紐約時報在二零二四年九月刊登了一篇短文， 文章的標題是《十六年的友人， 一夜的情人》
機緣巧合， 我最近讀到了這篇短文。
故事並不長， 講述的是一個男人的一生和一個女人的愛情。 兩個人初見之時， 互不喜歡， 接下來的日子分分合合， 吵吵鬧鬧， 慢慢發展成為一對百無禁忌， 無話不說的好朋友。 在男人患有癌症生病了， 生命就要走到盡頭的時候， 女人陪伴在側， 和他走到他一生的終點。 十六年的友情在最後的時光催化成了愛情。 他們彼此互訴情腸， 後悔著為什麼沒有早一點正視自己心裡已經紮根發芽的愛情， 追悔莫及。
看完這一篇文章， 我在想， 或許這就是另一種「愛情總是會無聲無息突然的降臨。」例子吧。 或許， 人與人之間的相處就是一種依賴的習慣。 風平浪靜， 沒有什麼事情發生， 或許他們的友情不止是十六年， 或許可以延續到六十年。 可是當他們意識到有可能會失去彼此的時候， 感情就像被融合了化學物質， 變了， 那種依依不捨， 滿腔遺憾， 悔不當初， 就會排山倒海地衝擊著他們。 他們的友情長達十六年， 可是他們的愛情短暫一夜。 或許， 樂觀地想，那就是至少他們在最後， 清楚知道了對方的心， 愛情猶如流星， 短暫卻絢麗奪目， 足以照亮在女人充滿回憶的心房。 又或許， 悲觀地想， 他們本來就是一對即使在一起也不可能好聚好散的情侶， 兩個人在最後的互相取暖過程中， 只是一種「水到渠成」的順其自然， 就像一篇寫著他們兩個人的文章， 在最後也要寫上結局， 畫上句點。
原文如下：
「你覺得如果我們是夫妻的話，會吵架嗎？」我最好的朋友傑夫去世前一天問我。
兩天前，我們帶著關於安寧療護和臨終關懷的訊息離開了醫院。那天早上，不到四點，他就推醒了我，說：「我覺得今天就吵了。」
接下來的兩個小時，我們坐在床上，周圍都是文件，處理臨終事宜。太陽升起後，我們冒險到廚房煮咖啡，餵傑夫家消防梯上的鴿子。 「我的鴿子，」他把它們叫做「我的鴿子」。
我笑了笑，擦了擦櫃檯。 「我覺得我們不會吵架。」
「我們會經常吵架，」他說。 「但那沒什麼關係。」
在我們16年的友誼中，我和傑夫確實經常吵架。我很高興地提醒他，他承認我們第一次見面時，他甚至不喜歡我。
「不是這樣的，」他說，「我不是不喜歡你。」
「但你就是這麼說的！」
「好吧，隨你的便吧，」他笑著說。 「我不喜歡你。但我不是這個意思。」
「哦，真的嗎？那你告訴我——你到底是什麼意思？」
我的一個朋友抱怨被蜘蛛咬了很癢，於是給她起了個綽號叫傑夫「其實人」。傑夫回答說：「其實，大多數蜘蛛都不咬人。」他總是反其道而行之，很多句子的開頭都是「其實」。每當我想激怒他時，我就這麼叫他。
然而，在我的手機裡，他叫「藍獵鷹」，這是他用來監視我樓裡一位新鄰居的代號，那位鄰居行為古怪，甚至在大廳裡打盹。傑夫住在地鐵入口附近的街區盡頭，他會在陽台上發短信：「我盯上我們的目標，紅雀。他火力全開，正朝你衝過來。」
我和傑夫是我當時的丈夫湯姆介紹認識的。湯姆和我搬到布魯克林後的一個晚上，他剛從一個藝術家聯誼活動回來，興奮地告訴我，他認識了一位單身父親，他的女兒和我們兩個孩子年齡相仿。
很快，我們就成了朋友，帶女兒們去玩「不給糖就搗蛋」的遊戲，慶祝生日和感恩節。當連續幾天的陰雨天讓我感到沮喪時，我決定開始跑步，傑夫也邀請我一起去。
在那些寒冷的早晨，我會從床上爬起來，裹緊衣服，沿著街區慢跑，發現傑夫在街角等著我，他上躥下跳取暖，我越靠近，他傻乎乎的笑容就越燦爛。我們會去展望公園跑3英里的環形跑道，每跑一英里，就會分享越來越私密的故事。
當他跟我講他新女友的性癖好時，我笑得都尿褲子了。
我們每次笑的時候，都會碰個頭。我是個教徒，鑰匙鏈上掛著一個發光的耶穌像；傑夫是一位無神論者，他在YouTube上聽過艾克哈特·托利的講座。 「我信奉的是精神，而不是宗教，」他說。
「這麼說你不是無神論者！你充其量是個不可知論者，」我回答。 「你是個信徒。承認吧。」
「你怎麼能相信耶穌和占星術？」他說。 「這說不通。」
我是天蠍座，傑夫是雙子座；我們根本合不來。我就是這麼跟他和朋友們說的，湯姆和我離婚後，他們覺得傑夫可能不只是朋友。
「傑夫呢？」在我講述又一次約會失敗後，他們會問我。 「為什麼不試試看呢？」
試試，什麼意思？吻他？和他上床？想到這兒，我不禁打了個寒顫。我和傑夫太熟悉了，彼此之間不可能有任何吸引力。但當這個專欄裡出現了一堆聲稱能幫助人們墜入愛河的問題時，我們決定試一試。
一個冬日的午後，我和他坐下來，互相聊起了彼此的過去、價值觀和抱負。聊完之後，我們照約定，對視了整整四分鐘──然後笑得前仰後合，癱倒在地。
「問題是，」我說，「我們已經相愛了。」
他點點頭。 「我們去玩雪橇吧。」
我望向窗外一月的夜色。 「但現在是晚上了。」
「所以呢？」
我穿上靴子和手套，抓起孩子們的雪橇。到達公園後，整座雪橇就完全屬於我們了。
幾個月後，傑夫得知自己罹患了甲狀腺癌。他沒有聽從醫生的建議，而是開始了一系列特殊飲食和替代療法。一天下午，他因為服用了過量高劑量的大麻油而驚慌失措地打電話給我。我既害怕失去他，又被他的固執激怒，所以沒有接電話。
當傑夫頸部的腫瘤開始影響呼吸和吞嚥時，他妥協了，我們早上的跑步被去紀念斯隆凱特琳癌症中心的次數所取代。經過手術和整個夏天殘酷的放療，傑夫康復了，我們的關係也恢復了，但兩人都受到了損害。
