Julia

Julia––a woman I've known since we met when we were in our twenties living in Granada, Spain––had rekindled our friendship in our 60s and moved to Chicago into my teenage-years house on Washtenaw where I was living with the mother of my three daughters and our children.

The first night Julia stayed at the house, she was tired from her journey from Spain, so I put her to sleep in my brother Glenn’s old room and kissed her awkwardly good night (literally our first ever kiss!) and she fell asleep holding my hand as I lay in the other twin bed in the room.

At one point the mother of my three daughters came by to see what the hullabaloo was coming from the downstairs neighbor’s balcony. She then looked in on us, opened the door wide and said to keep it open.

Satisfied by the idea that she was probably jealous and reeling on the inside, I closed my eyes, tightened my grasp on Julia’s hand ever so slightly and drifted off to sleep.

Then I woke up.