Toilet paper and other surrenders

Sixteen years and a half ago
I met you at the cafe,
sitting under bad lighting
like a confession booth for people
who still believed in first impressions.

I was anxiously touching up my lipstick…
checking my phone one more time,
hope I am not too early,
hope I don’t look like I’m waiting
the way lonely people wait.

Will he show up, will he be wearing a red shirt,
will he shake my hand or kiss me “hello,”
is he as tall as he said he was?
Stupid questions.
Holy questions.
The kind you ask when you’re trying to keep
your heart from sprinting out the door.

Then you walked in
and the whole place got ordinary again,
which was the miracle…
no thunder,
no violins,
just a man and a chair
and my knees turning to paper.

We talked.
We lied a little the way everyone lies at the start…
not about big things,
just about how calm we were,
how we didn’t care if this went anywhere,
how we were totally fine being alone.

But we weren’t.
We were starving.
And we liked each other’s hunger.

And then time did what time does.
It moved in.
It took up space.
It brought friends.

It brought rent.
It brought receipts.
It brought the dull religion of “being responsible.”
Toilet paper purchased and placed carefully,
like it mattered more than laughter.
Leftovers carefully refrigerated,
labeled like evidence.

Pennies saved,
stacked like tiny guards outside the door
of whatever used to be wild in us.

We got good at it…
earning, spending, planning, optimizing,
two smart adults
building a life like a spreadsheet
with lips.

We learned the exact price
of everything.

A roll of toilet paper here.
A bargain there.
A coupon.
A “we’ll do it next week.”
A “we’re tired.”
A “just get the cheaper one.”
A “don’t forget to turn off the light.”
A “did you pay the bill?”
A “we can’t waste food.”
A “we can’t waste money.”

And with each careful little victory
we lost a drop of love.
Not the dramatic kind…
not the kind that storms out
throwing plates and curses.

No.
This was quieter.
This was love
evaporating in the fridge light
while we argued about which shelf
it belonged on.

We became efficient.
We became impressive.
We became a well-run operation.

And somewhere between
paper towels and pension plans
the magic got treated like an expense…
optional,
nice to have,
cut first.

Because magic doesn’t come with a receipt.
You can’t prove you bought it.
You can’t return it.
You can’t store it in plastic
and pretend it’ll taste the same tomorrow.

I miss us, sometimes…
the café us.
The me checking my phone one more time,
the you walking in like you weren’t
about to change my whole damn life.

I want to shake the two of us
like a vending machine.

I want to tell us:
buy the toilet paper, sure.
Save the pennies, sure.
Put the leftovers away, fine.

But for god’s sake
leave something out on the counter
that doesn’t make sense.

A kiss that isn’t earned.
A night that isn’t scheduled.
A laugh that costs money.
A red shirt on a random Tuesday
just to remind my stupid heart
how it felt to be early
and hopeful
and afraid
and alive.

Because we are not just
what we can afford.

We are the part
that showed up anyway.