在接下來的幾年裡，我已經記不清有多少次不再和傑夫說話了。通常，都是因為他拒絕道歉的那些不體貼的評論。 （「看看你胖乎乎的胳膊真可愛！」在我因為疫情胖了幾磅之後，他說。）最後一次，他沒有說“對不起”，而是發短信說：「來和我一起看電影吧。」
我感到傷心、憤怒，又很固執，所以我沒有理會他。
但當一個我們共同的朋友告訴我傑夫在洛杉磯因呼吸問題住院時，我毫不猶豫地回覆了。 「藍獵鷹，你收到了嗎？」我傳簡訊說。 「我聽說你在醫院。」
「紅雀，」他回覆。 「我擔心最壞的情況，我的戰友。」
六天后，我搭飛機前往加州。傑夫在洛杉磯國際機場接我，他看起來虛弱無力，但比我記憶中更英俊。他把我摟在懷裡，我們在抵達大廳緊緊相擁。
在我們返回紐約檢查他的肺部狀況之前，傑夫為我們預訂了Airbnb的幾晚住宿。公寓裡有一張大床和一張單人床，當我們換上睡衣時，我突然感到害羞。
「你想讓我跟你一起睡在大床上嗎？」我問。
「好的，」他說。 「我需要你做我的大湯匙。」
我們鑽進被子裡，關掉了燈。我們慢慢靠近，以一種既陌生又自然的方式回應彼此。當然，我們的身體似乎在說：當然應該這樣。沒有煙火。緩慢、安靜、溫柔、溫柔。
「我們應該在我生病之前就做這件事，」第二天他說。 「那樣你就能知道我到底有多厲害了。」
「我們不會再在紐約做愛了，」我說。 「這事兒只有在加州才有。」
「哦不，我們得做，」他說。 「我們會想盡一切辦法。」
回到布魯克林的第一個晚上，我們各自回家了。第二天晚上，我睡過了傑夫凌晨三五點發來的「你睡著了嗎？」的短信，早上七點醒來，收到一條短信，說他鄰居把他送去急診室了。
「我馬上就去，」我傳簡訊說。
「她就是這麼說的，」他毫不猶豫地回答。
當醫生給我們看傑夫肺部的掃描圖時，我哭了。
「我不會治療的。」他說。
那天晚上，也就是他五十九歲生日的前夜，他們就把我們送回家了。
此刻，我們站在他廚房的窗前，清晨的陽光灑進來。我踮起腳尖吻了他。 「我們本來可以一直這樣，」我說。 “我當時到底在想什麼？”
「沒事的，」他低聲說，摟住了我。
「我真是個混蛋，」我抽泣著說。
“你是我一生摯愛，而我一直以來都太蠢，竟然沒有意識到這一點。”
「我覺得事情的發展都是命中註定的。總之，不只是你的錯。我當時也算個戲子，」他一邊說，一邊挑了挑眉。
那天晚上，我依偎在他身邊，聽著他的呼吸。我以為他就要離開了，這時他突然驚醒，重重地把手放在我的頭上。
「你還好嗎？」他說。
我驚訝得笑了。 「是的，我沒事。你還好嗎？」
「是的。」
「我愛你，」我說，心裡明白這或許是他最後一次聽到我這麼說了。
「我也愛你，」他說著，又昏昏沉沉地睡去，靠著嗎啡。
他沒有醒。我握著他的手，直到殯儀館的人來了，他們西裝革履，滿臉通紅，汗流浹背。
在他去世前一天，無神論者傑夫曾說過：「我們來世還會再見。」
到那時，我希望他一見到我就喜歡我。
“Do you think we would have fought if we’d been a couple?” my best friend Jeff asked me the day before he died.
Two days earlier, we had left the hospital with information about palliative care and hospice. That morning, he had nudged me awake before 4 a.m., saying, “I think it’s going to be today.”
We spent the next two hours sitting in bed surrounded by paperwork, dealing with the business of dying. When the sun rose, we ventured into the kitchen to make coffee and feed the doves on Jeff’s fire escape. “My doves,” he called them.
I smiled, wiping down the counter. “I don’t think we would have fought.”
“We would have fought a lot,” he said. “But it wouldn’t have mattered.”
Throughout our 16-year friendship, Jeff and I had, indeed, fought a lot. I delighted in reminding him that he admitted he didn’t even like me the first time we met.
“That’s not it,” he said. “It’s not that I didn’t like you.”
“But that’s what you said!”
