“Look at you.”

Of course, she didn’t mean it literally, but like a dummy, I lowered my eyes and stared down at my navel. We were the only ones still in the classroom, but I was surprised when she came over to me. I thought she might have caught me looking at her during class, and felt embarrassed. I didn’t meant to stare, but those things happen, and she was good-looking enough it must have happened to her before. I was expecting her to chide me or even curse me out, but instead, she smiled, placed a hand on the nape of my neck, and pressed her lips against mine. The kiss sent an electric thrill through me. She stepped back and looked me up and down. Her eyes fixed on my hard-on, which I couldn’t hide. I was embarrassed all over again, and must have turned red as a beet. She winked, placed her hand on my crotch, and gave it a squeeze.

“We ought to do something about that, don’t you think?” she said, deadpan.

I don’t remember saying a word, but must have acquiesced in some way, because the next thing I knew, we were walking hand-in-hand to my dorm room. That’s how it began. It doesn’t sound like the start of a long-term relationship, but life can be funny. We spent every minute of our free time together, and grew closer and closer, bonded by our common experiences. We liked the same music and the same movies, either because our tastes were similar from the start or because they developed in sync. As soon as we could move off campus, we found a way to share an apartment.

Sounds like a fairy tale love story, but I don’t think we were in love. I didn’t feel the kind of burning passion portrayed in books and movies, and sometimes I felt I’d missed out on something wonderful. I supposed I wasn’t cut out to fall in love, or that love was just a lot of hype and hooey. We were friends, companions. We understood each other, were attuned to one another, and we lived together like two kids playing house. That’s how it was, and it felt like enough. We thought it would be that way forever.

We never talked about marriage. We were still kids, too young to get married, and the rigmarole and expense of a wedding made it even less appealing. Besides, marriage was just a legal contract that had nothing to do with who we were or how we felt. When we were ready to start a family, we might consider getting married. Until then we’d rely on birth control and not think about such things.

I didn’t know what use my major in philosophy could be, but my father urged me to apply to law school, and lacking other plans, I did. As graduation drew closer, we knew big changes were in store for us, but our relationship wasn’t in doubt. We were a couple, married or not. When I was accepted by the school of my dreams, it was a no-brainer that we’d move to Boston together. Annie majored in English lit and wasn’t sure what she wanted to do after graduation, but Boston offered lots of opportunities, and she seemed happy enough to move there.

When our families came out for graduation, it was the first time we met each other’s parents. They weren’t thrilled about our living arrangements, but since she graduated magna cum laude and I was going to Harvard, they weren’t too sore. Their acknowledgment of our relationship made it feel more official, but that was fine as long as they didn’t start pestering us about getting married. The move was stressful, with the sorting, and packing, and finding housing. Leaving behind our old friends and all that was familiar to us affected us more than we expected, and I was apprehensive about attending that renowned institution with the brightest students from all over the world. I must have been crazy to make that choice, but I was stuck with it. Afraid of embarrassing myself, I hit the books hard, leaving Annie to fend for herself without anything to do and without friends or connections in the new town. We were both stressed out, but about different things, and we were at odds with each other. My head was full of jurisdictions, procedures, and processes when Annie said, “Ethan James is on sabbatical.”

“Our old prof?” It was in his class we first met, but why was she bothering me about him when I had more important things on my mind? Absently, I said, “That’s nice.”

“He’s working on a book and wants me to help him with his research.”

“For how long?”

“A semester, starting January.”

The idea took me by surprise, but wasn’t unwelcome. I wanted her out of my hair for a while so I could concentrate on my work. A little separation might be good for both of us. “So you you’d go back to Ohio?”

“He’s not in Ohio.”

“No? Where is he?”

“Cambridge.”

“Oh, he’s here?” I was disappointed, but at least it would keep her busy. “That makes it easier, doesn’t it? It’s a good idea. You should do it.”

“Cambridge University.”

It took a second for her words to register, and when they did, I almost dropped my cup of coffee. That made her smile. I hadn’t seen her smile in a while.

“But how?” I stuttered. “I mean, it’s expensive to fly out there, and where would you stay? We can’t afford it.”

“It’s like an assistantship, all expenses paid. What do you think?”

