Notes from a day in the park with a pretty girl.

I’m sitting in the park with my girlfriend. Our legs interlocked and role playing a table. Her iPad is propped against my laptop. She’s sketching. I’m writing. We’re both pretty indulged in what we’re doing, but I’m not so far gone that I miss the moment: we’re both creating.

She cringes when I call her an artist, the shy woman. Says she hasn’t nearly done enough to earn the title. It’s a very traditionalist way of thinking, fitting for someone with a medical degree. But I, her biggest fan, do not allow it. I think everything she makes is art, and that makes her an artist. The identity is in the trying. The being is in the attempt. She thinks I’m biased. She might be right, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

We get deeper into our work, and move from sitting with our legs interlocked, to sharing a table. I’m in a meeting, working through every line of a report I’ve written. She’s designing a character she’s dreamt about for months. There’s something about doing what you love, in the company of someone you love.

A week ago, I was in a different city, finding stories, a little too busy to move this slow. Next week, she’ll be back in the hospital, saving lives, a little too busy to move this slow. Here in this bridge between our worlds, we bask in comfortable silence.

Minutes go by, and the only words said are with light bumps of our knees. Or her feet stretching across mine. Here we’re more than our school degrees. Just people pouring our innermost selves out—I to a blank page, her to a blank canvas, both of us to each other. I could live in this moment forever, I think to myself. I don’t think she knows what this means to me.

As the day draws to a close, she finds a swing and I watch. Yesterday, I taught her to swing all by herself. This is sad, because I like to push her (don’t tell her this, obviously). But also nice, because now I get to watch the sheer joy on her face as she swings. I can count on one hand the number of things that make her this happy. I chose this place for our time together because I knew she’d love to swing. Or, more selfishly, because I knew I’d love to watch her.

There’s something cruel about the way time behaves in the moments you want to last forever, how it both slows and speeds up at the same time. Slow enough that you can feel each moment slip through your hands faster than you want to let it.

And then, too soon, it’s time to go.