My mother told me that I used to try to catch water between my fingers. I used to sit on the kitchen counter by her side, trying to hold the water rushing out of the faucet. I guess I always wanted to do the impossible, and sometimes, in the process of doing something that is phenomenally different, you lose yourself, and you wake up years, perhaps decades later, in the haze of working 15-hour days and getting yearly physicals and missed hair appointments and forgotten moments, like I did today. For some reason, the snow falling outside in the yard that I can see from the French windows of my living room, huddled under an old afghan, reminds me of a place that had similar winters: soft powdery snow, gray, shadowed skies, steaming mugs of coffee, and someone who is no longer here to warm up my chilly afternoons.

It was the winter of 1985. I was a junior at Boston State University majoring in Biological Sciences, looking forward to applying to graduate school in California. I wanted to be close to home. California was where my heart was, where I was raised, where my parents were. How I missed the Californian summer.

It was a very cold day in early November, and the holiday shoppers were already frequenting the malls. The university was bustling as the students prepared for exams with an endless supply of caffeine. I was attending a formal seminar on Gene Therapy at one of the boardrooms of the College of Biological Sciences, and the speaker had just left the podium. Refreshments were being served.

A genius among all the scientists started playing classical music in the background. I sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, listening to the familiar flow of piano, and for a moment, I forgot all the stress of the approaching finals, the deadlines for papers, everything.

“Dear God, a Bio-Sci major in a blue dress, enjoying Fantasie Impromptu. My, my, my, I’m impressed,” I heard a deep, playful voice.

I sighed out loud and opened my eyes enough so I could see the face of the offender who had just shattered my good mood to bits.

“Could there be a worse pick-up line?” I said. “First of all, it’s not just a blue dress, it’s cerulean. Second of all, scientists like Chopin too, and Beethoven, and Mozart, and the Beatles, thank you very much.”

I closed my eyes again.

“Well, how would I know what you scientists like or dislike? I am an art history major,” he said.

That sparked my attention.

“Doesn’t an art history major have better parties to crash than a seminar about gene therapy?” I asked.??

“As a matter of fact, yes. But, I am covering this boring event for the magazine.”

“Ah, a writer then,” I said.

“No, actually. I am going to draw a caricature of the speaker, and maybe of a woman who likes to call blue, cerulean,” he said with a smirk.

I got out of my chair. I had enough of this obnoxious, disrespectful, and now that I noticed him, quite handsome, stranger.

“Well, I would love to chat, but time is precious. Finals are around the corner, and quite honestly, I find you a tad bit annoying,” I said.

He grinned. My annoyance seemed to please him. What was wrong with him?

“Oh, what a disappointment, and here I thought you would take me out for coffee, and give me a chance to discuss Monet, since I took the time to come to this boring seminar of yours,” he said, with mock heartbreak written all over his face.

I was appalled at his audacity and complete lack of maturity.

“You know what? As much as I would love to discuss impressionist artists with you, I have an organic chemistry midterm in three days, and I don’t have time for idle tete-a-tete,” I said with sarcasm dripping from every syllable.??

“You mean expressionist artists,” he said with a smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“Monet is an expressionist artist, not an impressionist. The scientist doesn’t know everything after all now, does she?”

I felt heat rushing up my face. I could have sworn Monet was an impressionist. But, he was an Art History major. He obviously knew more. How could I have made such a mistake in front of this unbelievably arrogant jerk?

“Well, whatever, that’s not important. Don’t get me wrong, art is important, but I am certainly not going to take the time to discuss it with you,” I said defensively.

“You’ve told me that you have to leave three times already, and have still not left. It’s obvious that my presence is quite captivating now, isn’t it?”

I started to say something, thought better of it, grabbed my purse and started walking towards the door. I heard him behind me a moment before he touched my shoulder.

“What?” I asked impatiently.

“I was only joking. Monet is an Impressionist. You should have seen the look on your face.” His eyes were shining with controlled laughter.

I was angry and tired, and I swear he got on my last nerve, but somehow I found myself smiling back at him.

“So how about that cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Two conditions,” I said.

“Accepted,” he said, with a bow.

“But you don’t even know what they are.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Trust me, you need to.”

“Okay, if you insist. What are the conditions?”

“Only one cup of coffee each and you pay.”

“Heard and accepted. Now shall we?”

That was how I met Blavir, and that was the beginning of our friendship. I learned to identify warmth, happiness and laughter with his presence. His dark eyes were always shining as if he was sharing an inside joke with the whole world, and his dark long hair was always tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He brought me coffee everyday as I tried to study science while he constantly showed me paintings that made no sense to me. I read poetry to him, mostly by Richard Lovelace and Keats, and sometimes my own poems, upon his insistence.

After finals, we met everyday. We frequented coffee shops and small, cheap restaurants as we talked about nothing and everything, the universe, the sky, birds, art, music, the meaning of life, and sometimes, the color of my eyes.

“For the last time, they are brown, Blavir. Brown. Like yours,” I said with exasperation.

“No they’re not. Honestly, Zeya, from a girl who knows the difference between blue and cerulean, this is just plain ignorance. They’re not just brown. They change colors when the sun hits them a certain way. And your hair does that too. It’s sun-lit.”

“What?”

“Sun-lit.”

“Did you just make that word?

“Maybe I did. It’s a free country. So what?”

“Shut up and eat your pizza, and stay away from mine.”

We were at a cheap pizza place, and it was almost Christmas. The university crowd was thinning out. People were going home for the holidays. I had decided to stay to get a head start on next quarter’s courses, and my parents had understood. I was an over-achiever, so Blavir had decided to stay in town to keep me company. He was from upstate New York, and lived with his grandparents. I had learned over our many dinner conversations that his parents had passed away in a car crash when he was fourteen, and he had been living with his grandparents ever since.

