Today is the tenth anniversary of my first date with K. I’m not entirely sure how this happened. Ten years ago I went on a date with a woman named K, and when it was over I asked to see her again. Then we had a second date, and a third, and so on, and now today is ten years of one day following the next with this one woman, K.
I don’t believe there’s a word for the kind of disorientation I feel. K says, only half-joking, that there must be one in German.
In the simplest sense I know exactly what happened. But those are merely the facts of the case – one day followed the next, and so on. At the same time there’s another, deeper sense in which the facts are besides the point.
Whenever I fly cross-country, there’s always that befuddling moment when I suddenly find myself several thousand miles from where I woke that day.
Sometimes when K and I are talking, I try to retrace how we arrived at the current subject. Rarely do I manage it.
But then, really, what does it matter? We arrived.