A few weeks ago, after we got home from work and the Atlanta weather had cooled off, my husband, August, and I were out for a walk, as couples have done since time immemorial. As each of us absentmindedly reached out for the other’s hand, we shared a subtle nod with two well-dressed men who passed us on the opposite side of the path. I thought it was nothing more than an unspoken, gentlemanly, “How d’you do?” But August interpreted it as something else.
Three or four years ago—it’s hard to pin down the exact date—August wasn’t my husband. August and I first met in Asheville, North Carolina, in 2006, when they were a 22-year-old, female-presenting barista. I was a few years older, working as a dishwasher.
One of my earliest memories of August, before I even knew their name, occurred at the coffee shop we both frequented. I had a mohawk and mutton chops at the time and wore a heavy, utilitarian kilt. August was petite with a cute smile and a mane of curly brown hair.
We were hanging out with mutual friends, but when August came to sit down at our table, all the seats were occupied. I very gentlemanly offered them my chair, but to my surprise, they simply took a seat on my lap. That, as they say, was that.
About a year later, we announced that we were running off to San Jose so August could attend grad school for library science. We should’ve known the plan would fail for a few reasons: Neither of us had ever been to San Jose, August had never even been on a plane before, and the Great Recession had just begun a few months prior. We couch-surfed with friends in Berkeley until the companies we worked for went bankrupt within a few weeks of each other.
Still, we powered through to San Jose, moving into what could be best described as a hovel with a sink and a shower. We filled out applications for weeks before we realized there were no jobs to be had. Every couple should start their relationship with an utter failure to make sure they’re both in it for the long haul.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
