to know

We sat laughing on the patio of the coffee shop, my finger holding my place on page three of the library book I'd chosen, his resting open against his chest. We had spent the afternoon wandering. First among rows of sweaters, pointing out contenders for the "maybe I should dress like a grad student" plan and the ones that matched his eyes; among books, losing and finding each other first at the book store, then at the library where the books are free and there are more chairs. He had indulged my love for argyle and I pretended to be horrified when he pretended to be in the market for a rifle. We disagreed slightly on styles of camping- he a former boy scout and I the proud owner of a gourmet camping cookbook.

I assumed we were ready for a break from all the acquainting, but our coffee, his hot, mine iced, sat ignored on the table. We got distracted from making a plan for dinner by telling stories about old friends and bad dates and the people who turned out to be both. He pretended to read when I answered my phone but then responded to everything I'd said. Even with the promise of the evening ahead, we still had enough to say that the books and coffee (my two favorite things) went unnoticed.

I've been under such strange circumstances for the past several years that I'd all but forgotten the subtle nuances of getting to know a person slowly from the beginning. All of a sudden the new person knows the names of all of your old people. You can brush arms without flinching or saying "sorry." Discussions about books and movies end with "you'd like it." There had been no lengthy introduction, but hundreds of tiny ones instead.

Once, someone said to me "I know that about you" and I am still convinced that those are perhaps the sweetest words to be uttered by a newly familiar voice.