I didn’t know what I thought. I was looking forward to a break from her, but that was more than I bargained for. “Is that what you want to do?”

She gazed at me steadily for a moment before replying, “I think so.”

The next couple of months were strange, living as we were in the shadow of our imminent separation. It was just for a semester, but it felt momentous. Except for logistical matters, we didn’t discuss what was about to happen, but our lovemaking intensified in anticipation of missing each other, and was tinged with a bittersweet urgency. The separation worried me a little, and I was glad my mind was crammed full of legal gibberish so I didn’t have to think about it a lot. My onerous work became a refuge, a way to escape from my feelings.

Before long, we said our goodbyes at the gate at Logan, and then she was gone. Too agitated to settle down to work when I got back from the airport, I wandered into the bedroom and opened Annie’s closet, seeking reassurance from her clothing hanging on the rack that she’d be back. The scent of her, lingering on the things she’d worn, drifted over me, and I did what I hadn’t done since we’d been together, I jerked off. It released the tension that had been building in me, and left me feeling limp and empty.

Back in those days before personal computers and email, and when international phone calls were expensive, Annie and I wrote letters back and forth, but since they took a week to travel each way, and we waited to receive a letter before responding, we didn’t write that often. Aside from a perfunctory “Miss you,” there wasn’t much of a personal nature in them. She wrote about the strange customs and speech habits of the Brits, and the obscure poets she was learning about, and I reported on my progress in law school, and kept her up to date about the misadventures of Halo, the alley cat who wandered into our lives shortly after we moved in.

I opened Annie’s letter expecting to see flight details, as the semester was winding down, but it began, “I have some good news, but I’m not sure you’ll be happy about it.” She was offered a scholarship for an MA at Cambridge, and was extending her stay. I was crushed, but not completely surprised. From the time she decided to go, I had a presentiment that our separation wouldn’t be temporary. I got through the term without falling apart, promising myself to let loose over the summer if I just kept it together till then. After my last exam, I went out and got plastered to reward myself for my conscientiousness, and the next morning, I swore off drinking. On the following days I binged on television and tried to lose myself in trashy novels, but found no entertainment in them. Before the week was up, I was hitting the law books. It was the only activity that held my attention.

After a breakup, you walk out of the house feeling like you left something behind. You pat your pockets, checking to see what you forgot, and even though you seem to have everything you need, you feel an almost uncontrollable urge to rush back to find what you’re missing. Somehow, you quash it, but still, you can’t help looking behind you, expecting something to be there. You don’t feel like a complete person. At least that’s how it was for me, and I wasn’t even sure we’d broken up. Annie, after all, might come back after her protracted stay, a bit off schedule, but our relationship would still be intact. I didn’t really believe that, but I wanted to. Burying myself in my work helped me forget about her for a while, but then a neighbor would ask for her, or we’d get a letter from a college friend addressed to both of us, or my family would want to know what was going on, and I’d obsess about her all over again. I answered everyone with the basic facts as I knew them—that she was staying in the UK longer to get a graduate degree. They could make of it what they wanted, just as I was doing.

In one of her letters, Annie wrote, “I admire your devotion to your studies, but I hope you get out once in a while, meet new people, and have some fun.” To my lawyerly eyes, meeting new people meant dating other girls. I wondered if she was with someone, and the thought of her being touched, caressed, penetrated by someone else tormented me. Loneliness overtook my mind, my heart, and my gut, or more accurately, my genitals. The least erotic sensations, like a toothache or the sound of a door closing, excited an erection. I yearned for companionship, but how do you go about finding a friend when you feel like hiding in a cave?

The body must produce pheromones when you’re horny. A girl in my constitutional law class began flirting with me. She was nice enough, and after a few dates, we slept together. It was okay, but she didn’t really turn me on, mostly because she wasn’t Annie. That was ironic because, when I lived with Annie, our domestic routine dulled my interest in her, and I fantasized about being with other girls. At times, when we made love, I closed my eyes and imagined myself with someone else. But when I actually was with someone else, I tried to imagine I was with Annie. In the coming months, we slept together a few more times. I guess we both felt that we needed to get laid, but I don’t think it did either of us much good.

