Opening the apartment door on Friday evening is always more fun when I see Julie’s little green car parked outside. I unlock the door, step inside, and put my suitcase down. I might even take off my shoes if I am not feeling too rebellious. She is usually sitting in her favorite chair, which happens to be the only plush chair in our small living room, with her Mac on the ottoman, watching some television show on Netflix or reading what she calls a “crafty” blog. The smell of marijuana in the hallway and the bitter cold of Minnesota in January dissipate into the warmth and smell of what I imagine to be the sensory equivalent of home.
There is an indeterminate amount of silence between when I enter the apartment and when the first words are spoken. This is perhaps my favorite part of the day. I have walked into her scene. I am an observer only, and can enjoy her as a work of art, unaffected by my presence. The only other times that this is possible is when she is sleeping, in which case it is increasingly difficult for me to fight the urge to wake her, and when she is cooking, in which case she is quite volatile and territorial. But in this moment when she has been alone and will soon transition into the person who will interact with me for the rest of the evening, she is the most beautiful, mysterious creature.
Inevitably the first words are spoken, which mark the end of this transition, and the Julie that I am most familiar with emerges out of this mysterious form.
