Molly said she could stand on one toe for seven minutes. She said she once walked across Death Valley with only a sundress, T-strap sandals, and a sunhat. She said her parents met while working as spies in northeast Germany while spying for competing candy manufacturers. Molly said a lot of things. I could listen to her tell stories forever and not tire of her voice. One thing she said that would forever smolder in my heart was that she loved me. 

I've heard that phrase before and after Molly entered my life. She first told me she loved me when we were at the fair, spraying water into the mouth of a clown to win a $2.00 stuffed turkey (it was almost Thanksgiving), and as my balloon filled faster than the others, she whispered in my ear those beautiful, haunting words. "I love you." 

Of course, I acted as if she had just told me she loved yogurt or Yoo-hoo or some other inanimate object instead of me. I considered myself to be an imitation of a worthwhile companion. I was 23. So was she. I was starting my first year of graduate school. Molly was a free-spirited artist who made her living bartending at a place popular with college kids. I met her there one night while waiting for my blind date to arrive.

It had been a relatively slow night for her, so she spent more time than usual talking with me while I waited. When my drink would start to run a little low, she would promptly refill it without question. My words were beginning to feel a little loose. Maybe I had been more than a little buzzed. Perhaps I finally found the kindred voice I needed for me to speak honestly for the first time in my life. Either way, Molly was perfect for me. 

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Did I mention she was far cooler than I was? She wore a leather jacket with patches of punk bands sewn to it and worn jeans unironically. She kept the jukebox going while we talked, playing incredible music I hadn't heard before. I felt like I was peeking behind the curtain of a subculture I had always been curious about but never courageous enough to explore on my own.

She helped me home after the blind date didn't show. I lived a couple of blocks away at the time, so it wasn't like I had to call an Uber and all that; she just accompanied me home. We talked about why someone would skip out on a blind date — why they wouldn't even text — it seemed like we had been best friends since I first learned that I wanted a best friend. She was my person. I've always believed cats and dogs have a person, and people are the same way. I immediately identified her as mine. I get chills even now when I write the words: She was my person.

Molly invited me to a closed bar event later that same week. I went, hoping we would connect as deeply as we had the first night. I didn't want to think of her as being my one person if it were just the alcohol talking. 

When I arrived at the bar, the doorman couldn't find me on the list. Of course, she would have forgotten about me by now. Why had I even gotten my hopes up? Molly suddenly appeared like a dream. My name wasn't on the list. She listed me as "That one who got stood up and drank far too much, basically forcing me to go home with her."

"How the fuck was I supposed to know who that is?" Gerry, the doorman, grumbled at her. "You weren't. I couldn't have made a perfect entrance to save the damsel in distress if the list had just said, 'Claire' or whatever. Plus, and Jesus, kind of sorry about this, I totally forgot your name."