There were very few, if ever, truly romantic moments in my life. I've had plenty lustful and spontaneous, to be certain, however "romantic"(idyllic) has an altogether different quality that is rarely, if ever, spurred by the consumption of alcohol and a throbbing pulse of the latest club hit.
I was 15 and hopeless. Desperate to attend the game he said he would be at (I never confirmed this to be an invitation, but that would not stop me), I got two friends equally dizzy with the thought of an entire stadium of well-bred, (hopefully) Catholic boys to go with me. This was this stuff of miracles.
I take you to one of the most vivid of my memory: the state game.
We arrived and I immediately sought out the object of my desire. I don't recall the approach, but I imagine it was awkward and forcefully "accidental". My friends made friends with his friends. We stood near them, in seemingly-staunch loyalty to the side we had chosen, and I imagine that was enough for a while.
The chatter is indistinct, though I do recall the moment when he put his varsity jacket on my shoulders. Ah, the perfect touch of chivalry. It mattered not that he answered I was a "friend" to an inquiring eye. At some point, his arms were wrapped around me, probably with the hope of sharing body heat as I greedily indulged in his warmth.
We stood there, his arms firmly around my waist, as we watched the final minutes of the game.
A win.
Somehow, it's snowing. The crowd is dispersing. We're standing there, huddled for heat, facing the field. The flurries gently covered the stadium, ushering the remaining fans out except for us.
I turn and gaze up at his hat, which has just enough snow-covering as to not be obtrusive. Some have fallen about his brows. With little reflection or intention, I happened to look up at the same moment he looked down. Our lips meet. The snow, the echoing remains of fanfare, and us.
We stood embraced in the cold, without a care for the dripping noses or sore throats we would surely have later. This continued for some time, until one of us remembered our ride(s) home.
Romance is the indulgence in the accidental.
(One should note this was written some months ago -- I do not want to give undeserved credit to my 5am self.)
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