He just sent me a text: “A working boy is a happy boy,” with a pic of his dog perched on a tree stump amid his logging work. He’s in some unknown forest, which feels fitting. So much I don’t know. The day we met I told him, “You’re trouble” and he laughed but I meant it. We texted for months before meeting. I hadn’t been sure I was interested and didn’t offer much, often taking days and sometimes weeks to respond. He was persistent, cordial and often wished me a good day or morning. I lamented to a friend that I disliked texting with someone before meeting and should’ve cut this off. Several months in, shortly after a man I was interested in told me he just wanted to be friends, I agreed to meet for tea. I was sick but he’d sent a voice message that piqued my interest — using phrasing like “I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly” and speaking in his dialect that feels old fashioned, formal and rough as hell all at once. When I met him I was floored. I thought of vitality, electricity, absolute genuineness. Michael Shannon, Jesse Plemons — Paul Newman and heck every of those actors with life/energy coursing through them. 

He spent a year in prison that he shares some things about but not others — speaks often of his dad and sister — loves his dog incredibly (I once watched the dog pee on his bathroom floor; he just looked at him laughingly and as if disappointed but never mad, begged him to go outside.) He has alive, dancing eyes and a face with many sides. Sometimes tough, compact, looking older than he is. Most times so movie star-ish I don’t see how people aren’t infatuated. One moment into tea I remembered him having said he’d like to try acting and suddenly knew he’d be excellent. He’s got swagger, life, a great lack of self consciousness. Loves to dance, draw, solders bracelets for his friend’s kid’s birthday. Hunts and cooks and hand writes his friends letters. Collects (an impressive number of) chain saws. Has a habit of picking up the beginning of a question a person might be asking and starting his answer before they’re finished — says people don’t like it, but I do. He’ll have an array of apple stickers dangling from the inner brim of his hat while searching thoughtfully for words. Once he took me to dinner (he has taught me the distinction between this and supper) and excused himself to wash up and remove his tobacco. This man wears the same Wranglers every day to his construction job and when he stitches them up, sews elegant flower designs in places only he’ll see. His dad came to visit one weekend and wound up hanging around in long johns while he sewed his up for him, too.

He says he takes mental pictures of me and that my energy is jittery like a northrup bird. But also talks about the way I saunter across his road — my confidence — and him pointing out both is oddly the greatest compliment: exactly how I see myself.

When he smiles with teeth it’s like a very personal present; like a little boy.

He’s seven inches taller than me and seven years younger. At the end of that first meeting he leaned back and said in what I can only describe as his drawl, “Well you’re about as cool as I thought you’d be. If this is the first chapter — I’m intrigued.” First time we had sex he called me baby and “yes m’am”’ed something I said (you might think this is cheesy but you’d be wrong.) He likes my smile and my vocabulary. Sat next to me at the play I directed and brought my favorite chocolate. Stood beside while friends congratulated. Remembers little things I’ve mentioned, but I notice he’s guarded about letting them out. He pulled back seriously for two months — us hardly talking — after which he told me his feelings had become too big considering my non-monogamy. We decided to see each other again despite not knowing how this can work. When we re-met, the little things slipped out. Asked after my plants (“start indoors and make your way out”) and was the only person to notice my haircut. Brought up my love of baths, our old table, told me about his dad’s potatoes and the work he’s done on his truck. Took my hands in his as we started to talk about the important things. Held his face for a long moment as he told me what this has meant and in what seemed against his better judgment … that he’d like to see me again. 

Ran into some friends outside and he introduced me as his very good friend, and know what? It kind of worked.

When I’m with him I feel inspired to write, so I do. This story does not have a finish other than that we’re still in each other’s lives and I wonder if my heart will always tug a little around him. I remind myself there’s so much I don’t know; possible sides to him I wouldn’t love. For now, construction workers in the grocery store at lunch hour remind me of him. Boys raised in Montana remind me of him, and the baseball cap, blue jean cowboy booted young men I see on Main Street Saturday nights with their girlfriends bring me immediately to thoughts of him. Feels bittersweet — he wants a family and a dozen kids running around barefoot (told me so our first date) and I want nothing but everything for him. 

He’s always reminded me of the Beat poets and when making a playlist for his birthday, a Jack Kerouac track came on. It’s Jack throwing out a poem over some jazz and felt perfect for this gentleman, particularly halfway through when the fellow spits out, “The clarity of Cal: break your heart.” He was talking about California but I almost laughed off the highway thinking O what have I done. 

Cal is a talented artist but can’t draw animal feet (doesn’t even try, just submerges their ankles in fields.) We both speak fondly of our childhoods and love reading (me, everything; him, historical fiction though he obliged Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion that I left on his doorstep.) When we first met I told him I dreamt of having a sunroom for all my books; he said he’d build me one. I recently felt self-conscious asking about his sobriety after not seeing him for awhile (what if he was now drinking and felt embarrassed?) which he found funny — we agreed that the only potentially inoffensive thing to inquire about after not seeing someone (“how’s the dog?” “HE DIED”) is how’s the air around you?

I’ve been trying to help him and his dog come up with Halloween costumes (we realized pup is cute enough to go as himself) and he’s happy I’m about to move into a place with, get this — A SUNROOM. I’m not sure how to end this other than remark that I often can’t believe the bounty of my life, how laughably lucky I am to get to meet and know so many noteworthy humans —

Like him.