He had cut his hair real short, but I recognized him right away. My eyes snagged on him as I scanned the crowd, and, hopping up out of my chair, his name fell right out of my mouth: “Ben!”

He saw me as I straightened up and put my right hand in the air. He shifted the weight of his backpack and ran a hand over his cropped scalp, angling his body towards me, looking embarrassed as he made his way through the crowd in my direction. I thought about putting my arms out in the universal signal for “Give me a hug!”, but decided against it. Didn’t want to touch him, or wasn’t ready.

He stood in front of me, and I drank in the sight of him from the shoulders down. White t-shirt, dark blue jeans, black boots. He was wearing exactly what he had been the last time I’d seen him. The only thing that was different, in fact, was his hair. That, and his face, but to be honest I was trying not to see his face. Trying so hard that I don’t even remember what it looked like that day; it’s possible I didn’t look at it once from the moment I met him at the airport until hours later that evening. Didn’t want to, or wasn’t ready.

We got into my car in the parking lot, and he held his backpack on his lap like a child might. I could’ve offered to put it in the trunk, but couldn’t muster up the energy to suggest it. I had pictured the whole meeting to take place in a deluge of conversation, but being close to him like that- I had forgotten what that did to me. How silent and thoughtful I became when near him. So the drive home was quiet. Not uncomfortable; the silences we shared were never painful or awkward. They arose more out of laziness and comfort than out of an inability to find words. But I remember thinking that after seven months, shouldn’t we be bursting with questions and answers?

As we got close to my apartment, he turned to me and said, “Wait, where are you taking me?”. There was an unfamiliar panic in his voice that didn’t fit with who we was to me. I didn’t understand the question. I was taking him home. That was what he’d wanted, why he’d called me from St. Louis with his flight information. Wasn’t it? A rising adrenaline surge burned in my joints for a second, a combination of frustration that he’d only called me so that I could drive him somewhere he’d rather be, and disappointment that he’d rather be somewhere I wasn’t.

Then I remembered. I’d moved into a smaller place, about a month after he left. I’d never told him, because it didn’t seem like it mattered. Suddenly, I realized, it mattered. He was expecting to go home with me, to stay in our old bed and watch our old tv. But the home he thought we were headed for didn’t exist anymore.

I explained: “Oh, shit, Ben. I moved into a one-bedroom about five, six months ago. The place on 4th was too expensive, and… I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”

I found a parking spot about a block away. He followed me from the car to the building, walking about 5 feet behind me. Once inside, he insisted on taking the stairs the five flights up.
___

October 17th, 2007.
She woke me up by pulling the sheets off me, kicking her legs. At first I thought she was playing around, though I’d never known her to pull pranks like that. I rolled over to face her, but when I opened my eyes I saw she was still asleep. Her skin was pink, and a thin layer of sweat was glistening on her surface. The orange streetlight glow filtering in through the open window played on her body and she jostled around. Her face was all scrunched up, knit forehead and clenched jaw. And then, suddenly, she opened her mouth and sobbed a parched yelp; the dry-heave equivalent of crying. Her eyes flew open– I watched this happen– and her hands shot up to her face. She balled up on her other side, back towards me, and I could see the baby-curls of hair on the nape of her neck clinging, damp and listless, to her skin. I lifted myself up onto one elbow and slid in towards her, so that I was almost above her, and I put my face on her shoulder. It was so hot. I’ll never forget the heat of her skin. In my memory, steams rises up from her body in vague clouds, but I’m sure it wasn’t cool enough in the room for that. What happened? I asked, but all she did was cry and cry, sobs leaving her chest like exhaust, choking her.

After a little bit, she drifted back asleep. I remember thinking, so this is what it means to cry yourself to sleep. I lay on the edge of my body, pressing as much of myself into her as I could. I could feel her vertebrae in my stomach every time I inhaled. She slept, but I just couldn’t turn the light off inside my own head. What terrible dream had she had? Did this happen to her often? Had I ever felt that way? If I hadn’t, would I one day?

