Seat in the Middle

I arrived early—
habit, not calculation—
the middle seat, centered before the lectern,
where the professor’s voice would land cleanly.

A place to listen without distraction.

She appeared, framed in the doorway,
the golden hallway light behind her.

She didn’t hesitate or search.

Walked straight down my aisle
and sat right next to me.

No glance around. No hesitation.

A quiet arrival into the seat that changed everything.

We exchanged the usual—
Hi. What’s your major? First class today?
The blah blah blah of beginnings.

But even the blah blah blah felt different when it came from her.

The unusual thing—
we were both confident.

No fidgeting, no self-conscious glances,
no awkward silences trying to fill themselves.

We spoke as if we’d done this before,
as if the seats had been assigned by something older than the registrar.

I had started eating a dark chocolate bar—
quietly, before the rules could catch me.

No food or drink allowed, but I was already savoring the first square.

She noticed. I offered a piece.

She accepted, smiled,
then reached into her bag and produced my second-favorite candy.

Not the brand. The exact bar.

She broke the Mounds cleanly, offered me half.

Two pieces. One for each of us.

I took it—
and in that moment, I knew.

I was going to marry this woman.

Until then, I’d had no intention of marrying anyone.

But there it was, certain as gravity.

As others arrived, space opened around us—
a buffer of one seat on every side,
as if the room recognized something we hadn’t named yet.

The class commenced.

We answered questions—not to impress,
but because we loved the rhythm of inquiry.

When it ended, I said, “See you Wednesday.”

She smiled. We went our separate ways.

Wednesday. She arrived in pink.

I wore pink too—a new shirt, on sale,
chosen without knowing it would rhyme with her.

Friday. She wore blue. So did I.

The professor began treating us as a unit,
asking questions as if either could answer for the other.

Often, we could.

Saturday. The phone rang.

My mom answered. “It’s a girl for you.”

She had seen my name on a folder, guessed the number, called.

No planning. No scheming.

A quiet leap into connection.

We talked. It was easy.

When it came time to choose classes, I asked if she was continuing.
She said yes. I said yes.

She asked about PE. I still needed one.
She mentioned volleyball. I said I liked volleyball.

We signed up for the same class.

Early spring—I asked her out.

A Cubs game. She accepted.

Doubleheader: Cubs vs. Dodgers.

Not because I knew she liked baseball—
I still don’t know if she does—
but because there’d be a lot of people around,
and she’d feel comfortable.

We sat in the bleachers at Wrigley,
observing others, commenting, laughing.

There are details after that.

We transferred to separate colleges. Reconnected later.
Got married three years after we met.

Now—more than fifty years later—
I still marvel at how it unfolded.

A seat in the middle,
a shared chocolate bar,
a Mounds broken in two,
a pink shirt,
a phone call,
a volleyball class,
a Cubs game in the bleachers.

Two people who kept saying yes to the next moment.

That was enough to build a life.