Asperger's

He told me after the first date that he had Asperger’s.

He was always dropping plates; he’d spilled wine in my lap

so we had to leave the restaurant early.

Instead of putting my hands up, a white flag, surrendering

and saying Oh god, look at the time, I’d better go,

I set up a signal fire in my backyard to let him know

that it didn’t matter to me.

Sometimes the skyline seemed so far away

that he’d stand outside on the roof of our New York City apartment

as close to the edge as he could get, just to see

if he could touch the stars.

I held on to the back of his shirt.

Sometimes I came home from a long day at work;

I just wanted a fucking cheeseburger and some fries

and someone to rub my back, but he didn’t know what to do

when I was upset. He’d stand there, arms at his sides,

the color of his confusion seeping through his cotton t-shirt

like paint. I know you’re sad, he’d say, but I don’t knowwhat to do.

That’s okay, I’d say.

You don’t have to.

During winter we threw snowball fights, built igloos,

drank hot chocolate. When we went to cocktail parties

I practically had to drag him out of the house.

Then I learned how hard it was for him to even

walk down the driveway to the mailbox.

We made a compromise: for every step he took from the front door,

every damn step, I kissed him.

Sometimes he cheated and took a few baby steps

just to get a few more kisses.

I obliged willingly.

After the 47th date, in the bathtub, he lit candles

and placed them all around the bathmat. There were rose petals

floating in the water like lily pads.

You know, I have Asperger’s, he told me,

wrapping his arms around my waist.

Do you still want me?

Every time, I said.