Love is a Spectrum

"Ti-tick,” screams the clock on the wall nearest me. It is hard for “ti-tick tick-tick” me to focus on anything else. The clock is moving erratically, “ti-ti-tick,” clocks shouldn't move with such turbulence. I desperately want to tell the waiter that the clock is in pain and should either be taken to a doctor or put out of its misery. I do neither.

Staring into the mirror across from me, I try to drown out the sound with a mental checklist. My low military-styled cut is faded to perfection all around. The defined curls at the top have an almost balanced number of spirals on either side. The blue denim blazer is perfectly tailored and pressed. It makes my slender frame look broader than it really is. I smile a big toothy smile to check that there is no food in my teeth. All my pearlies are clear; their radiant white contrasts my rich brown skin, which is thankfully clear of stress pimples. The wisp of hair I call a mustache is lined up nicely, accentuating the smooth round cheeks of my baby face. The checklist helps, but I run out of things to check off, and Anwuli still hasn’t arrived.

If I can't save the clock, and I can’t distract myself from its torment, I can at least ask to be moved so I’m not subjected to its cries for help. I run the idea back and forth through my mind for too long. I finally have the conversation diagrammed perfectly as the host walks Anwuli over to my table. I can't hear the clock. For the first moment since being seated, I can't hear the scratching of silverware or clanging of the dishes brought to the kitchen; it’s all quiet. Anwuli stands in front of me, an oasis of stillness; she is beautiful in ways that are both imaginary and real. My mind knows there isn't a halo of light around her head, but it's not out of place. She may not be an angel, but in the serenity she ushers, she’s my angel.

I stand up as she nears me. "A gen'leman stan' at attention when a lady come to da table," I can hear my grandpa say with his gruff, demanding voice. He's the one who taught me how to treat a woman. My parents were more concerned with my other social struggles. They just saw their baby who would struggle in academics, finding a job, and having friends. They didn't think about me desiring to find a life partner.

When I was ten, my grandpa noticed that I'd stare at the girls at the park. "Ya wanna you a girlyfriend don’ya," he teased, poking me in my side. He always poked me in my side; it tickled and hurt at the same time. I never let him know it hurt; I laughed more than winced. Enthusiastically, I nodded yes. No one ever asked me about girls. I didn't think autistic people could have girlfriends or get married. My grandpa laughed a hearty laugh. Crushed, my body sank. I knew I was being silly. His laugh confirmed that autistic people couldn’t have those things. Then, he slapped my back with his giant hand and exclaimed, "I knew ya still an Igbo man!" He wasn’t laughing at me; he was excited that I was interested in girls. He didn't think I was silly; I was an Igbo man. Even though the pats hurt, I sat up tall. I was an Igbo man; I could handle these back pats.

The memory fades as she makes eye contact. "Anwuli!" I exclaim as casually as I can, stepping to the chair across from me and pulling it out for her to sit. "I didn't know guys still did things like that," she replies to my gesture. "Guys may not, but men do." Some form of that line I practiced over and over in my head. My grandpa said, “if's it done wit'aye je ne sais quoi, da outdated stuff I'mma teach ya still impresses.” Anwuli seems impressed.

"Can I overshare?" I ask, taking my seat.

"Sure," she replies hesitantly.

"You are stunning. My mind went blank the moment I saw you. Well,” I pause, reaching for the right words. “That's not completely true; seeing you brought back a formative childhood memory. If you catch me just staring—know I can't help it."

Anwuli chuckles. “ti-ti-ti-tick-tick,” I fight the insecurities that sizzle throughout my body like lightning. I resist the urge to bolt from her laughter.

“Laughter can have many meanings," my socialization coach told me. "People may laugh because they are nervous, they may laugh because you were unintentionally funny, and girls may laugh because they think what you did or said was cute." I hold on to her last piece of advice as I look into Anwuli's eyes. She is smiling; it fills the dimples in her mahogany-draped cheeks; her intoxicating bourbon-brown eyes are also smiling. The smile wrinkles her button nose. It pulls at the corners of her full, boldly painted purple lips.

We sit staring at each other for what seems like a perfect eternity. The waiter breaks the moment with "I’m Sébastien; how are you doing tonight?" in a piercingly nasal and chipper voice. I reluctantly avert my gaze from Anwuli to him. I force my face to smile, "I am in the company of rare beauty. The only thing that could make this night better is a good wine.” Anwuli had mentioned she loved wine the night we met. I picked this place because of the reviews of their wine selection.

