It was Christmas night, I was 19, and my friend Carmel called. “Are you done with your family stuff?” she asked. Being done with family stuff was my personal brand, so her call was an instant salve. Then she said: “Clif wanted me to ask you to come out. We’re going to Legends.”
Legends was a nightclub of near-last resort in the Canadian city where I grew up. There were worse places to go – the Boom Boom Room, for example – so it was lucky that Legends was open, even on Christmas Day.
Clif and I had met a few nights before at a house party hosted by Carmel, who was also his flatmate. I was sitting on the floor with my friend when Clif walked in. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but his plans had fallen through, so he came home to join the gathering of uni mates.
As he approached, I tried to calm my racing heart, certain this beautiful person was coming to talk to my friend. I was accustomed to boys talking to her – she’s always been enchanting – but when he spoke, he looked at me. I don’t remember what he said but I suppose we imprinted on each other, because when Carmel invited me out on Christmas night it felt as though fate was calling.
I arrived at the nightclub and descended the stairs to a low-ceilinged room that smelled sharply of celery salt and beer on ageing carpet. Outside the air was crisp and dry but inside the sweaty, panting dancers exuded a humid fog.
Clif and Carmel sat at a high table to one side of the dancefloor, surrounded by a small crowd. Clif bought me a drink and an awkward silence settled between us. I had half-expected cockiness from this Clark Kent lookalike, all dark hair and blue eyes framed with thick lashes, but instead I got charmingly shy. If I was interested at that point, the next moment sealed the deal. Asking me to dance, Clif took my hand. I’d never felt a palm so sweaty. I was smitten.
For the next few months we were inseparable. We stayed in his bed for days, surviving off Christmas chocolates and getting to know each other. If we emerged from the room in search of better nourishment, Carmel would roll her eyes, probably regretting her part in creating this loved-up monster.
At the time, I studied Chaucer at university and had a part-time job rearranging teddy bear displays in a toy store. Clif skateboarded, filled sketchbooks with drawings and drove a delivery truck.
The years that followed weren’t always smooth – hearts that love so intensely break hard – but moving to Australia cemented our future. Careers were wrought, abandoned and reforged; the three best boys in the world were born. All of them are well on their way to being much taller than me, just like their dad.
Our relationship has endured through a lot of change . After homeschooling and working in a two-bedroom unit during Covid lockdowns, we decided to move back to Canada. I lost two parents in agonisingly quick succession. The grief, the international move and the relentlessness of parenting in chaos were almost our undoing.
This year marks a quarter of a century together. We’re back in Australia again, in the Blue Mountains. The boys play in our big back yard that we share with a wallaby and possums. Clif found community in a local church; I’m finally writing that book I’ve always meant to write. We share an office, we go for bushwalks, we try to make time for each other.
I’m still smitten and I know he feels the same even if, when I hold his hand, it’s almost never sweaty.
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