Fireworks

Once, when I had only been dating a guy for a couple of days at best, he called me from out of town, adorably drunk.  Some ways into the conversation, he described a moment between us before he left that was like "fireworks".  Being kind of a (hopefully adorable) little shit, I started joking with him that I never saw any fireworks.  Literally.  Wouldn't fireworks have a hard time fitting indoors?  Where would the fireworks have come from?  Was he looking out the window at the time?  I also pointed out the time that he had cheesily said the phrase "Let the magic happen", and how at no point in the evening had there been even a hint of a rabbit from a hat...  I'm not sure if he was too drunk to follow my logic, or if he was playing along, but he kept trying to explain to me that he meant fireworks figuratively.  I, of course, thought I was too funny, and kept egging him on.

Once he was back, we got together for a lovely date of doing something or other.  When we got back to his place, those fireworks came up again.  I remember him being playfully indignant (but indignant nonetheless), "I can't believe you didn't feel the fireworks moment!  I was obsessing over that moment the whole trip back!"

"I was joking, I meant there weren't literally fireworks.  Like I did not see any actual fireworks when that happened."

Later that evening, at a very similar moment to the one that he had described before, we heard this strange crackling: fireworks.  There were actual fireworks going on outside.  For no apparent reason.  I remember him cocking his head and pointing skyward as if he had somehow planned it all.  It was this big "I told ya so" moment.  It was pretty perfect.

Tonight, the Golden Gate Bridge celebrated it's 75th anniversary, complete with a big fireworks show that I could see from my window.  Sitting in the open window, shivering from the cold San Francisco air, I kept thinking about that moment.   I hate to admit that it was very sad.  Beautiful, but sad.