Love Takes Time

And sometimes elevators.

Elevators. Small spaces where big things can happen.

Twenty years ago, I was in a Vancouver hotel for a company meeting and stepped into an elevator. Our eyes met instantly. She was adorable — short blond hair, blue eyes, and a friendly smile. Someone introduced us, and later at a group dinner, we had our first conversation. During the next few days, there were a few more.

We flew home on the same flight to Philadelphia and flirted shamelessly while picking up our baggage. I called her a few days later, and she agreed to meet for dinner — the quiet fires of attraction smoldering. A few nights later, we fanned the flames again at a small neighborhood restaurant near her home.

Our arms slid around each other as I ordered drinks at the bar, waiting for a table. Her perfume washed over me as we leaned into each other. Unlike anything I’d experienced before, a raw desire to merge with her burned through every cell of my body.

We ate or tried to eat, but the adrenalin erased most of the hunger. There was no reason to linger, so we drove the winding road on the banks of the Schuykill River back to her place. Like a teenager about to lose his virginity — I was excited, nervous, and not quite ready. We both knew what was going to happen.

The next day, we were in the office, business as usual, except I was completely stoned on every love chemical in my body. Lit up like torches, we fell deeper in love as we worked together for the next six months. I was hooked, and her drugs were good, deeply satisfying, and wickedly addicting.

Work took us on adventures to various cities — dinners out, live music, wrapped up in each other arms, eating by candlelight, Broadway shows, running back to the hotel in the warm summer rain, splashing through puddles, getting drenched and laughing like kids.

It was a perfect romance except for one thing — we were both married to other people.

After six months, her husband returned from an overseas assignment and found evidence of our relationship on her computer. My wife uncovered the truth too. It became a giant, ugly trainwreck. I was embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior, as was she.

We met as lovers for one final time, walking down to the river to say our goodbyes. I imagined dark angels watching over us as we cried and cried and cried some more. We knew all along we were way out of bounds, both of us swept away, caught up in recklessness, and now it was over.

A few days later, we were back at work. It was surreal to be now just friends. Then, to make things even more emotionally challenging, we traveled together on business for the next four months — overnights in hotels, separate rooms, one thin wall apart — me half hoping for the knock on my door, that never came. Sleep was intermittent and lonely.

Then she left the company to start her own business. We saw each other for the occasional lunch every few months, and soon she wanted to cut off all communication and focus on her marriage. I understood it intellectually, but I was still in love, hurt and angry, and wrote her a nasty note — I wanted to stay connected. It was hard for me to forget about her — she showed up in my dreams, and I found myself expressing my love and angst by writing and recording half a dozen of the best songs I’ve ever composed. She was my muse.

A few years went by. Her marriage remained intact as her husband gradually and graciously forgave her. My wife, although deeply wounded, did everything she could to heal and forgive me. We tried very hard to make it work, but the heartbreak haunted me. I couldn’t find my way back into the marriage.

So finally, three years later, after seventeen years of marriage, we split amicably, but not without much suffering. Fortunately, we’ve remained good friends, for which I’m deeply grateful.

A few years after the divorce, I flew home from a business trip and walked through the terminal toward the parking garage. The elevator was in front of me, the doors just about to close. I hurried ever so slightly and slipped in as the doors closed.

A woman was in there; her back turned to me. She turned around, and it was her. We were stunned, and the icy goodbye from the past melted in a long, warm hug. I whispered an apology to her for my note. She said don’t worry about it. We got out of the elevator and talked for a while, agreeing to have lunch soon, which we did.

The lunch and the conversation were lovely, and so was the gentle kiss as we said goodbye, but it wasn’t the same. She’d changed, and so had I. The heat of the romance was long gone, but the friendship was strong — like any relationship, it had evolved.

We asked each other, what does it all mean, another perfectly orchestrated meeting in the elevator of an enormous city airport? Perhaps it means nothing, or maybe it was so I could finally heal and know her as a friend, in the light without slipping through the shadows of an illicit affair?

Because that’s what happened to me as we stayed in touch over the next ten years through phone calls and occasional meetings — we discovered we sincerely cared for each other, and as a result, we’re still friends to this day, with her husband well aware of the friendship.

I remarried a few years ago after meeting a lovely, attractive Scottish woman at a company meeting. At the time, we were strangers assigned to sit next to each other. The attraction was intense — I instantly felt her power and spirit, and there was something so familiar about her as if we had met before.

It was another extraordinary magical moment. I wasn’t looking for a relationship and, for many years, had given up on filling the hole left in my heart. But I knew from the first conversation the possibility of a deep, loving connection with another human being had arrived. We fell madly in love and became engaged soon after.

Before I moved to Scotland to be with her, we took a walk in a large park near the city and then went for lunch. We passed a woman wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat sitting on a bench. I glanced at her. Kind of looks like her, I thought as I continued.

When we got to the restaurant, I said that might have been the woman I’ve told you about; I’d like to go. Are you’re okay with that? She said, yes, you should. So I walked outside, and in fact, it was her. I thought, this is crazy — is there no end to how we keep showing up in each other’s lives?

She smiled, stood up, and hugged me. I said I’m finally happy and I’d like you to meet my wife. She agreed, walking into the restaurant with me. I watched as two women, each having a unique place in my life, came together, hugging each other as if they’d been friends for years. When she left a few minutes later, my wife said, she knew we would meet her today.

I smiled and laughed, marveling at the elegance and serendipity of it all. The seemingly disparate, unexplainable, you-can’t-make-it-up moments in life, when strung all together, help make a bit more sense out of the mysteries of life and the journey to resolution and love.

If you enjoyed this article, here’s a list of my best ones from the past twelve months.

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