I was a moment from dozing off when October whispered, “You know what I like about you?”

I couldn’t have answered that question if my life depended on it. “My dynamic, outgoing personality?”

She laughed and then said, “You understand how to exist inside silence. Most people don’t know how to do that.”

“I like silence.”

“I like silence too.”

Another long, quiet moment passed between us.

“Joe,” she whispered again. “What’s your favorite word?”

I told her I’d never thought about it and would have to get back to her on that. Then she asked if I’d ever heard the term “desiderium.” She’d just discovered it, she said, and was trying to come up with a way to develop the concept into an exhibit.

“What does it mean?”

“An ardent longing,” she said, “usually for something lost.”

I had the feeling October was trying to tell me something specific with that word, to forewarn me about what would happen if I wasn’t careful. Or, rather, if I was too careful. And as I drifted off to sleep that night, I actually wondered if I would ever be that close to her again. I knew there was a good chance our moment had already passed. I also knew that if I lost her, it would be because I didn’t have what it took to hold on to her, and that loss would be something I would have to live with for the rest of my life.

Desiderium.

The unrequited.

Even now, years later, when I think about that night, my jaw tenses and my dick gets hard, and there’s an emptiness, a craving, an ardent longing in my chest and in my gut that seems to define the word “desiderium” so completely, I almost feel as though I conceived of the concept myself.

TEN.

October was gone when I woke up, and I wandered over to her house and found her in the middle of preparing breakfast. Eggs, potatoes, toast, fresh berries. She was wearing the bottoms to the pajamas she’d had on the night before, along with the T-shirt I’d left on the floor, which explained why I couldn’t find it in the mess of covers before I’d pulled on my jeans and went looking for her.

I tried to help, but she wouldn’t let me. Cooking was another kind of art project to her, she explained. She preferred to make the food and, more importantly, to plate it herself. She had a fancy Italian coffee machine, though, and when I told her I had been a barista in college, she put me in charge of the cappuccinos.

Over breakfast we talked about spending the day together. It was warm and sunny, and I suggested we drive up to Point Reyes, hike around all afternoon, and then have dinner at Nick’s Cove and watch the sun set on the water.

As far as I could tell, I hadn’t disappointed her yet. And although my unquiet mind and heavy heart were pushing for me to question everything and assume the worst, I didn’t cave. I felt strong that morning. Wide open and available. The man I wanted to be.