2/1/2011 - one of the most intimate things. . .

The only person from my MFA graduate program who I kept in touch with was Karen.  Our relationship was born out of her boyfriend troubles, my boyfriend troubles, the troubles of finding boyfriends.  Oh, and writing.  What first began as a weekly check-in to discuss our poems-in-progress and keep each other consistent quickly grew to become a dinner here, a break for coffee there.  We shared countless meals together, became friends.

She was a writer to the core, at times taking it to a bad place.  She sometimes referred to herself by her moniker, 'kc,' in e-mails, using convoluted language just to express a simple 'hello.'  She was intense in her writing, and she applied the same intensity to our friendship.  When she felt like I wasn't giving all I could to it, she really let me have it, calling me neglectful, a horrendous friend, and a boar.  Each time, we came back from the brink because I apologized, admitted my part in her accusations while she retracted the worst of them.

Our relationship irrevocably went over the edge when, during one of my apparent neglectful periods, she sent me a snarky e-mail accusing me of not taking any interest in her interests and how she was completely tired of me only suggesting that we get together and eat; we are writers, she said, and without variety, everything withers.

My reaction to this statement was immediate: I was offended, and my feelings were hurt.  However, it took me several weeks to really understand why I was so hurt.  She was right, after all, at least to some degree.  When we hung out, I didn't offer up many other suggestions besides lunch, dinner, a cup of coffee somewhere for an hour.  I could not imagine wanting to do anything else other than to sit across from her and whittle an afternoon away over a bowl of panang curry at our favorite Thai restaurant.

So yes, she was right--I'm boring.  But it shouldn't have taken her so long to figure that out, and it's nothing I didn't already know.  But the thing I could not reconcile was that she felt tired of eating together.  All my life, I believed that eating together was one of the most intimate things couples, friends, and family can do together.  I've held this 'breaking of bread' as a sacred ritual ever since I was a child, when I was not allowed to read or have the TV on during meals, breakfast included.  All I could do was sit, eat, and be with those at the table; in a word, it was "family."  So deep was this value instilled in me that I now can think of no greater experience to share with friends than to have dinner together.

So it was that much more of a momentous occasion when Sam and I picked up our new dining table this past weekend, and then ate dinner on it last night.  It was a dramatic change from eating on the couch, in front of the TV, talking only about Who's the Boss?, laughing only with the studio audience.  He slaved in the kitchen while I worked upstairs, and what resulted was a tasty dinner that did not come out of a frozen, ready-to-heat bag.  I turned the TV off when we got ready to eat, set my iPod to a playlist with music I know he tolerates (that is, no showtunes).  He dimmed the lights and lit candles.

Minutes later, by the time we started eating, I already felt like we talked more than we had all day.  Roxy Music's "Avalon" floated throughout the room instead of a blaring TV, and we were in the midst of a dialogue about life's ambitions, mid-life crises, and the first gay club I went to in Walnut Creek called JR's when I was 18.  We laughed together, shared ideas, talked about things that I don't believe would have reached the surface had we not sat down at the table and eaten.  The meal felt like a date.

I remember reading about a psychology study where researchers showed subjects two photographs of the same model in the same pose, identical save one attribute: pupils.  One photograph was taken with the model's pupils medically dilated; the other was taken normally.  A statistically significant number of people found the picture with the dilated pupils more attractive.  Not sure if I can attribute this feeling completely to dilated pupils, but during our candlelit dinner, I found Sam mighty attractive.

(Tomorrow is Karen's birthday, which is why I thought of her today.  Ironic that I never, ever remembered during all the years we were actually friends, but in every year thereafter, when we no longer speak to one another, I have never forgotten.)