We’re on the train, the new boyfriend and I, heading downtown from his apartment in the suburbs. I’m writing a blog post on my phone and he’s reading Time Magazine.
“You need a name,” I tell him.
He looks up.
“For my blog. It’s been almost three months. I need a nickname for you.”
I toss a couple of ideas into the air but they’re all lame or to obvious or too cumbersome.
He suggests “The One” (sort of in jest but not really… more on that later) and finally it hits me.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him. “You can read about it tomorrow.”
So here it is: PIC, which stands for (obviously) Partner in Crime.
A woman walks onto the train with a bedazzled ski hat.
“Look at that,” I whisper, “that is ridiculous. I’m all about rhinestones but you have to know your limits.”
“I know,” he replies. “She looks like she got glass caught in her head.”
He goes back to his magazine and I go back to my phone, punching away at the keyboard with my thumbs.
It’s so new but so lovely, this relaxed quasi-routine we’ve got going on, these newly minted domestic habits, these cups of coffee in the morning followed by cups of tea before bed. I’ve never had these things before, with anyone, and between the coffee and the tea are the emails, the errands, the dinners, the kisses in the snow, the inside jokes, the shoveling steps, the concert tickets and the many, many bottles of wine.
I was always afraid I would lose myself in this sort of thing, this sort of normal, healthy, grown up relationship, but I don’t feel that way at all because he’s there reading his magazine, handing it to me when he comes across a good column, and I’m at his side writing on my phone, not lost at all but perfectly content.