A Love Song on a Skipping Record
 

I sat at the same bench of Kerry Park that I had always sat at. For the past four years of college, I had been a patron of this bench; this stiff, rusted, rotten-wood bench. From my residency on this bench, I could see the whole of the city. From the ice-rink to the arches of the Science Center, from the towering Needle to the perpetually spinning wheel by the wharf. My bench had a monopoly of the pacific Northwestern beauty. Along the shore of Elliot Bay, I could see a swift moving fishing boat, like a sea dragon, prowling for the sweet salmon swimming towards the mouth of the Duwamish on their way to spawn.
Presently, I heard the soft sound of canine paws rushing across dry pavement. I turned to see a dog, golden hair as short as this puppy's time so far on this earth, skitter up to my bench. The enterprising young Labrador, his leash lying loosely, unsecured on the ground, went straight for my lunch, sitting open by my side. How could I refuse such a humble creature so tiny a scrap of food? Before I could look up, I heard the rush of a woman chasing after her pet. "You found my dog!" She smiled at me, her summer dress catching the light of the morning sun.
As she was re-leashing her dog, I thought if I should ask her what her name was. Instead, I conceived an elaborate and complicated plan. "What is your dog's name?" I could hear the blood drumming with the rhythm of my heart. She produced the most carefree smile as the skyline of Seattle hung in the distance.

***

Standing in the garden of the country chapel, I can recall that afternoon as if it was yesterday. Not long after that day at the bench, I brought her to my favorite coffee house in South Lake Union. These memories came flooding back to me like a levee had broken in my mind. Love is a funny thing, like the finale of a rock-and-roll song; crashing, loud, a whirlwind of madness. This was just the intro, the rat-a-tat-tat of the snare drum and hum of the bass before the real song began.

***

Some say that having an out of body experience means that you've come far too close to dying. In my opinion, it gives you the clarity to know how to live.
Sitting in traffic on the floating bridge heading from the East Side, I slumped down lower in the driver's seat of the beat up 1998 Honda Accord I'd gotten when I moved to college, pondering what had just happened. I mean, I couldn't believe she wouldn't tell me about her ex moving back to town. She said they just went out to coffee to catch up, but how can I believe a word she says.
I turned on the radio to try to find something to take my mind off of all that had happened.
"…Next on The End, we have a new song by the The Strokes this one's called 'Reptilia,' Enjoy."
The music became my world, the wailing of the guitar and the crash of the drums helped me to release all of the pent up anger I'd been keeping locked inside for the past couple of months. To think that two years of dating could end like this, without rhyme or reason.
Traffic still wasn't moving.
I changed the radio station, classic rock: "…Well if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand. I've seen your face before my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am…"
I'd never liked Phil Collins, but those words gave me the shivers, like water was running down my back and filling up my shoes.
I turned the radio off. Maybe I should call Anna. I never really gave her a chance to finish talking before I stormed out of our apartment in Redmond. But what would I even say to her? Apologize for storming out and pretend like nothing had ever happened? I don't think I could do that. Not after how painful it was to hear from her co-worker that she saw her high school boyfriend again.
I punched the dash in frustration, then as an afterthought, decided to turn back on the radio. It was "I'm Gonna Be," by the Proclaimers. As always, the radio never plays songs that fit my mood when I need it to.
Why was I so mad at her anyways? We had been solid in our relationship until this happened, so why should it even bother me? I looked out the window towards the traffic in the distance; it looked like some car had gone off the side of the bridge, poor bastard.
"…Cause I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more; just to be the man who walked 1000 miles to fall down at your door…"
More than anything, I'm mad because of how much I love her. I think that's what I've realized, that I don't want to lose her. Someone had jumped into the water and fished out the driver of that car, not much different from the one I was driving.
I think I need to tell her. Tell her how much she means to me, and that I don't ever want to be without her.
A news broadcast came on to the radio: "Breathe, breathe, you were in there for a long time."
I was really going to do it, this is really it. I'm going to need a ring, and to plan how I'll actually ask her. This is going to take everything I've got.
"It sounds like he's coming back to," said the newscaster through the radio. I felt myself being lifted out of my place stuck in the traffic line, and laid out onto the wet pavement. The newscaster bent over me, placing an oxygen mask over my face. "Can you hear me?" he asked, his face finally taking on shape and purpose.
Lying there on the bridge, I was still thinking about what kind of ring I was going to propose with, even as the paramedics carted me off to the hospital.

