You know those moments in your life when you can almost see that two paths have appeared before you? Those life-changing things where who you are in the future is absolutely a result of the choice you made in one particular moment of the past? Sometimes they are big things like getting on an airplane or accepting a job offer. But sometimes they are quiet moments that, years later, you look back on and think how different things could have been.
When I lived just outside of Washington, D.C., my first job was at a small record store in Falls Church, Virginia. It was in a building with one other business, a bar, and so when it was closing time that’s where we’d usually end up. It wasn’t your typical bar, in that they served no liquor, only fancy beers and ciders. They did, however, serve sandwiches - twenty variations on a grilled cheese, to be specific. This was a bar for three types of people: those who were beer aficionados, those who thought a sandwich wasn’t a sandwich unless it included cheese, and those who wanted to flirt with the bar staff. I will give you one guess which group my friends and I fell into.
We developed a rapport with the bartenders. They made vegan versions of the sandwiches for one of my friends. They made sure nothing I ordered had pineapple in it. We knew which bartender was going through a break-up or a fight with their roommates. We would talk about music and work and life and just laugh - it was easily my favorite place to be on a Friday night. It was where I felt like I was building a community in my new city.
Sometimes one of the staff would take a smoke break and we’d all go outside just to keep talking. I can remember so clearly on a busy night them coming around to the end of the bar where we’d sit, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of their pocket, touching one of us on the shoulder or the arm and saying “come outside.” More than a few of us ended up sitting on the steps outside the door to the record store, crying about who even remembers what now.
And yes, there was a lot of flirting - a lot of harmless teasing and unnecessary touching of hands when you were given a drink or handing over your credit card. If I brought a date to the bar, I knew there would be questions about how it went the next time I was in there. But nothing ever happened. Even though these were people that knew an awful lot about my personal life - and I theirs - there was just a line that was never crossed.
Two years into my time in the D.C. area, my life was a whirlwind. I’d been traveling a lot, gotten a new job in the city and wasn’t going to the bar as much anymore. My friendships had morphed and the people I had once spent every Friday with parked on a barstool drinking cider and waxing poetic about the universe were suddenly not around. And my attentions were diverted, too. I had developed feelings for someone who lived on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean and I was already devising ways to get back to them as soon as possible.
One night I found myself back at that bar - a friend was visiting from out of town and we chose the bar as our meeting spot. Once I was there, it felt like going home. I was back amongst people I knew, and felt at my best around. I stayed until closing, long after my companion for the evening had left. At the end of the night, my favorite bartender was outside smoking when I left. Yes, I had a favorite. He was nicer than everyone else, quieter, not as attention-seeking. He had a confidence you can’t fake; it comes from an internal security that draws people to you. Like an anchor for a friend group. And he always seemed to see me, no matter what kind of chaos was happening around us. No matter how beautiful or alluring my companions for the evening were, he always made me feel like someone knew I still existed and valued me. Because of his nature, everyone I ever brought into that bar would tell me later “I think that bartender was flirting with me”. Maybe he was.
Back to the night in question, in the parking lot in front of the bar, I saw a raccoon run out from a patch of bushes and dart under my car. And then it didn’t seem to come out. I started to panic. Would it bite my ankle if I tried to get in? Would I start the car and hurt it? I stood frozen and my favorite bartender was suddenly at my side. He looked under the car (from a distance) to ensure the creature had wiggled its way out, and then teased me for being paralyzed with fear by a raccoon. As I opened the door to my car, he caught me off guard by saying “can I ask you a question?” Of course, I said.
“Can I kiss you?”
This doesn’t seem like a life-altering question. I’m sure people get asked this every day and the answer doesn’t change the course of worlds. But all these years later, I know how significant that moment was. I know that even though I may not have married or even dated this person after our kiss, I know what it would have done for my sense of self-worth to let this person in. I don’t have great taste in romantic partners, and this could have been a singular moment where someone who saw me, who liked me just how I was, could make me feel desired.
I can imagine myself stepping back from that kiss, whether it curled my toes or not, feeling alive. The one person who seemed to flirt with everyone wanted to kiss me. What does that feeling do to rewire a person’s brain? Would it have stopped me from chasing after someone thousands of miles away who didn’t actually value me at all? Would I have spent more days at this local bar and fewer throwing money away in the pursuit of something that would leave me exhausted, financially drained, and heartbroken? Perhaps I would have made all of the same foolish, wild decisions I have in the past seven years, but I would have made them knowing there was someone out there who liked and respected me enough to politely ask if they could kiss me and, more importantly, that I was brave enough to let them.
That was the last time someone asked to kiss me. Maybe not forever; I don’t know what my future holds. And I know that person went on to meet someone wonderful and married them. But I can recall so vividly what he looked like, with my car door between us, waiting for me to answer. And how he smiled and nodded when I explained there was someone else in my life. And the looks we exchanged the next time I was back in that bar with my friends, like we had a secret they did not know. I guess we did have a secret, but it wasn’t that he’d asked to kiss me. It’s that I didn’t have the courage to say yes. And all these years later, I wonder if I could muster it up, should the opportunity ever present itself again.
The one I did not kiss.
The path I did not take.