fakediary

By the time we reached the restaurant, I was beginning to feel like myself again.

The waiter led us to our table in a softly lit dining room filled mostly with couples, many of whom appeared to be on romantic dates. I caught myself smiling at the thought that we were now one of them.

We settled into our seats, looked over the menu, and placed our orders. As soon as the waiter left, David reached across the table and took my hand.

The ice between us had almost completely melted, though I suppose that was hardly surprising after our rather eventful afternoon. I was finally growing accustomed to his physical presence, and the initial awkwardness had given way to something much more comfortable.

Our food arrived one dish at a time. Lobster bisque, fresh oysters, seafood vongole pasta, and fried prawns. Everything was wonderful.

I was immensely pleased with myself.

I had spent weeks researching restaurants in New York, comparing menus, reading reviews, and scrutinizing photographs as though I were preparing a dissertation. David seemed to enjoy every dish, which gave me an absurd sense of accomplishment.

All that research had paid off.

After dinner, we decided to walk to Central Park. It was summer, but the evening breeze was pleasantly cool, a welcome change from the heat of the afternoon.

David took my hand as we walked, occasionally pointing out things that caught his attention. We talked about our flights, the places we wanted to visit, and how we might spend the next few days.

It occurred to me that our flights to New York had been the longest we had gone without speaking in months.

A rather ridiculous fact, considering we lived on opposite sides of the world.

Ever since we had become close, we had been in almost constant contact. We exchanged messages throughout the day, sharing everything from personal worries to utterly insignificant observations.

Every morning, David greeted me. My mornings were his evenings, so we usually talked while I got ready and during my hour-long commute, until he finally went to bed.

It had become such an established routine that I hardly thought about it anymore. He was simply part of my day.

And yet, as we walked through the park, I realized how little time we had actually spent doing things together.

We knew each other’s childhoods, fears, ambitions, and embarrassing secrets. But until that afternoon, we had never shared a meal, taken a walk, or even sat together in comfortable silence.

It was a peculiar way to get to know someone. We had somehow managed to learn the complicated things first and left the ordinary ones for later.

We stopped for a while to listen to a group of street musicians playing jazz. A small crowd had gathered around them, some swaying gently to the music, others standing with their phones raised to record the performance. The saxophonist was particularly good, and we lingered until the end of the song before continuing along the path.

At one point, a cyclist came speeding past, and David caught me by the arm, pulling me out of the way before I had even registered what was happening.

“Careful,” he said.

I looked back at the cyclist disappearing down the path.

“Well, that was rude.”

David laughed and took my hand again.

Farther along, some sort of event was taking place on one of the lawns. There were groups of people sitting on blankets, music playing in the distance, and a general atmosphere of summer festivity. We couldn’t quite figure out what the occasion was, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

David stopped occasionally to take photographs. He was particularly interested in the city skyline rising above the trees, the illuminated buildings forming a striking contrast against the darkening sky.

I watched him move a few steps away, searching for a better angle, then lift his phone to take another picture.

He looked so absorbed in what he was doing.

I found myself smiling.

This was something I could get used to.

Walking together after dinner. Stopping to listen to music. Watching him take photographs of things that caught his eye. There was nothing particularly remarkable about any of it, and perhaps that was precisely why I liked it.

Then, quite without warning, an unpleasant thought surfaced.

In a few days, we would have to say goodbye.

David would return to Chile, and I would fly back to Japan. We would resume our familiar routines, exchanging messages across time zones and waiting for the next opportunity to see each other.

I felt a small heaviness settle in my chest.

How strange that I was already thinking about leaving when we had only just arrived.

I looked at David, still examining the photographs on his phone, completely unaware of the direction my thoughts had taken.

No.

I wasn’t going to do this.

I had a terrible habit of anticipating difficulties long before they arrived, mentally rehearsing unpleasant possibilities as though doing so might somehow make them easier to bear.

It rarely did.

And I certainly wasn’t going to spend our first evening together worrying about the last.

We had waited months for this trip. I owed it to myself, and to him, to actually enjoy it.

I pushed the thought aside.

“David.”

He looked up.

“Let’s go see the pond.”

“The pond?”

“Yeah, come on.”

I took his hand and gave it a little tug.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and followed me without protest.

I wasn’t entirely sure which path would take us there, but I set off with enough confidence that he seemed willing to trust my sense of direction.

A questionable decision on his part.

We wandered along the winding paths, passing couples on benches and groups of friends making their way out of the park. The jazz music gradually faded behind us, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant sounds of the city.

I tightened my grip on his hand.

There would be time enough to think about airports, departures, and everything that came afterward.

For now, I wanted to find the water.

And perhaps steal a few more hours from the evening before it slipped away.