totally made the first move—he stopped getting his feelings hurt. “The jig is up,” he told himself. She can be mean. She can make fun of me. She can laugh at me. But she shows up.
Her sharp edges, her neuroses, he began to see, were part of her character, and part of the city’s. He decided to take them no more personally than he did the guff from the sandwich guy at the deli, the one who was always telling him he didn’t have all day to wait for his order.
“I love you,” Matt told Sofia over dinner one night that December.
Sofia stared at him for a long time, but said nothing.
“I think you love me, too, Sofia,” Matt said after the silence, reaching for her hand. “You’d tell me if you didn’t.”
SOFIA HAD begun applying to medical school that fall. Matt felt certain he’d dodged a bullet in the spring of 2005, when Sofia was accepted at New York University’s School of Medicine. When he’d asked about the prospects for their relationship if she didn’t get into any New York schools, she had been noncommittal.
“The long-distance thing rarely works,” she’d replied, with characteristic bluntness.
But now that she’d made it into NYU, Matt had other questions. Will medical school change her? Will she be too busy for me? He thought about his father, a family doctor, who worked from six in the morning until ten at night, seldom seeing the family. Do I want to marry someone whose life may soon look like that? And if they did get married, she’d be in school and training for maybe ten years. Could he earn enough to support them both, let alone, possibly, a child?
The first year of medical school was difficult. Now five years out of college, Sofia wrestled with the volume of schoolwork and struggled to adapt to the rigors of academic life. She was older than most of her classmates, and because she lived off campus—she’d moved into Matt’s apartment that summer—she felt cut off from them. When she came home at the end of the day, she needed solitude. Often she wanted nothing more than to lock herself in the bedroom for a half hour with a crossword puzzle, walling out the world. But no sooner would she walk in than Matt would pelt her with demands for attention. “Can I at least get a hug?” he’d say. In those first few months of school, she sometimes denied him even that. Why couldn’t Matt understand that she needed a buffer between school and home? Why couldn’t he see that she needed a half hour to decompress, to become herself again?
Matt, for his part, saw those first few months as confirmation of all his fears. Why didn’t Sofia understand that he’d already had his quiet time? He spent his days in front of a computer. Then he was home, alone, for two hours before she returned from school. He wanted only to talk or cuddle or watch a movie. But Sofia no sooner came home than disappeared into the bedroom. He would accuse her of “going into crossword mode” and stew on the couch until she reappeared. After a half year of seeing each other all the time and staying out late at restaurants and concerts and bars, her sudden unavailability stung.
It was a long and trying year. Matt wanted signals that she was in the relationship to stay—“in it to win it,” as he put it—but the signals were sometimes hard to see. He consoled himself with memories of their chance meeting in front of Carnegie Hall. Something maybe we don’t understand brought us together, he told himself. We can’t just walk away from that.
Then, by the spring of 2006, a thaw. Sofia grew more confident about school, and Matt began to accept that when Sofia needed time alone, it was about her, not him. They’d set up ten-minute
dates to talk or a half hour for TV, and they treated that time as inviolable. Matt also learned that he had a secret weapon against “crossword mode.” If he offered her a back scratch—she loved to be scratched—he could get her to break away from just about anything. These
Her sharp edges, her neuroses, he began to see, were part of her character, and part of the city’s. He decided to take them no more personally than he did the guff from the sandwich guy at the deli, the one who was always telling him he didn’t have all day to wait for his order.
“I love you,” Matt told Sofia over dinner one night that December.
Sofia stared at him for a long time, but said nothing.
“I think you love me, too, Sofia,” Matt said after the silence, reaching for her hand. “You’d tell me if you didn’t.”
SOFIA HAD begun applying to medical school that fall. Matt felt certain he’d dodged a bullet in the spring of 2005, when Sofia was accepted at New York University’s School of Medicine. When he’d asked about the prospects for their relationship if she didn’t get into any New York schools, she had been noncommittal.
“The long-distance thing rarely works,” she’d replied, with characteristic bluntness.
But now that she’d made it into NYU, Matt had other questions. Will medical school change her? Will she be too busy for me? He thought about his father, a family doctor, who worked from six in the morning until ten at night, seldom seeing the family. Do I want to marry someone whose life may soon look like that? And if they did get married, she’d be in school and training for maybe ten years. Could he earn enough to support them both, let alone, possibly, a child?
The first year of medical school was difficult. Now five years out of college, Sofia wrestled with the volume of schoolwork and struggled to adapt to the rigors of academic life. She was older than most of her classmates, and because she lived off campus—she’d moved into Matt’s apartment that summer—she felt cut off from them. When she came home at the end of the day, she needed solitude. Often she wanted nothing more than to lock herself in the bedroom for a half hour with a crossword puzzle, walling out the world. But no sooner would she walk in than Matt would pelt her with demands for attention. “Can I at least get a hug?” he’d say. In those first few months of school, she sometimes denied him even that. Why couldn’t Matt understand that she needed a buffer between school and home? Why couldn’t he see that she needed a half hour to decompress, to become herself again?
Matt, for his part, saw those first few months as confirmation of all his fears. Why didn’t Sofia understand that he’d already had his quiet time? He spent his days in front of a computer. Then he was home, alone, for two hours before she returned from school. He wanted only to talk or cuddle or watch a movie. But Sofia no sooner came home than disappeared into the bedroom. He would accuse her of “going into crossword mode” and stew on the couch until she reappeared. After a half year of seeing each other all the time and staying out late at restaurants and concerts and bars, her sudden unavailability stung.
It was a long and trying year. Matt wanted signals that she was in the relationship to stay—“in it to win it,” as he put it—but the signals were sometimes hard to see. He consoled himself with memories of their chance meeting in front of Carnegie Hall. Something maybe we don’t understand brought us together, he told himself. We can’t just walk away from that.
Then, by the spring of 2006, a thaw. Sofia grew more confident about school, and Matt began to accept that when Sofia needed time alone, it was about her, not him. They’d set up ten-minute
dates to talk or a half hour for TV, and they treated that time as inviolable. Matt also learned that he had a secret weapon against “crossword mode.” If he offered her a back scratch—she loved to be scratched—he could get her to break away from just about anything. These
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