The dishwasher is a peculiar appliance. Though it helps reduce the burden of manually washing each dish, each cup, each plate by hand… one must still load and unload each item by hand. It feels like a metphor for the way connection plays out. You meet someone. You talk on text, maybe a call, in-person. But until you find the rhythm that weaves you both together, it is a step towards the other, one at a time…
That’s how I met him. An ordinary day. An ordinary moment. I only had to round the corner to be met with the most sheepish smile—as if I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. I saw the little boy in him, which I didn’t realize until today. There was no posturing, no pretence, no ego. It was him as he is. A man emptying a dishwasher in the middle of a working Wednesday on the busy 15th floor. I couldn’t have walked away even if I tried. It felt like injustice; so I did the only thing I could think of—I offered to help. Even then he didn’t put the burden on me. He made it a shared activity and I felt taken care of, strangely. He was curious about me. He asked the questions. I rambled in my stupor, of course. I remember standing behind him while he washed his hands and suddenly feeling overwhemled. I still don’t know what happened. Did he look like Rhys? He was tall. Handsome too. Is that why I noticed him? No. That didn’t feel right. I felt seen. As me. I felt soft. As soft as I dream of being…
I walked away not even remembering his name, but carrying him with me.
