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Namid

It’s the fastest week of my life. After spending our first day in Seattle getting everything set up at the gallery, we have six days before we head home. We start our mornings in the apartment Jayce has rented with coffee and pastries from a different bakery each day. I’m half convinced that I could manage to live in the city if it meant I had access to dozens of bakeries all the time. We spend two days wandering along rocky shorelines, exploring old lighthouses and dark-sand beaches. The weather cooperates with us, and even though it’s only in the fifties, the sky is blue and the air is crisp and heavy and filled with the tang of salt and the sharpness of pine.

We wander quietly together, lost in the sound of birdsong and the thrum of the waves. Our fingers linger on backs and arms and intertwine tightly together as we walk, the sand scuffing against our feet for hours and miles. We study the sky and the surf and the ground, contemplating the shape of clouds and playfully arguing over who is able to find the best rock or shell. Only when the light is fading and we’ve managed to come to an agreement do we slip the day’s single treasure into a pocket to take with us. The priceless artifacts will live on our mantles when we return home.

We spend two more days exploring small towns and woodland trails. These days begin with a ferry trip across the Puget Sound to the peninsula. When we’re waved onto the ship and directed to park, packed in like sardines with a hundred other cars, I panic at the swirling pile of emotions that seems inescapable with this many people in such a close space. Jayce takes my hand, and I focus on his smile and the tiny lines of concern that frame his eyes. As the huge boat starts to move, most people abandon their cars for the passenger decks, and we’re left largely on our own, sitting in Jayce’s truck with the rumble of the engines vibrating through us as waves crash against the thick sheet metal sides of the ship just below the passenger side window.

We drive along clean black stretches of road, bracketed by mile-high pines so thick that when I watch the forest as it speeds past, I can’t see any further than a few feet into their depths. The sun shines brightly, breaking through their shadows and casting almost blinding rays of light in front of us as we curve and sway, the dense forest breaking from time to time to offer views of large pastures filled with horses and cows and sheep, old red barns, and farmhouses with pickups and camping trailers parked in gravel driveways.

We pull off whenever signs announce an upcoming nature trail and wander slowly, listening to the breeze swirl through the trees and the crunch of soil under our feet. We battle to find the best pinecone to join our small collection. When we pass small seaside towns, we stop to find tiny family-owned bakeries and small out-of-the-way bars with patio dining areas that are largely empty on the chilly November days. The cold, cozy tables are the perfect places for us to pull our chairs close and cuddle together for warmth while we eat something small for the fourth, fifth, or sixth time that day without more people around than I can handle.

One of our days is spent at a fine art museum. I almost change my mind when we pull into the crowded parking lot. I can’t imagine there’s any way I’ll be able to manage the emotions of all the people inside. Jayce slips his hand onto my low back as we purchase our tickets and whispers into my ear that we can leave any time, but we should try before giving up. He’s right.

The first room we enter holds a handful of people, all standing close to paintings, staring as if they’re looking through windows that can transport them to other times and places. Their emotions rush over me, covering me and dragging me down. They’re overpowering. So overpowering that I have to fight the instinct to turn and run. Jayce’s hand tightens on my back, his fingers dig into my skin, and I breathe. I step closer, leaning into his shoulder and letting the scent of cinnamon from his morning chai and the oil that lingers even after a week away from the shop wash over me as I work to push the emotions away. It takes a few moments to find my way out, but once I do, I notice something I’ve never experienced before. The emotions are easy to push away if I try. As immense and overwhelming as they seem at first, they’re not floating free in the ether like emotions usually are - they’re distant and focused. They’re being projected onto the artworks that are causing them to surface. As we step into the next room, it’s the same - a handful of strangers with huge emotions - but I’m okay, and they don’t need to affect me. It’s so easy to push them aside like thin, sparkling party streamers hung from the ceiling, to watch them exist instead of letting them sink under my skin. By the time we move into the third room, the emotions of the audience have become a part of the art for me. When we step up to a new work, the joy or grief or peace that those staring at it feel are as much a part of the paintings as the colors and textures of the brush strokes. We stay until the museum closes. For nearly seven hours we wander, lost in a sea of color and light and emotion that leaves me breathless and filled with wonder.

Each night, we return home to wander the quiet streets as night gently settles over our apartment’s small residential neighborhood while the glow of streetlamps, whose rays don’t quite reach the ground through the mist, cast a peach glow over the world. We choose a new restaurant each night, taking our food home and eating on the window benches with cardboard and Styrofoam containers spread between us. We make love in the shower and linger in one another’s arms in the tub. We kiss and touch and hold and lose ourselves under the sheets of the large bed while the golden city lights shine through the large windows and caress our skin.

I can feel what Jayce feels. I can always feel what my lovers feel, of course - pleasure or pain or lust, but not like this. Nothing has ever been like this. Nothing has ever been like Jayce. I can feel everything as I touch him, as he touches me. I can feel the pleasure coursing through him as we take one another apart, falling into the abyss in one another’s arms. I want this forever. I want him forever.