***

I led my wife to the table next to the window. Her small breaths fogged the window of the café's booth.
"Can we share a steak?" Anna asked.
"I'm not really in the mood for steak."
"Well what about the prawns?"
"I'd rather have ribs, personally," I said to her with a glint of hope.
"I hate it when you have ribs, you'll ruin your shirt," my wife said concernedly.
"I'll be careful, I promise," I said, begrudgingly.
"It doesn't matter if you try to be careful, something can always go wrong," she said, exasperated.
I studied my fingernails. I'd started chewing them again, a nervous habit I'd left behind years ago.
"Would you like to visit the Art Museum tomorrow?" I said, looking up hopefully.
"I don't want to have to see all those kids," she replied.
"It's an art museum, there shouldn't be that many kids--"
"But I don't want to see any kids," she said, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"I saw on the news last week that gas prices were going to start falling again. Before long they'll be under $3," I said, changing the subject.
"That's nice," she replied. The waitress came by and poured us each a cup of coffee.
"We might be able to keep the two-seater for a while longer now," I said looking up at her.
"But we'll need to get rid of it eventually," said Anna, giving me a dirty look.
"I know, but since we don't need to get rid of it right now any more, we should at least hold on to it for a while," I said.
Anna watched the steam rising up from her coffee, her breaths making it loop and swirl.
"When do you think we'll try again?" I asked.
"I don't want to for at least a year," she said looking out the window. "Not until we know it's safe."
"Well no one could have known that would happen," I pleaded.
Anna turned to me, sternly. Her eyes were dark clouds, ready to burst forth a monsoon. "Well that's a d--- shame isn't it?"
I took her hand and brought it to my lips. "D--- shame," I said. "D--- shame."

***

The chair let out a deafening shriek as it scooted out to let her in. Its sound was like needles striking at my ears, making me cringe at my very existence. I looked up from my place standing behind her and walked to my own seat, which oddly enough was quiet. The restaurant suddenly bustled back to life, absorbing my excruciatingly loud sounds.
“Do you know what you want to eat?” Anna asked me, her mouth curving into the most beautiful smile.
I looked up timidly from my menu and cleared my throat. “I’m not sure; I haven’t been to a restaurant like this in a long time.” Buca di beppo seemed like a great idea for a first date, but now that I had the chance to think about it, it seemed like a little over the top.
The waiter brought us our drinks. “So tell me a little bit about yourself. You go to UW, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I answered, “I’m studying environmental science. I think I’m going to try to get my masters.”
“That’s really cool!” she exclaimed. “I went to South Seattle Community College to get my Associates.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked, feeling dumb. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Um, well, I wanted to become a musician, but there haven’t been very many opportunities to get into the industry.”
“You’re a musician? What instruments do you play?”
She smiled, looking down. It was clear she was getting excited to talk about music. “I can play the guitar, the piano, and the drums,” she said. “But my favorite instrument is the bass.”
“I learned the guitar in high school,” I said warming up to the conversation, “a couple of buddies and I tried to start a band.” I laughed. “It didn’t work out that well.”
She laughed, too, her voice like silk. “Obviously it hasn’t worked out that well for me,” she said with a sigh.
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of successful musician works as a waitress at Red Robin’s?” she asked visibly saddened.
I swallowed the sip of water I’d just taken. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said, trying to salvage the situation. “I’d like to hear some of your music sometime, if that’s not too much to ask.”
She couldn’t help but flit a smile. “I think I’d like that a lot.”
We walked down the street towards the Compass Café, on the south banks of Lake Union. The salty air was refreshing, and the cool wind blew a chill over the two of us. After a block, she slipped her cold hand into mine. I bought us two cappuccinos, and we talked for hours in that little coffee shop. I walked her home, and at her door her lips still tasted of that coffee; a warm, light roast.

***

The cracking of knuckles echoing from the stall was the only sound to be heard throughout the bathroom; I'd always cracked my knuckles when I was nervous. I had tried to give it up years ago, because Anna never liked it when I cracked my fingers. She had an aversion to the sound like the poles of a magnet repulsing one another .
The door to the bathroom swung open to clang against the inadequately strengthened stopper on the adjacent wall. “You ready?” asked the best man. I stood up from the seat refastened my trousers and adjusted my tie. This was it, I suppose.
The ceremony went on like any other, some relatives cried, others were jubilant. I didn’t breathe the whole time. When it came time to kiss the bride that all ended. I lifted the veil and looked into her eyes, green with hints of yellow and brown flaked throughout, and I knew she loved me back.
“Dance with me, will you?” she said at the reception, after what seemed like years of meeting and greeting family members and close friends. I led her out to the dancefloor, her small hands still cold, always cold, in mine.
“Do you remember the day we met?” I asked her.
“How could I forget?” she laughed. “You could barely say two words to me, but you and my dog hit it off right away.”
“Of course,” I smiled. “Never had such a beautiful woman strolled up to me for anything.”
“Well you’d found my dog, what else could I have done?”
“You could have not been there at all, you could have been anywhere else in the world,” I trailed off.
“But I was right where I needed to be,” she said finishing my thoughts.
  “And I was right where I needed to be,” I said.
“And this is right as it’s supposed to be.”
“Just as it was meant to be,” I said, as the band in the background played their last notes, and the song hummed to a close.