Cinderella

It happened so fast.

The swirl of my dress. The smooth slab of newly laid concrete under my bare feet. The breaking of the stranger's glass on the dance floor. The club was new, a renovated warehouse on the edge of uptown, the crowd small for a preview opening. My shoes kicked off to dance. My bare feet on cool cement. The glass. It was fast and inevitable.

I hopped to the edge of the dance floor with the aid of my friend Mags; perched myself on a raised platform by the bar. Before I could even look at my foot, he was there. Kneeling down in his good suit, cradling my bleeding foot in both hands on his lap, his handkerchief pressed to stop the blood. Maybe then. Maybe that was the moment I knew.

Last night we watched Manhattan. It was past midnight, me with a cup of Earl Grey, my husband with  a decaf coffee. We stay up too late. We watch movies at odd hours. It started years ago, when we were first dating. His house was a small brick rental, a dark cave surrounded by old growth. He didn't live there long. The entire back garden was a swampy mess of bamboo and mud. Once we saw a rat by the edge of the fence. But the house was clean, and the bamboo shaded the windows, casting a pale greenish glow in the afternoon sun, and the front yard had a swing hanging from a branch of an old oak tree, perfect for two people to share. On Sundays we would sleep late. Watch movies with coffee and unbrushed hair. Did we love each other yet? Were we, or weren't we? We watched Annie Hall in our sweatpants and sweetened our drinks with kisses.

At night, he'd cook dinner for me, while I prattled around his house. I'd kill bugs hiding behind bookcases and never tell him. He'd startle at the bang of my shoe. What was that? Nothing. I'd wash down the kitchen counters, make the bed. Kiss him goodbye at the door. Look back to the lit front porch as I drove away. My own apartment would be cold when I returned.

In bed last night I asked him, could you pinpoint the moment you fell in love with me? It was raining outside in short bursts, on and off. No, he says. I nest in the folds of our bed. Me either. Our bedside lighting was a wedding gift, with satin tan lampshades. Sometimes I miss the green of the bamboo shading. His body is like a radiator, and my feet grow warm next to his. I don't remember falling asleep, but I know I reached out a hand to scratch the space in between his shoulder blades. I reach out a hand just to feel him near me. 

My friend Mags and I called each other Gypsy Sisters. We were wanderers. She sat in my London flat and gifted me nail polish and suntan lotion from Doha. I took her for pints at the Black Friars pub and we watched a small mouse brave the carpeted floor for crisp crumbs. And years ago when she held my hand on the dance floor at the new warehouse club, I stepped on a piece of glass. I didn't feel any pain. Too tipsy.

He held my foot gently, as if it were a wounded bird. Flightless. Mags gave a sigh in my ear. Look at him! He's so sweet! His eyes raked mine in search of tears. None. I watched him in quiet fascination. He washed the cut with bottled water, stopped the bleeding. Searched for glass embedded in flesh. Worried.  I spoke. Don't get blood on your suit! He didn't care. His hands mentally grounded me against the sway of alcohol; his hands ceased the risk of infection. There's no scar. He found my sandals and worked the small clasps. Tenderly slid it on my injured foot. No more wounds tonight, OK? Gave me a hand up. Kissed me. Sent me back to dancing and to wandering with a rust-stained handkerchief for his troubles. Maybe then I knew. Maybe that was the moment, with Mags' sigh and my bleeding foot and a broken glass and Matt with both hands lovingly holding on to me in pure care and concern. It happened so fast. I knew I loved him. Maybe then.

I fell in love with him.