto the Turnpike. I have a Sun Pass which I recommend to anyone driving in Florida since waiting to pay tolls is no fun. They also call the Florida Turnpike the Ronald Reagan Parkway or something but I ignore this fact. We’ll head north once again, having made a loop around Broward County, and get off on Atlantic Boulevard. My hair will be insane by this point, wild and all around my face, my cheeks red from the wind and being whipped by my dark waves. We’ll pull over at a 7-11 to get proper Slurpees, mixing flavors of course, and gummi candies. Dinosaurs, worms, bears, ewoks, whatever we can get our hands on. We’ll drive more slowly now, cruising towards the beach, the smell of the ocean really noticeable now, not just to my excellent bloodhound nose. I’ll park in the metered parking by Pompano Beach, quieter at this time of evening than Fort Lauderdale beach, and we’ll stretch our legs for the first time in an hour.

I have supplies for this kind of night. I’m the girl who always has a blanket in the trunk of her car in case of any nighttime beach emergency. Blanket, Slurpees, candy, keys, and we’re set. I take off my shoes and walk through the sand, legs pushing against the natural sinking that occurs as I walk. It’ll take a proper amount of time to choose a location, somewhere secluded but without the creepy factor; close to the water without being in danger of getting splashed too often. I find it as these decisions are naturally in my blood and we spread the blanket, our hands touching as we unfold it. We’ll lay down on it and I’ll sip my cherry-blue raspberry-coke-cancer Slurpee as I take in how big the moon is even at sea level.

We are at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, a much maligned ocean in comparison with others, but a magnificent one nonetheless. It seems endless and from here we can watch the boats from shore. If a cartographer drew us on a map at this moment, we’d be tiny specks, no more significant than the billions of particles of sand and shell around us. But here, alone on this beach, we are huge. Our shadows created by the glow of the moonlight loom and your hands seem huge as they wrap themselves around my waist. The comfort of having our arms around each other translates to any location: bed, the park, a restaurant, the subway, couch, here where the land meets the sea. Being comfortable is less a matter of where than a matter of who.

Come to Florida, we’ll take a drive.

It’s a fact that every man I’ve dated has slept on his stomach. Even now, peacefully surrendering to his dreams, he drapes an arm around me and pulls me into the nook of his elbow. His breathing is mostly still except for the times when he “makes noise”, which is what he’s taken to calling my occasional snoring (only during allergy season, to be clear). He is solid and warm, marking me even in sleep as his with just his arm. He rarely moves.

I fall asleep on my side, my back turned to him so perhaps he will kiss my shoulder blades before we try to sleep. I start on my side and roll fitfully through the night onto my back, to the other side, occasionally on my stomach. My foot rubs his calf gently as I ease myself back into sleep again and again. I move through the night, away from him and towards, all at once. I always wake up before him, my side of the bed a tangle with the sheets half off; he is steady as ever. I wonder at this complete surrender to sleep, at the inability of my mind to to be still. I slide closer and under his arm which rests on my stomach, my soft hip to his sharper one and I rest.

If you were in the JetBlue Terminal at JFK on Monday, I’m sorry.

Valentine’s Day is just one day and it really matters what happens the 364 other days of the year when it comes to your relationship. I’ve always really, really believed this. I wanted to say something about how I feel about gabe but things just ARE, you know? Things are good. So here’s something from a few months ago that was originally here that pretty much sums up how things are. Being in love and in a relationship isn’t always easy and it’s somewhat scary but it’s always worth it.

I apologize that you had to watch a dark haired girl in glasses have several coughing attacks as she cried into her boyfriend’s coat. I’m really sorry that you had to watch them kiss and hug, as if one of them was going off to war. I’m sorry you had to watch the bearded man push the girl’s hair behind her ear as he told her things that could only be understood between two people so close. I apologize that this girl with a runny nose put her coat and messenger bag and Chucks and iPhone and laptop in the bins in security slowly as her flight began to board. I’m sorry that the man left her a voicemail as she stood in her striped socks waiting to go through the metal detectors, wiping her eyes. I’m really sorry that just before the girl had to go through the metal detectors, she turned from the security guard and ran back to the edge of the barrier where he stood watching her and threw herself into his arms against the fence. I’m sorry that she couldn’t get on the plane without one more embrace, one more kiss, one more whiff of his skin and his shirt, and that he was just as happy to laugh against her hair and kiss her before she finally had to leave.

The girl walked through the metal detectors and put on her shoes as a female security guard checked her bag and laptop. She sniffled and wiped away tears as she stared at the man who was still standing on the other side of the glass, perhaps hoping she would grab her things, take his hand, and go back home with him. The security guard looked from the girl to the man and back to the girl before speaking.

“Someday, I hope someone makes me as happy as you two make each other,” she said, smiling quietly as she handed the girl her bag.

He waved and she blew a kiss before turning, racing to her gate. She was the last one to board the flight and everyone stared as she scurried red-eyed to her seat. She coughed during takeoff and the women around her took care of the crying girl out of tissues. They gave her a bottle of water and Emergen-C and cough drops and let her borrow a neck pillow. The lady next to her, who looked to be the same age as the girl’s mother, stroked her hair and arm as she let the girl ramble in her hoarse voice until she drifted to sleep, cheek against the loaned neck pillow.

The girl landed at home and into her family’s arms before crashing feverishly into her bed. She dreamed of the days past and the ones to come, her mind creating accurate images of the future, simple, beautiful moments close to what will happen soon but without the life and breath of reality. The simple romance of being in each other’s company, watching movies, walking hand in hand, her feet in his lap as they eat cheeseburgers in a restaurant, waking up with legs intertwined, brushing their teeth together in the shower, writing in bed on their respective laptops, reading each other’s work and critiquing it honestly, watching ideas grow as they discuss every day things and issues, laughing at inside jokes and clever references, enjoying each other’s bodies on a lazy afternoon, kissing over her shoulder as they attempt to cook together. All of these simple, effortless actions made more familiar and concrete the more they are repeated.

It’s why it’s hard to leave every time. Even knowing you’ll be back soon, it is difficult to leave someone who fits so well. He is the answer to so many of the questions that have kept you awake at night for years, and the ones he can’t answer, you now have faith you’ll figure out in time. When you have to leave someone you love, someone who makes you feel so entirely and extra complete, it’s as if all the emotional and metaphysical connection becomes all too visceral and you suddenly have to pull yourselves apart from where you were linked, gut to gut. You bleed into your own hands and know that it’s temporary, that the connection that grew from afar will grow in place again before the next time you see each other but it’s hard to think of anything besides the distance for the moment.

You think of how you seem to speak to each other without any words when you’re together, your skin reading the Braille of his skin and knowing exactly how you are meant to feel at that moment. Comfortable, whole, at peace. The weeks apart crawl and fly at the same time, the adrenaline and love from the last time alive in the in between days, forcing you to live your life better and more fully than you did before you knew the universe meant you for this person. You have more and thus you give more, you create more because now you are more than just the boundaries of your own body; you see yourself reflected in someone else and you can see why you are loved and cherished like that. The bonds grow again as you realize that distance is rarely measured in miles when you love someone. The day you no longer have to be apart for weeks at a time seems a remote but spectacular gift that will soothe the calluses created by time wearing at your souls.

For now, I’m finding that every goodbye is just the beginning of another climb to the joy of that next glimpse, touch, kiss behind the ear, embrace that is coming sooner than you expect. It kind of feels like a story that I’m writing just by being and living; sometimes it feels like magic.