In the morning, when I woke, she was already up and in the shower. When she came into the bedroom to dress, I was sitting propped up against the pillows with my hands folded in my lap. She smiled at me, broad and genuine. I said, Are you okay?, and she looked at me as if I were crazy. She had no idea what I was talking about; didn’t remember the dream, or the crying, at all. No memory of it.

____

I made dinner while he showered and changed his clothes. For a second, hearing the water running in the pipes, sauteing vegetables and chicken in the big frying pan, it felt like he’d never left. I thought about pretending that the preceding seven months had never happened; starting a conversation as though we’d both just gotten home from work and then putting a movie on and cuddling on the couch before bed. It would have felt so good to just slip into Ben & Elsa again. But when he came out of the bathroom, dressed and ready to eat, I knew I couldn’t. The reason was his face.

I had him set the table, and we sat down to eat.

“Nice place,” he said, head down.
“Thanks. Took a while. I had to repaint the walls, and the floors were totally fucked when I first moved in, but yeah, I think it looks alright now.” I couldn’t believe we were talking about this, partly because I’d never thought he’d even see the place, let alone comment on it, and partly because, who cares about how I redid the floors when, after seven months, here we are eating dinner together. Suddenly, I wanted him to tell me everything. I wanted him to tell me stories, stories of sleeping on our friends’ couches, of drinking on docks and of towns called Sacred Mountain and Cameron and, and, I don’t know– Pine Haven, or something. And I wanted him to tell me why he left. And why he came back. I wanted to hear him struggle through the explanations. But instead I told him how much the rent was, and that the neighbors were all nice, quiet people who kept to themselves.

After dinner, he did the dishes and I sat on the couch with a beer, wondering what to do with myself. I picked up a book, but that felt like a forced action. Not knowing what else to do, I held it open in front of my face and stared at the page without reading. After a few minutes, he came and sat next to me, his hands damp. I took a steadying breath and looked over at him, into his face for the first time. Fuck.

_____

My real name is Torbjörn. I started going by Ben when I was 16. Torbjörn is a Swedish name, and I have no idea where my parents got it. I’m American through and through; the only Scandinavian thing about me is my blond hair. That and the name. When I told Elsa about it, she burst out laughing and said, That makes sense. I didn’t get it. And then, and God only knows how she knew this, she said, It means “Thor’s bear”.

I’d had no idea.

That was how she saw me. And it did make sense, at least within the context of our relationship. We met at a good time. We were both on top of our shit; as Elsa put it, we were burning up. We were on fire. We’d just hit our hey-day and we were riding it for everything it was worth. It felt good. The drugs and the cigarettes and the sex and the music- our brains were sponges for all that good shit, and we drank it like liquor. Better than that, we drank each other like liquor, too.

We met at a party. One of those perfect nights, keg-fueled and warm. It was the end of the school year, Junior year of college, and– whatever. That part isn’t interesting, because it happens to everyone, all the time. Meeting someone, and talking, and laughing, and exchanging phone numbers, and kissing (urgently, I have to go! My ride is waiting! Call me!). Oh, Elsa, with your soft hair and wide shoulders, and your voice like sandpaper, low and grainy. Elsa, with your hand on my neck, below my ear. Call me, Elsa. Let’s go on dates. Let’s hold hands in movie theaters, and drink cheap beer together, because we can, because we want to. Let’s be young and frivolous together. Let’s spend the summer naked together. Be my girl.

That summer was its start, and we both got used to the sensation of that sticky heat clinging to our flesh. Salted sweat dripping from foreheads and easing down backs and between breasts. When fall came, we stayed together, and soon we were Ben & Elsa to each of our respective groups of friends. Ben & Elsa, a unit. We were okay with this. We made dinner together on Friday nights. We ate breakfast each and every Saturday morning, and then again on Sundays. And in the winter, when the school closed for the snow, we stayed in bed together and pretended to be stranded avalanche victims, making slow hot love to stay warm. Ben & Elsa.

___

His was a strong face. All angles and corners, softened by the gray-green in his eyes and the down below his ears. I liked it, the way his silhouette cut through space and the way he couldn’t hide it, no matter how long his hair got. He was a sturdy guy, tall and tough.