“Fine, have it your way,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t like you. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, really? Tell me then — what did you actually mean?”
A friend of mine had dubbed Jeff “Actually Man” after she complained of an itchy spider bite, and he said, “Actually, most spiders don’t bite.” Always the contrarian, he started many of his sentences with “Actually.” When I wanted to get under his skin, that’s what I called him.
In my phone, however, he was “Blue Falcon,” a code name he adopted when we were keeping tabs on a new neighbor in my building whose erratic behavior included napping in the lobby. Jeff lived down the block near the subway entrance, and from his balcony he would text: “I have eyes on our target, Red Sparrow. He’s coming in hot, headed right toward you.”
Jeff and I were introduced by my then-husband, Tom. One night after Tom and I moved to Brooklyn, he came back from an artists’ networking event excited to report that he had met a single father with a daughter close in age to our two children.
Soon we were all friends, taking the girls trick-or-treating, celebrating birthdays and Thanksgiving. When a string of gray days got me down, I decided to take up running, and Jeff offered to join me.
On those cold mornings, I would roll out of bed, bundle up and jog down the block to find Jeff waiting on the corner, hopping up and down to stay warm, goofy grin widening as I approached. We would head for Prospect Park and run the 3-mile loop, sharing increasingly intimate tales with each mile.
When he told me stories about the sexual proclivities of his latest girlfriend, I laughed so hard I peed my running tights.
As often as we laughed, we butted heads. I am a churchgoer and carry a light-up Jesus on my keychain; Jeff was an atheist who listened to Eckhart Tolle lectures on YouTube. “I’m spiritual, not religious,” he said.
“So you’re not an atheist! You’re agnostic, at best,” I replied. “You’re a believer. Admit it.”
“How can you believe in Jesus and astrology?” he said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
I was a Scorpio and Jeff was a Gemini; we shouldn’t get along at all, which is what I said to both him and to my friends who suggested, after Tom and I divorced, that Jeff could be more than a friend.
