Seattle, Washington
Written in June, 2008

COUPLE QUANDRY

Do you do this: Stare in awe and wonder at a couple walking by - a couple of unlikely mis-matched ill-builts - and think, “What on Earth do they see in each other?” Yes?  Me, too. Nonstop. We examine the passing exhibition of the human species as if we were the judges in an ongoing State Fair livestock competition. Couples, especially. “Ohmygod, look at them!”

Many’s the time in the days when I was a parish minister when an appointment was made to discuss wedding plans and I would look up in astonishment at the couple when they came into my office and think, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I had the same experience with the appearance of my teenagers’ first steady boyfriend or girlfriend. “What the hell . . . ?”

Fat with thin. Ugly with gorgeous. Old with young. Weird with straight.
Smart with stupid. Zebras with orangutans, a moose with a Jersey cow, a giraffe with a warthog. And on and on and on. You know. In fact, you may even be part of such a couple. (Though you’re probably the last to know it.)
It’s a mystery - the Couple Quandary.
Not only does love seem blind, but also deaf and dumb and stupid and twisted, and hopelessly hopeful as well. At least from the outside.

This profoundly original insight is a prelude to telling you of today’s sighting: A couple walked toward me on Queen Anne Avenue. About the same age - mid-thirties, maybe.  Holding hands. Laughing. One was at least six feet six inches tall, athletically healthy, short black hair, well dressed, and well-proportioned. The other was five feet tall at most, likewise in great physical shape, tanned, very fit, and quite handsomely dressed.

They seemed blissfully delighted to be in each other’s company, and walked at that casual pace people use to wander about in art galleries. No rush. No cell phones or I-Pods or dog or baby stroller. A couple. Together.

(You know I’m shamelessly leading you on. But wait for it . . . )
The big one - was a woman - very feminine - quite pretty.
The little one - was a man - very masculine - quite handsome.

My mind went wild.
What was he to her? Her lunch? Her jockey? Her substitute for a pet?
What was she to him? His bodyguard? His trained huntress? The other half of his circus act?
And, well, I admit it - I wondered what went on between them in bed. Who did what to whom and how? How could I not wonder that? Wouldn’t you?

So I turned around and stalked them - followed at a distance for awhile.

At times he let go of her hand and placed his arm around her shapely butt.
(It was as high as he could easily reach.) And she rested her hand on his shoulder or on the back of his muscular neck. And then they went back to holding hands. Always in touch. And the touching was always tender.

They window shopped.
They stopped to look at the flowers in front of the Metropolitan Market.
He picked orange roses. She picked some blue flowers I don’t know the name of. They had the clerk wrap the flowers together.
“Is this a gift,” the clerk asked. “No, just for us,” she said.
The man paid, but they took turns carrying the flowers as they wandered on down the avenue.

We - they, with me still tagging along - went into Café Ladro for coffee. They both ordered an iced latte - single shot - to go. She paid this time, while he held the flowers. They sat down in the chairs outside to drink their coffee and watch the world go by. Still holding hands. And I, sitting three chairs over, finally noticed the wedding rings on their fingers.
Really? Really.

I couldn’t hear what they said, but they laughed a lot. And once she picked up both their hands and kissed them both lightly in a wordless blessing.

I left.
I was afraid I would say something to them.
Something stupid.

Like I had been following them. Like asking them for their story - the rest of it. Like asking them how they saw each other beyond the cultural categories of Big Woman / Small Man. Like some sage comment on the mysterious nature of love. Like telling them the story they made for you and for me - the one I was going to write when I got home.

But, no.
Sometimes - not nearly often enough - but sometimes, I am wise enough to mind my own business. And sometimes I am also wise enough not to explain the obvious to those who read my journals. Like you don’t know the point of my telling you all this? I trust you can take it from here . . .