Looking at him now, all that seemed to have been stripped away. Thor’s bear, shorn.

An egg-shaped, purple bruise splashed up one cheek bone, reaching out to its partner centered over his right eye. At the edges, where they almost touched, they were yellow and green, but their hearts were almost black and snaked with veins, deep red. The other side of his face was punctured at the bottom of his nostril. His left eyebrow cleaved in half, sewn together with what looked like embroidery thread. And there, at the corner of his mouth. Fat lip.

I didn’t need that explanation. Someone had written it into the flesh of his face for him. I put the book down and made the universal signal for “Give me a hug!”.

___

The summer after our first year of graduate school, Elsa got her wisdom teeth removed. I brought her home to our apartment in Brooklyn and laughed at her chipmunk cheeks, and made her tea. I kissed her swollen jaw, and put the teeth (they’d come out whole) in her jewelery box, a joke I thought she’d appreciate.

That night, after dinner, she sat on my lap, facing me, and it was the closest I’ve ever felt to anyone. I held her up, my hands on her bare back. I felt her shoulder blades move in their sockets, and her ribcage as it expanded and contracted under my palms. She breathed hot onto my shoulders, and our bellies touched, drew away from each other, and touched again. We drew breath synchronously. I loved her the most I’d ever loved her that night.

Six weeks later we realized the antibiotics had done their work so well, they’d gone even farther than protecting the empty sockets in the back of her jaw: they’d interfered with the birth control; she was was pregnant. When she told me, the only thing I could think to do was to put my ear to her stomach and try to listen. She laughed and said, Really? and I told her, yes.

Four weeks after that, she miscarried.

And then I was on a plane to LA. We’d thought up names. We’d looked at bigger apartments. We’d given up smoking and drinking. We’d spent hours upon hours with our hands on her belly. Oh, little one, we’d said, watching intellectual films. I’d literally dreamed about playing catch and about learning to braid hair. Oh, little one. The cub, she’d called it. I’d researched strollers. I’d told my parents. My mother had cried into the telephone, Torbjörn! I am so happy for you!

In LA was a high school friend of mine named Ryan and the promise of a roadtrip across the country, something we’d been planning for years. Ryan and a brand new Honda accord. I figured if we drove fast enough I’d be able to lose the little ghost that was following me. Oh, little one, you left, now go. Get out of here. I’m going to lose you in the heart of America. I’m going to get fucked up and fall in love with another woman, just to spite you. You can’t just up and leave; I’m going to teach you a lesson.

It took a long fucking while, we stopped and pretended to have lives in a lot of places along the way. We got to St. Louis and I stayed there. No reason. The cub was gone. After four months he’d finally faded. He’d taken something of me though. It took six states and countless hours on the road and pretending to be Somebody in each town we passed through. In St. Louis I finally let him take what he would’ve taken in the apartment in Brooklyn and go.

A few days after I realized that, I went out and got into a fight so I could go home.

___

After the hug, talking came easier. He asked me about school, and I told him I’d started practical training, working in a High School in the Bronx. He seemed proud that I’d been able to continue living my life, and disappointed in himself that he’d given up so easily. I hated that. We’d just both taken the first blow of real life differently; he’d needed to be a different person for a while, and I’d needed to be the same. I started to tell him about the weeks after he left, how I used to see his face everywhere, how every baby’s cry in the streets had made my knees buckle. But he kissed me then, his mouth sopping my words up like a sponge. It was his way of saying, I know, that happened to me, too.

He pulled me up onto his lap, but I stopped his hands when they reached to take off my top. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him. How many times had I ached for him during those seven months? How many times had I pictured us together? How many times had I woken myself up by crying and how many times had I sobbed all the louder because his soft side wasn’t pressed into my spine?

I would’ve said, You can’t go away again.
And he would’ve said, I know that now.

I would’ve said, We aren’t children anymore.
And he would’ve said, I know that now.

I would’ve said, I needed you, asshole.
And he would’ve said, I know that now.

Instead, he put my face between his hands and held it there.

Instead, I looked him in the eye.

Instead, he took off his own shirt and said, Let’s start over.

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