We sat on the rooftop of a bar that was not quite a tourist trap, but not far from it. The city below us, never known for its humbleness, was peacocking around under a cloudless sky. We assumed a familiar position, face to face across a bar top, cold beers between us.
Our conversation flowed easily and unhurriedly. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but at one point I looked over at her and caught my breath a little. New York City was reflecting in her sunglasses and she was smiling. It was her relaxed smile, the one that she saves, the one that spreads up to her eyes and makes them dance a little bit. I wanted to take a picture of her but I knew that it would ruin the moment. So, I just fell a little more in love with her.
As a society we put so much emphasis on people, particularly women, to find a spouse. We are bombarded with messages that falling in love and getting married is how we become complete, whole, happy. And, don’t get me wrong, I not only really love my husband, but I also like him. We are friends who happen to be in love.
However, I am also a firm believer that we fall in platonic love, that some non-romantic relationships develop a bond that goes beyond friendship. And, just like I fall in love with my husband over and over again, I also fall in love with my friends, particularly my best friend, over and over again.
Here are some of the reasons why:
- She is my person.
- She knows what books I’ll love and what books I will loathe.
- She appreciates my special brand of masochism.
- She gives the best hugs.
- She loves quirky coffee mugs and soft t-shirts.
- She bakes delicious cakes.
- She lets me be an a**hole from time to time and doesn’t hold it against me.
- She suffers my bits.
- She loves me even when I am at my most unlovable.
- She takes Conley on Red Lobster dates.
- She loves my husband and he loves her.
- She eats the red Lifesavers out of my pack.
- She is my favorite movie date.
- She allows me to be vulnerable.
- We’re both avid readers but rarely like the same books.
- She has a smile that spreads across her face and makes her eyes dance.
- She’ll drive in New York City.
- She loves Chico Sticks and opaque tights and craft beer.
- It makes her feel weird when I write about her but I do it anyway because she needs to be shared.
- She is one of my biggest heroes.
- She is one of the most trustworthy and loyal people I have ever met.
- She offered to drive back from Myrtle Beach.
- She was wearing a retro Wonder Bread t-shirt when she brought enchilada casserole after my mom died (it looked like something my mom would have worn).
- She forgives me…even when I am a total asshole;
- She has a wicked and dry sense of humor.
- She hums to herself – all the time;
- She just held onto me at the end of Fruitvale Station.
- She doesn’t like butter on her popcorn.
- She glows warmly after three vodka sodas.
- She left the warm confines of her family the day after Thanksgiving to make a snowy drive to attend my little brother’s funeral.
- She does a mean Roger Rabbit.
- She cannot be outworked;
- She calls me on my bullsh*t.
- She is beautifully complicated.
- She loves swimming pools (like really, really loves them).
- She ran a marathon with me.
- She is one of the finest huggers in the known universe.
- She is my “Iron Lady”, but she has one of the most tender hearts ticking.
- She has passionate beliefs in equality and justice.
- She will babysit for tacos.
- She is so incredibly smart.
- She believes in me and I, her.
- Our days and nights in NYC and Vegas are some of my all time favorite memories.
- She is my sounding board and my shelter.
- She gently reminds me when I need to extend grace.
- She is my home and I carry her with me everyday.
Abby is hot coffee and cold beers and great movies and comfortable couches and ocean breezes and warm blankets and sunsets over the Appalachians and perfect days in New York.
She is my favorite things!
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
