The Lover's Dictionary Read Free

will be the one to leave you” — you whispered it to me as a warning. Fifth date? Sixth date?
    I was sure in my heart that you were wrong. I was sure I’d be the one to kill it. But I kept that belief to myself.

cavort , v.
    “It’s way too late to go into Central Park,” I protested.
    “The moon is out,” you said.
    “We really shouldn't.”
    “Don’t worry,” you told me, taking my hand. “I’ll protect you.”
    I had always been afraid of walking through the park at night, but soon there we were, well past midnight in the middle of the Great Lawn, having all that space to ourselves, feeling free enough to make out, but trying to keep on as much clothing as possible. Laughing at our recklessness, feeling the grass and the dirt as we rolled playfully — me on top, then you on top, then me on top — zippers down, hands everywhere — night on skin and such nervousness. We sensed people coming closer and got ourselves back together, riding the excitement until the excitement ended, then gliding on a little farther, buoyed not by thrill but by happiness.

celibacy , n.
    n/a

champagne , n.
    You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I’ve forgotten — is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what’s going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing’s going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday mornings with champagne.
    You touch the bottle to my leg — I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in your other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of Kleenex, the tumbler of water.
    “The thing about champagne,” you say, unfoiling the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, “is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it’s a celebration, so there’s no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you’re sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time.”
    You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour.
    “But why?” I ask as you hand me my glass.
    You raise yours and ask, “Why not? What better way to start the day?”
    We drink a toast to that.

circuitous , adj.
    We do not divulge our histories chronologically. It’s not like we can sit each other down and say, “Tell me what happened,” and then rise from that conversation knowing everything. Most of the time, we don’t even realize that we’re dividing ourselves into clues. You’ll say, “That was before my dad left my mom,” and I’ll say, “Your dad left your mom?” Or I’ll say, “That was right before Jamie told me we should just be friends,” and you’ll ask, “Who’s Jamie?” I’ll swear Jamie was on that initial roll call of heartbreak (perfect for any second date), but maybe I forgot, or maybe you’ve forgotten. I swear I told you I was allergic to sunflowers. You might have told me your sister once pulled out a handful of your hair, and you were both terrified when your scalp bled. But I don’t think you did. I think I’d remember that.
    Tell me again.

clandestine , adj.
    Some familiarity came easy — letting myself laugh even though I guffaw, sharing my shortcomings, walking around the apartment naked. And some intimacy came eventually — peeing in the toilet while you are right there in the shower, or finishing something you’ve half eaten. But no matter how I try, I still can’t write in my journal when you’re in the room. It’s not even that I’m writing about you (although often I am). I just need to