“What about Jeff?” they would ask after I recounted yet another dating fiasco. “Why not try and see?”
Try, meaning what? Kiss him? Have sex with him? I shuddered at the thought. Jeff and I knew each other too well to be attracted to each other. But when a list of questions appeared in this very column purporting to help people fall in love, we decided to give it a go.
One winter afternoon, he and I sat down and asked each other about our pasts, our values and our aspirations. When we were done, we stared into each other’s eyes for four full minutes, as prescribed — and collapsed, weak with laughter.
“The thing is,” I said, “we already love each other.”
He nodded. “Let’s go sledding.”
I looked out into the January dark. “But it’s nighttime.”
“So?”
I pulled on my boots and mittens and grabbed the children’s sled. When we reached the park, we had the hill all to ourselves.
A few months later, Jeff learned he had thyroid cancer. Instead of following doctors’ advice, he embarked on a series of special diets and alternative therapies. One afternoon he called me in a panic after ingesting too much high-dose cannabis oil. Terrified of losing him and infuriated by his pigheadedness, I didn’t pick up.
When the tumor in Jeff’s neck began to interfere with breathing and swallowing, he relented, and our morning runs were replaced with trips to Memorial Sloan Kettering. After surgery and a brutal summer of radiation, Jeff recovered, and so did our relationship, but both had sustained damage.
I lost count of how many times I stopped speaking to Jeff over the next few years. Often, it was because of an insensitive comment he refused to apologize for. (“Look at your cute chubby arms!” he said after I gained a few pandemic pounds.) The last time, instead of saying, “I’m sorry,” he texted, “Come watch a movie with me.”
Hurt, angry and stubborn, I ignored him.
But when a mutual friend told me Jeff was in an emergency room with breathing problems in Los Angeles, where he was visiting, I didn’t hesitate. “Blue Falcon, do you copy?” I texted. “I hear you’re in the hospital.”
“Red Sparrow,” he replied. “I fear the worst, my comrade.”
Six days later, I was on a plane to California. Jeff picked me up at LAX looking frail but more handsome than I remembered. He folded me into his arms, and we held each other in the arrival lane.
Jeff had booked us an Airbnb for a couple of nights before we returned to New York to find out what was going on with his lungs. The apartment had a queen and a twin bed, and as we changed into our pajamas, I suddenly felt shy.
“Do you want me to sleep in the big bed with you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I need you to be the big spoon.”
We climbed under the comforter and switched off the lights. Inching closer, we responded to each other in a new way that felt both unfamiliar and natural. Of course, our bodies seemed to be saying. Of course this is how it should be. No fireworks. Slow, quiet, gentle, tender.
“We should have done this before I got sick,” he said the next day. “You’d have seen what I’ve really got.”
“We’re not having sex in New York,” I said. “This is a California-only thing.”
“Oh no, we are,” he said. “We’re going to do it every possible way.”
Our first night back in Brooklyn, we retreated to our own apartments. The second night, after sleeping through Jeff’s 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. “you up?” texts, I woke at 7 a.m. to a message saying his neighbor had taken him to the emergency room.
“I’m coming,” I texted.
“That’s what she said,” he replied, not missing a beat.
When the doctor showed us the scans of Jeff’s lungs, I wept.
“I’m not fighting this,” he said.
They sent us home that night, the eve of his 59th birthday.
Now we stood at his kitchen window, morning sun streaming in. I rose on tiptoes to kiss him. “We could have been doing this the whole time,” I said. “What was I thinking?”
“It’s OK,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me.
“I’m such a jerk,” I said, sobbing.
“You’re the love of my life, and all this time I’ve been too dumb to know it.”
“I think things happen the way they’re meant to. Anyway, it wasn’t just you. I was a bit of a player,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
That night I curled up with him, listening to him breathe. I thought he might be slipping away when he startled awake, dropping a heavy hand on my head.
“You OK?” he said.
I was so surprised, I laughed. “Yeah, I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you,” I said, knowing it might be the last time he would hear me say it.
“Love you too,” he said, drifting back into morphine-aided sleep.
He didn’t wake up. I held his hand until the funeral home men arrived, red-faced and sweaty in their suits and ties.
The day before he died, Jeff, the atheist, had said, “We’ll see each other again in another life.”
When we do, I hope he likes me as soon as he meets me.