A letter from Annie arrived shortly after the start of my last year of law school, and it removed all ambiguity about our relationship. She wrote:

I will receive my Masters at the end of this term, but I’ll be staying on here. The fact is, I met someone. I suspect that you already guessed as much. I would have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to upset you during your studies. You’ve done such a tremendous job at school and I’m proud of you for what you’ve accomplished. I’m only telling you now because you’ll be expecting me back soon. I’m also letting you know, because I don’t want you to hear it from someone else, that next June, a year and a half from now, Duncan and I are getting married. I want you to promise me that you won’t let your efforts flag because of this news, and that you’ll end the year brilliantly. I understand if you’re angry with me, but I want you to know that I love you very much and always will.

I followed the two injunctions Annie issued in her letters. I didn’t let the turmoil in my soul distract me from my studies, and I got out and met new people. I was more successful in the former than the latter. On getting my degree, I was hired by a prestigious law firm and moved to New York. I had a number of liaisons with girls, but none developed into what could be called relationships. They never panned out, and that was because of Annie. First of all, no one measured up to her, and also, I was so scarred by what happened, I didn’t want to be hurt again. I tried to get over it, but was too damaged. I thought of the Woody Allen line being so screwed up that he never had a relationship with a woman that’s lasted longer than the one between Hitler and Eva Braun. That was me.

I was married to my work, and there was no room in my life for much else. The tasks assigned a new hire in a law firm aren’t exactly electrifying. There’s a lot of drudge work like researching old cases, proofreading briefs, drafting affidavits, organizing materials and the like, but it didn’t bother me. I had a function to perform and I performed it diligently. I wore a suit and tie to work, and got so used to that attire that, within weeks, I was dressing like that even when I worked at home. It was my work uniform. One Sunday afternoon, a couple of months into my new job, I was going over some papers when the doorbell rang. Annoyed at the interruption, I yanked open the door and hardly noticed who was there until she stepped forward and said, “Well, look at you, all spiffed up in a suit on a Sunday.”

“Annie.”

“Mind if I come in?” she asked, smiling at me while I stood there, frozen in place.

She threw her arms around me and pressed her lips against mine. I held her to me so tight I must have almost squeezed the breath out of her. She pulled away gently.

“I’m so glad you’re happy to see me,” she said. “I was afraid.”

“I’m so happy you’re here. Are you…”

She put a finger on my lips before I could find the words to ask if she was going to stay.

“It’s just a visit. Duncan wanted to meet my family. He’s never been to the US before.”

“Oh.”

I must have sounded utterly crestfallen, because she shook her head and gave me a rueful smile.

“Come,” she said, grabbing my hands and leading me to the futon which served as couch and bed in my tiny studio apartment. We sat, holding hands and looking at each other, and after a while, she placed her palms on on my cheeks and planted her lips on mine. The next minute we were throwing off our clothes and scrambling all over each other in a delirium of love, our faces streaked with tears. I’d never known such passionate love. It was the love portrayed in books and movies that I never expected to experience. When it was over, I said, “Annie, we belong together.”

She smiled at me a little sadly and shook her head. “We’ve had our time together,” she said, “and now you’ll always be a part of me, and I’ll always be a part of you.”

“I have to tell you something,” I said, as she rose and got dressed. “I’ve had so many failed relationships over the past year. Every time I’m with someone, I compare her to you and that’s the end of it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love anyone again.”

She knelt beside me and ruffled my hair. “Silly boy. Why do you need anyone else to be like me? You already have me here.” She thumped my chest with her fist. “I’ll always be there, if you let me. When you’re with someone, appreciate her for who she is, love her for who she is. You may not want to stay with her for more than one night, and that’s fine. But while you’re with her, see her, be with her, not with someone in your imagination.”

In a few minutes, she was gone, and I heard the echo of her footsteps on the stairs. I lay in bed, feeling full and empty, thinking about the contradictions of love. It was nothing and everything, everywhere and nowhere, beautiful, terrifying, obscene, holy, eternal, ephemeral. It’s full of hurt and solace, gentleness and violence, passion and stillness, ecstasy and oblivion, and requires you to remember and forget everything you ever knew. It is the lens through which you see life, the ability to feel and be alive.

Annie opened my heart and broke it, and doing that taught me what love is. Whatever else happens, I’ll never forget her. And I will miss her. Forever.