Seattle, Washington.   Rain, rain and a little more rain.  It's the kind of rain that mists one minute and saturates the next.  It's life as kale in the produce section where those automatic sprinklers come on, shut off and come on again. It's being a rock at the bottom of a waterfall.  Overhead the clouds are so low, I feel like I could stand on tip toe and grab a hunk of gray. 

Due to the weather and the "being in love" thing I'm doing these days, we stay inside for most of every day.  "We" being me and he, also known as the man who captured my heart and seems to be holding it hostage for these past many weeks.

"We," as in "we" are relating.  "We," as in "we" are in a relationship.  "We" as in "we" are in love. 

Being homeless might take a second to the fear I have of "we."

Did I mention I've been married three times?

The first time, I was 19.  I was divorced by 23.   Next I was 29 and divorced by 40.  The last time, I was married at 46, when I should have known better.  I got divorced a year later. 

As marriage three pulled apart, I got into a car wreak where a woman ran a red light and sent me flying.   I believe that mess of twisted metal and glass was a symbol of the wrongness of marriage number three.  It was also a warning that I needed to change my ways.

You might say, "Oh, Jennifer, come on, you were learning and how better to do learn than on the job?"  And I would love you for saying that because you are right.  People do learn best by doing but the whole failed string of marriages bums me out.  I expect more out of myself. 

Initially I adopted a psychologically predictable strategy that went like this: avoid relationship at all costs and nail that coffin closed with nails engraved with the words, "Don't do it, Jennifer, relationship and you just don't work out."

Did I order the nails, get them engraved and bury the possibility of love?

Obviously not.

I did therapy instead and when I got enough of my dysfunction sorted out, I went on a lot of dates, met a guy worth my time and now, I'm here in Seattle with the rain all around.  I am full of faith and full of terror.  Both feelings cook together in me but I'm here.  I'm in the game.    


Eventually, we venture out to get food.  When this decision is made, the rain breaks long enough for the streets to dry out.  Our destination is a grocery store at the top of a hill.   Once we get there, he pulls his Jeep into the parking lot, we climb out and head into the store. 

A homeless guy squats on a red egg crate, knees near his chest and a cardboard sign is balanced against his leg. He wears a dark green canvas jacket, Army surplus and as people go in and out the store, he juggles a plastic cup.  The sound of change against the sides of that cup sound like steel fingers on a drum.  

My man, hip to my web log, says something like, "There you go."

"On our way out," I say.  I need to get change.

In the store, around the aisles, through the checkout and we are done in less than ten minutes.  I break a 20 dollar bill with the cashier.  She gives me a ten, a five and five ones.  I fish out the five and my man gears up his camera in case I want to take a photograph.

The automatic doors slide open and the red egg crate is there.  The homeless guy, the sign and the plastic cup are all gone.

We stand in front of the store.  There is a beat where we don't know what to do. 

"Every single time," I say.

Maybe that's the way it is with the things that scare us out of our minds.  Maybe we get our money out, set a good intent and then see where the whole thing takes us, which in this case is my hand out with the five bucks to give and no one to receive.  

What should we do?

We decide he'll take the picture anyway and I hold the money in front of the crate.  In a second, the image is caught and he pushes his camera into his pocket.  I put my money away and we carry on.  Back in the Jeep, back down the hill, back inside and sure enough, it starts to rain.