I saw Stephen for the first time at my son’s school, where he was a teacher. We both remember the moment our gazes met across the room. But it wasn’t until 15 years later when we became more than friends – right as the Covid lockdowns arrived in Melbourne.
Our relationship started as a fling. The world felt wild then, and I think we felt wild too. We were smarting from painful breakups and only looking for comfort and company in each other, enjoying a strong physical attraction while drinking too much wine on too many nights of the week. Neither of us was seeking new love. We swore we wouldn’t get attached.
But one night I lay in his arms with a wide view of the night sky from his bedroom window and the soundtrack to Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire spinning on his record player, and I sensed something changing. I’d miss him when I went home, and he’d message to say he missed me. I appreciated his gentleness and the way he was genuinely present with me in ways I hadn’t experienced with past lovers.
We began walking together on a nearby mountain path as the sunset flared between the trees, and we ended up walking through all the seasons. Once, we arrived to find the path shining with snow, the ferns and spiderwebs jewelled with ice. Another time, we had to call up and report a small bushfire.
We talked a lot on our walks. The talk deepened as the months passed. At times when we were sick of noise from doom-scrolling and news broadcasts, we agreed to walk without speaking. We’d meet with nods and hand touches, walk the hour, and part wordlessly.
Then I was offered a house in the inner city. I wavered only momentarily before accepting. I’d done too much compromising in the past and this move was right for me. Would we break up, or try a long-distance relationship? Or would he move with me? We chose the last option, not without trepidation. We’d been seeing each other for 18 months.
One night just before we moved, we saw a silvery shooting star explode over the dark peak of the mountain where we’d walked. The shooting star was like fireworks – I took it as a celebration of the move and the next chapter of our relationship. I had a feeling we’d made the right decision.
Three years on, we take our night walks in a creek reserve in Melbourne’s inner north. We leave behind the noise of the street when we walk at dusk. Crossing a rickety swing bridge, we turn down along a path and walk until we reach a road bridge bringing us back to the side of the creek that’s unpaved and somewhat untamed. The wide canopies of casuarinas render this part of the route darker no matter what the time of day. Their feathery foliage sings uncannily when the wind blows. The tawny frogmouths have babies at this time of year. Lately we’ve been treated to a hilarious display by one of the juveniles that waggles its head, stands on one leg and arcs up a wing while we watch.
Our house sits at a busy intersection. Last week, we woke at 4am to an impassioned argument about racism between three young people at the tram stop across the street. We listened from our bed, weighing up the opposing points of view. Stephen considered making tea and ferrying it over to help things along. I love that kindness and funniness in him. I also love how we like the same alternative music, the alignment of our political views (though we spend far too much time talking about them), and that our grown-up children are of similar ages and wonderfulness.
On our way home last night, we walked by the casuarinas and in the near distance we saw a shooting star streaming down in the sky over the top of our house. We’re both glad we let ourselves get attached. There’s a quiet fieriness to our love, and it’s reflected in the nightly ritual of walking in the dark together through that patch of wildness in our neighbourhood.
