Bliss. It’s what I would call the feeling I had from the moment I woke, that day we went to that small town, walking up and down the street, looking for the shop that wasn’t there. The wind swept us both like a wide, cold broom aimed high, and we cursed about the damned map. Bliss told me to wear the flowing red top I bought in the kids’ department at Kohl’s because I needed to feel the freedom in the flowing. As we drove around trying to find the miniature golf course, Bliss told me I was on an adventure, that it was time, my old nemesis anxiety would not come knocking that day. Bliss knew.

Bliss led us to play both courses that day. With tempered excitement novelty brings, we curiously looked ahead at the direction of each hole, the layout of the greens, discussing and preparing exactly how to make the shot under par. It worked for me. It didn’t work for you. But you weren’t bothered by it; you had Bliss, too. I eagerly kept score as we made rules for what happens when your ball flies out of the green into the water two holes over (do-over, from the tee), and I blissfully juggled my purse, the scorecard and that little pencil over 41 holes of golf.

Then there was the moment, which passed, just as time did those two weeks, far too quickly. The sun was shining through the tree canopy above, an early spring sun, peeking in and out of the clouds, as we played each hole and I continued to win, my Bliss increasing. It was among these tree shadows where my brain’s camera takes a still and it leaves me at a cliffhanger. You stand in front of me, the sun peeking down on your red-blond hair, in this deserted, tree-covered miniature golf course, smirking at me as you do, sunglasses hiding your eyes, but I can see them when I close mine. We are close, close enough for me to see my own smirk in your glasses. Bliss tells me to kiss you, and I think in that moment, you were expecting it.

A kiss lands. Just to the left of your mouth.

“That’s for losing,” I said cheerfully, trying to evoke Bliss about what I’d done, but feeling as if I’d plotted the wrong point on the map, instantly realizing I should have aimed for the lips and may have missed my chance forever. “Good,” you said with unusual inflection, still smirking, seemingly expecting something else, something more.

When we embraced earlier in the week, soon after you had arrived, Bliss was with me then, and I said quietly, “I’m so glad you’re here.” I meant something else, something more. When you replied just as quietly, “Me, too,” Bliss wants me to believe you meant something else too, something more.

Dedikert til A.

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