1997. The sun floods the Portsmouth streets with light and the sound of the Piscataqua River plays in the background. I set one Birkonstocked foot in front of another, holding onto the small warm hand of my partner as we climb up the hill on Bow Street to the jewelry store where we plan to look for engagement rings. Windows reflect back light like beams from spots in a theater.
I stop walking. I have hair to my waist, worn in a braid; it swings a little against my back—fae-not-yet-out-passing-for-granolatomboy. My partner stops, too. Looks at me. We’ve been together for ten years. They know me so well that they immediately ask, “Okay, what is it now?”
I take a breath. Smooth my jean jacket with one hand. “You’re a controlling, passive aggressive, kvetching jerk, and I’m going to marry you anyhow,” I say.
My partner widens their deep set brown eyes for just a second before their lips tremble and they start to sob. Right there. In public.
“You get me,” they say in between gasps. “I mean, you really get me.”
I reach out and pull them into my wild child arms.
We told this story on and off for the next twenty-five years that we were together. People always looked at me in askance, as if to say, You’re really that blunt? And they still MARRIED you?