Lucky

Literally every time Mr. P and I text now, I get a pit in my stomach. The anxiety is overwhelming. Need to unplug that shit.

What I would rather do is think about my happy place, which at the moment is Lucky's Cafe.

Lucky's is this ridiculously adorable local coffee and brunch place in an adorable neighborhood of Cleveland called Tremont.

My professor and I have a long history with Tremont (not my professor, but my ex-boyfriend who is a professor). We have been to dinner there many times, ended up at my favorite bar there many times. Once while I was visiting and him and I were still very much having a torrid affair, we stopped outside my favorite bar because I had texted my best friend from college and asked where she was. She was inside, and so I went in to surprise her. It was lovely. Him and I attended more than a few Greek festivals at the Orthodox church there. At one, him and I danced, me hanging off of him like a rag doll, against the Cleveland skyline. At another, I showed up after him and had to find him in a crowd of nearly a thousand people-- I found him in less than 2 minutes. My energy found his.

Tremont also used to be hell on earth before some white people gentrified the fuck out of it.

Anyway, two important things about Lucky's:
1. I had brunch there with my professor.
2. They have pecan crusted bacon (not responsible for the quality of the photo):

Him and I walked arm in arm to this place after having to park the car pretty far away. It's hella icy in Cleveland I was wearing high heels. I forgot about Cleveland in winter....that's because I never go home during winter. Ugh.

When we got inside, it became clear we were the best dressed, probably most educated people in the diner. And it was heavenly. I felt like royalty. In some ways, I am Cleveland royalty. So I sat with my ridiculously handsome, now-married ex-boyfriend, and we chatted about the Cafe. We chatted about us, our history, how we would one day write a novel about our love story. I felt as if we had been married this entire time, and were quite the happy couple. Of course, I am divorced, and he is in a bizarre live-apart marriage.

We have calmed down so much in our ten years. The drama and the passion is gone, but what is left is a healthy and strong appreciation for what we put each other through and what a demonstration it was of how much and how long we loved.

"I know exactly what flaws you have. We have grown to expect them from each other. We don't mind them," he says. In the bottom of my heart, I know this is love.

We sat in this cafe for hours, long after the brunch crowd had dissipated. We talked. As we left to go back to our respective lives, not knowing when or if we would see each other again (as is always the case when we meet), he held the door open for me.

As I stepped out and began to walk, he caught my arm. Behind his head I could see the brilliant skyline that gave birth to me, this complicated woman. It was a momentous backdrop and spoke volumes.
This man I loved so dearly had stayed in this city because it was mine.
That is love.

"If there is a forever, that is how long I will love you," he says, the seriousness drawing lines into his face.
I touch his face and smiled, showing him my dimple. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.