The conversation flowed deeper than I expected. By the end of it, as the afternoon light shifted through the window, Dalia slid a slim book of poetry across the table to me. It was worn like it had been read many times, with a post-it marking a page in the middle. Keep it, she said. So, you’ll have a reason to see me again. I took it, my fingers brushing hers for a split second. Are you doing this on purpose?
She shrugged, her eyes sparkling just a bit. Yes, I told you. I’m tired of being invisible. I don’t want something good to slip away just because we’re scared. We walked out onto the street together, the sun dipping low. No kiss, no declarations of what this was. But as we parted ways, that invisible thread between us felt stronger, more real. I knew then that whatever this was, it wasn’t going away quietly. After that day at the bookstore, our messages picked up.
It started small. Dalia sending a link to one of the jazz songs from the wedding playlist. Me snapping a photo of the poetry book sitting on my coffee table with the caption, “Still staring at it like it’ll bite me.” She’d reply quickly, “Read the marked page yet?” I’d hesitate, then type back, “Not yet. I’m afraid opening it will make this all too real.” Her response came almost instantly. “It already is.” We fell into a rhythm, texting throughout the day about nothing and everything.
She’d share snippets from her work, dealing with clients who thought they knew better, or a quiet victory when a project landed just right. I’d tell her about my latest IT headache, like untangling a network crash that turned out to be user error. It felt effortless, like we’d bypass the superficial stuff and jump straight to the parts that mattered. No pressure, no labels, just two people connecting in the gaps of our days. We met up a few more times, always in low-key spots that felt safe and unassuming.
A small coffee shop on the edge of town with mismatched mugs and no crowds. A park by the Willamett River where we’d walk the trails and watch the water rush by. a late night diner that stayed open past midnight, serving greasy fries and bottomless coffee. Nothing flashy, no fancy dinners or public displays. Just us sitting across from each other, talking like time didn’t exist. One afternoon at the park, we sat on a bench under a canopy of oaks, the leaves turning gold with the fall.
Dalia looked at me sideways and asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re living too small?” I stared at the river, letting the question sink in. all the time. I admitted like I’m just existing, not really pushing for more. She nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of the bench. I want you to live bigger than that. Not for me, for you. That opened the floodgates. I told her things I hadn’t shared with anyone about past relationships that fizzled because I couldn’t articulate what I felt, how I’d retreat into silence instead of risking vulnerability.
I’m not good at this, I said, gesturing vaguely between us, putting it all out there. Dalia leaned back, her eyes steady on mine. Then say it to me. Get it wrong if you have to. I’m not going anywhere. But the fear didn’t vanish. It just shifted shapes. It lurked in the quiet moments, reminding me of the realities we were ignoring. One evening, after a walk under the street lights downtown, the air crisp with the first hint of winter, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
We were strolling side by side, our shoulders brushing occasionally, when I stopped and turned to her. Do you ever think this is weird? You’re Brandon’s mom. Dalia slowed her pace, not pulling away, but not rushing to answer either. She looked at me with that unflinching gaze like she was peeling back layers to see what was underneath. I see the risks, she said finally. I see what people would say. I see Brandon getting shocked, maybe hurt. I see myself getting labeled, but I don’t see it as weird in a bad way.
I see it as rare. She paused, her breath visible in the cool air. And I want it anyway. I shoved my hands into my pockets, the weight of her words pressing down. I’m scared I’ll hurt you. That this is just some impulse for me. something that’ll fade. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to that low, steady tone that always grounded me. Are you being impulsive right now? I met her eyes. No. Then don’t hide behind scared, she said, a hint of challenge in her tone.
We can go slow, but don’t pretend. That conversation lingered, but it didn’t stop us. If anything, it made things feel more solid. One night, late past midnight, my phone lit up with a message from her. I’m in the kitchen right now. I feel like dancing. I smiled in the dark, typing back, “No music here.” Her reply, “Send a voice call.” I did, and she picked up, her voice soft through the speaker. She put on some quiet jazz in the background, the notes tiny but clear.
