Two weeks from Sunday marks three years since the first day I saw Matt. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a starched white, button-down shirt with a speck of communion juice on the collar. We met at Panera for a cup of coffee, and when he excused himself to go to the men's room, I noticed two things: he walked like a mellow Tigger, and he patted his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there.
I fell in love.
(So did he. I wasn't a mile away from our good-bye when my phone buzzed with a text message that said, "When can I see you again?")
He takes my breath away.
Matt is unrelentingly gentlemanly. He turns down the bed at night, and sets my slippers next to it. He puts toothpaste on my toothbrush. When the alarm goes off, he gets out of bed first. While I sleep a few more minutes, he makes a pot of coffee and gets the tea kettle ready for my to-go mug. I can only convince him to let me carry my back-pack if it's chilly outside (he knows it warms me), and I honestly can't remember when I last opened a car door or had to figure out directions from point A to point B.
The Tigger walk? I was dead-on. Matt's energy and playfulness astonish me. He loves to make rhyming words. He names plants -- not "daisy," mind you, but rather, "number three white," which is especially funny as he has an encylopedic knowledge of horticulture. Every time we walk past a dog, he asks, "What kind is that?" No matter what I reply, he laughs. Public transporation fascinates him, as do walking, biking, and swimming ... and maps, colored pencils, and high-end tools. He can fall asleep sitting up. Mint chip ice cream makes him grin like a teenager.
Every night, when we sit down to dinner, Matt holds out his hands to me, and asks, "May I pray?"
I love this man. I love his military-short hair and his low snore and his Wallace-like smile.
Yesterday, we took a walk to 21 Choices, our favorite frozen yogurt joint (they have flavors like carmelized banana, so what's not to like?). On our way there, Matt saw a couple arguing. As the woman walked away from the man, he quite savagely abused her. It was so sudden and ugly, I thought Matt might be sick. When the man saw Matt, he sprinted away. Matt called out to the woman to ask if she was okay. And although she said, "I'm fine," it was clear she meant, "Get away from me."
We walked on. We ate our yogurt. We dipped into the Apple store to look at iPads. We discussed our plans for Scotland. We held hands. But ... Matt's mind was on the woman. He was quiet. He didn't ask me to name any dog breeds.
When we got near the place the woman had been yanked to the ground by her hair, Matt said, "She works there. She was wearing a uniform. I want to ... I want to give her our phone number. I want to tell her we'll help her, we'll testify, we'll ..." He got quiet again.
There are a thousand reasons not to get involved, I thought. She'll be angry we walked into her restaurant. She might be an addict. She won't want to press charges. She'll mutter an explicative and turn away. There are more complications than we could ever guess.
Yet here is front of me stood my guy. What are a thousand reasons stacked next to slump of his shoulders? I took his hand, and we walked in. Our exchange with the woman was brief and private. She may never call us or leave the man who is as different from my Matt as the east is from the west. But when Matt said, "Here is my number and you can call it in an hour or a week or a year or never ...," she looked up into Matt's face. Then she looked at me. And then she looked back up at Matt.
She took the piece of paper with Matt's phone number on it, and she nodded. She said thank-you. And then she turned away.
But not before I saw a certain look in her eyes. She knows, I thought. She knows what it feels like to have a man set her slippers next to her bed.
There is such hope in the world. And I love Matt Forbes.
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