We left the bar at 2 am tonight [today] and as we were walking back to Sheila's car, she said something to me that made me think how the stories of certain relationships can be told over the course of years and others can be told over the course of nights and others in just a few minutes, seconds even. What she said was that she loved the moment when you leave the bar--the fresh air, the night sky, what lies ahead. It makes me think of the times I've left a bar with a man, and the stories and experiences that emerge afterwards. Her comment reminded me that some bonds begin in a bar and end when you leave, while others begin there and continue on.
There is definitely something enchanting about the night sky of the petit matin, the unknown that is represented by the darkness, the newness of a budding relationship that is represented by the fresh air, the light of the moon or streetlights that leads you to a new destination, and the space between two hands that are not clutched, or pairs of lips that are not touching [yet].
I was reminded that time is simply relative; I was reminded that certain relationships of mine have grown intermittently yet intensely over the course of years (be it three or twenty three), relationships that began in bars, or cafés, that are still with me. I wondered when, if ever, they will cease, or perhaps morph into something unexpected. Because all I truly have to hold onto now are pieces of stories that I'm trying to fit together into a whole.
Sometimes I think I'll have to keep revisiting the bar, the night sky, the fresh air, the suggestive luminance, to find the missing pieces, the ones that will give me resolution, that will make the puzzle whole, the story complete.