Relationship Palimpsests
staring the memories in a different place
There are no photographs of the first date that wasn’t supposed to be a date at all. The first date that ended, for me, in uncharted territory.
But every year, on November 23rd, I talk about the memories. Sometimes with my husband, whose recollections align pretty well with mine, and sometimes with friends.
I fell in love that cold Tuesday night, in my favorite Tōkyō neighborhood, as I walked the twenty minutes from Sensōji, where the not-a-date began, to Ōtori Shrine, to see the festival the group outing had been scheduled for.
I fell in love when Hiro grabbed the back of my jacket, saying, “I don’t want to lose you,” as the crowds around Ōtori Shrine grew thick.
When the not-a-date ended (unexpectedly, without me asking him to come to my apartment), several hours later, and we stood at the entrance to the subway from which Hiro would depart (I floated back to the train station from there for my ride home), I could see a light in Hiro’s eyes. I attribute it to laughter—we’ve been laughing together for thirty-two years—but I also know that Hiro, too, had fallen in love.
We were kids—I was 27, Hiro was 23—and Hiro was more cautious about calling our relationship a relationship. He still sometimes says that the first year or two were a trial period. He’d never dated a non-Japanese person before.
I, however, had dated many Japanese men. I fell in love easily (repressed trauma at work, some have said), and still love many of the men I dated before meeting Hiro (who refers to the members of the lover-to-friend pipeline as my fan club). And aside from the fan club, countless other men came for an English lesson at my apartment. I mistook my lust for love, even though each part-time paramour only ever evinced a quickly fading curiosity, not love.
Hiro’s curiosity, however, never faded. I’d guess that it was his curiosity that saved us, especially during the weirdest second date either of us had.
As Golden Girl Sophia might say, “Picture it, Okegawa, 1993.”
Love and romance are all well and good, but if I had made good on a promise to a friend not to sleep with anyone on the first date anymore, baser more honest emotions insisted that sex had to happen on the second date. Those selfsame emotions led me to assume that everyone had sex on the second date, and, therefore, Hiro would know the drill.
After all, he agreed to come to my apartment after classes on Friday, November 26th. He’d be arriving later (after ten) and would, of course, be staying the night. Quod erat demonstrandum, we would be sexing!
And I was horrendously unsubtle about it. After committing a traffic violation (driving the wrong way on a one-way street) on the way to the station to pick him up, when we finally made it back to my apartment, I, in essence, said, “The shower’s that way; I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
As we reminisce, Hiro usually excuses my behavior by describing it as what he assumed was typical American behavior. Two days ago, however, he admitted something else.
It was late, yes. He wasn’t sure if there’d be a train back to Tōkyō, yes. He was already in love with me, yes. And he was curious.
I was physically attracted to him, and he was attracted to me as well. This was November, and we had both worn multiple layers of clothing during the not-a-date. Our libidos wanted the same thing: a skin-to-skin horizontal experience.
The next morning, I made him breakfast. He complimented my skill, saying that my miso soup was better than his mother’s. (I only later learned that such a sentence is a metaphoric marriage proposal. I do, Hiro. I do!)
And in the bright, crisp morning, we went for a walk. A block from my apartment, he posed for a photograph, wearing my purple button-down under his bulky cardigan.
Six months after that first week, we returned to Sensōji. It’s one of two geographical touchstones for us in Japan (the second is Ikuta Shrine, in Kōbe, where, months before we met in real life, I prayed that the man up in my DMs and on the other end of my phone line would say yes when I asked him out); every visit to Japan now includes a stop there.
I’m so glad I’ve had thirty-two years with Hiro. We’re both looking forward to at least another thirty-two. I’ll be ninety-one, thirty-two years from now, Hiro’ll be eighty-seven.
May your love, memory and stories continue to shine and spark loving curiosity 💕
Twist our rubber arms! That sounds like fun!