We left the pizza place, and he started walking me back to my apartment. The night was chilly, and a cold wind was slapping our faces. We were both lost in thought. I was thinking about the genetics class I was taking the following quarter, and how I was going to have a hard time with all the courses I was taking.

“So what do you think when you listen to Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu?” he asked me. His voice in the quiet of the night startled me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Liar.”

“What?” I complained.

“I saw you that day when you tried to get rid of me at the seminar. You had your eyes closed, and you had this peaceful look on your face as if you were seeing happy things. And since I am evil, I couldn’t stand your happiness, so I broke your reverie,” he said.

I gave him the look he deserved.

“Well, let’s see. I think about colors. I close my eyes, and all I see are colors making haphazard, unrealistic, abstract patterns, and they just swirl and splash and flow with the music. It’s amazing. Do you think it’s weird?”

“No, not at all,” he said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, I think it’s not weird at all. It’s downright psychotic! You should go see a shrink, because I just think about an old fart bored out of his mind, banging on the piano keys,” he said, laughing out loud.

I punched him in the shoulder and he feigned pain.

“Jackass!” I said.

“Thank you, my lady, and here we are at your abode, and now with your bidding, your humble servant shall depart,” he said with a bow as we reached my apartment.

“Go, eat dirt,” I said, with a smile.

“Will do,” he said, before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek and jogging down the street.

We spent the Christmas together. He brought a plastic tree and hung cheap decorations on it. He wanted to name the Christmas tree, because it was our first tree together.

“I don’t want to name that thing, Blavir. Then I would develop feelings for it, and I would have to keep it. And I want that ugly thing out of here the day after Christmas.”

“Come on, don’t be rude. What will he think? You’re hurting his feelings,” he said, stroking the tree.

“You’re a freak,” I said.

“Agreed. Now can we name it, please, please, please,” he said, pouting.

“Whatever. Name it Ugly,” I said, with disdain.

“Perfection. Ugly it is,” he said, clapping his hands together.

I prepared a turkey with mashed potatoes on the side and gravy. I made bread stuffing and bought canned cranberry sauce, and decorated the table with long white and red candles, and plastic red plates.

We had dinner in a comfortable silence with Mozart playing in the background.

“You love Mozart, don’t you?” he asked me.

“Yeah, and Beethoven. Actually I like Beethoven more. His music is darker. Mozart is more romantic, for lack of another word,” I said.

“What do you think of when you listen to Mozart?” he asked.

“I am not playing this game again, Blavir. Eat your turkey, please,” I said rolling my eyes.

“No, seriously. No games. Tell me,” he said as his face clouded with an emotion that I could not quite decipher.

“Okay,” I said, giving him a curious look. “I think about a lake or a brook, with the sun shining on it, and birds chirping, and flying over it, and a green field with wild flowers,” I said.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“What?” I asked.

“You see love,” he said.

“No, I don’t,” I said, with indignation. “I don’t have time for love.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. End of story. Case closed. Bottom line,” I said.

“Really?” he asked, with a hint of something sad floating in his eyes.

“Really,” I replied, and went back to my turkey dinner.

“Do you want to know what I see when I hear music, and when I see art, and when you read poetry to me, and when I draw?” he asked in a rush of emotion.

I was taken aback by what he said. I had never thought of asking him these questions.

“What?” I whispered, around the dying light of the candles.

“I see you. I see you with your sun-lit hair and your sun-lit eyes, your beautiful smile, and I smell your shampoo and I see you drinking coffee, and eating pizza, and complaining, and studying, and…” he stopped as he saw the look on my face.

I was staring at him, open-mouthed. I had never expected such a burst of emotion from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“No. No, no, no, it’s okay. It’s fine,” I said, laughing nervously.

“Maybe I should leave now,” he said.

“No, I said it was fine.”

He started getting up and reaching for his jacket.

“Blavir, stop. Stay. Now,” I said, commandingly.

He stopped and sat back down.

“Listen, I have never thought about this. I love you. I really do. But you’re my best friend. Give me some time to process this information. Let me understand it,” I said.

“It’s fine. You’re a scientist, that’s why you need time to ‘process’ feelings. I understand,” he replied, angrily.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.

“No, you don’t be ridiculous!”

“What do you want me to say? That I love you? What about my whole life? What about my future? What about grad school? What about California?” I asked.

“There’s an answer to each one of your questions, Zeya. We could have a future together, your whole life could be with me, we could go to the same grad school, and I could come to California with you, if only you’d ask. If only you’d understand. I am sorry. I can’t stay any more,” he said and left.

They told me he got run over by a minivan full of people coming home for the holidays. They said the driver was drunk. They said he cracked his head open on the pavement. Science told me he died instantaneously. He didn’t experience any pain. It was fast. The police called me at 3 a.m. They called me. They called me because I was the only person listed in his emergency contacts. He had known me for two months, and I had become his only emergency contact.

He told me he loved me, and then he died.

I never got a chance to tell him so many things that are still buried in my heart. I keep telling myself I loved him only because he was my best friend. Then why am I still alone, more than two decades later? Why am I sitting by French windows in New York instead of in a sunroom in California? I did not want love. I did not have time for it. I became a scientist, I went to grad school in California, and I got hired by a research company in New York, and yet I stayed alone. I tried to absorb myself in work, and forget about him. But he kept coming back to me. His long hair, his dark eyes, his smile, his jokes. Why did he leave, so young, so sudden, so wise beyond years? Maybe if I had not fought with him, maybe he would have stayed a little longer? Who knows what could have been.

Now, I am watching the snow as it falls layer upon layer outside. I see him in everything. In the snow, in the color of my coffee, in Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu that is playing on the stereo, and in Ugly, our Christmas tree who always stays by the window.