Glancing at Anwuli, "Oh, let me guess, you’re a white wine gal, something fruity and sweet?" Sébastien asks.

"Actually,” Anwuli says defiantly, “I'm a Merlot Woman. I haven’t been a ‘gal’ in many moons." She smiles, flashing a lioness’ teeth.

“OK, queen, I feel you! Let me grab you a wine list." Sébastien walks towards the service station. I turn back to Anwuli; her expression is tense.

"Is everything OK, Anwuli?" I ask her.

"I hate being judged like that. And DON'T CALL ME, GIRL!" She rolls her eyes, and as she folds her arms the maroon motorcycle racing jacket’s sleeves squeak. In this moment, frozen in uncertainty, I'm at a loss for words. “tick-ti-ti!” I don't understand what she's feeling or why. I don't have a diagram for this kind of conflict. “Tick-ti-ti---tick,” the clock screams at the corners of my mind. I'm unsure if it's appropriate to ask or if I should move past it. I don't know how to be unprepared. I shift anxiously. I’m starting to disassociate and retreat into myself. I want to fight it and be present, but unknown social interactions require so much energy. I feel overwhelmed by the unknowns; I shut down. Then, this tender, delicate, warm hand touches mine. The feeling of her hand on mine roots me from my shell, centering me.

"Olu, Olu, Olu!" I finally hear her voice. "Did you go someplace nice?" She says it with a kindness and concern that excuses my absence.

"Where could be nicer than your presence?".

"Do you always talk like this?" She pauses. The pause is pregnant, but the delivery is gentle. "Like you’re a character in an old movie?"

"Unfortunately," I exhale. “I spent a lot of time with my grandpa growing up; I learned how to communicate by watching old films. For the longest, I thought this was just how people spoke.” Before we go any further, this would be the moment to tell her I have autism. Sébastien's chipper shrill comes over us, breaking my resolve and putting a period in the moment. "Here's the wine list." I'm relieved for the grating interruption.

Anwuli scans the wine list. "You're fortunate, Ms. Merlot; our boss has a couple of cases of 2016 Chateau Angelus St Emilion he won in a game of horseshoes from the wine shop owner across the street. If you're into Merlot, it’s one of those rare bottles you don't get everywhere. It's pricey, but you can taste the sun that grew these grapes. Honey!" he exclaims with such conviction that I am sold. "We'll take a bottle," I say enthusiastically.

"Are you sure?"

"If you’re a Merlot woman, let's have the best."

"You really don't have to; let’s get something reasonable."

"There was nothing reasonable about you choosing to go out with me tonight; why should reason take hold right now?" I smirk.

Seeing that I am settled, Anwuli stops protesting. I nod to Sébastien, and he scurries off to grab the wine. He is likely excited at the tip or commission he just scored. I'm proud of the gesture. Grandpa said, "A good gesture go a long way in da first impression."

"What made you say yes?" I blurt curiously. She shifts in her seat, pushing her cherry Coke locs from her face behind her ear. Her fingertips trace her delicate rounded jawline to the nape of her neck. The iridescent purple nail polish is like perfectly honed amethyst Crystal. The sheen of her nails heightens the way light plays in constant contrast between the subtle radiance of her bronze complexion and lavender dress. Even in this dimly lit restaurant, she glows.

"Do you want the truth, or do you want a lie?" Anwuli counters with a smirk so devilish I can see the glimmer of horns appear. To close the distance between us, I lean across the small table, "I'm a big boy, truth."

"I dared myself." She pauses— I watch her eyes dart to the side, off and down. That is usually a sign someone feels ashamed.

"What was the dare?" I ask.

“If someone made the boring corporate mixer feel likeㅡ anything, I’d make a connection. The way you asked me out made me feel like the only person in that jungle," she said, meeting my gaze. If this moment could never end, I'd be grateful.

“God, that was a lot. If you run off, just pay for that bottle of wine first," she chuckles. As if on cue, Sébastien returns with the decanted $400 bottle of Merlot and silently begins to pour.

"The moment I saw you—— there was no one else in the room," I say tenderly.

"That!” She snaps her fingers at me, and a eureka moment beams in her eyes. “That right there," she says forcefully, "you say things like that so casually, but you mean them. It's not a line or a trick;” her finger wags at me accusingly, which is a perplexing juxtapose to her words and tone. “You're just speaking your mind. There's no bull– just…" Her sentence trails into silence as she searches for the word. Her whole face scrunched into a tangle of contemplative lines as she thumbs the thesaurus of her mind for the adjective. "Honesty! You have the most honest words I've ever felt." The crinkles on her face have returned to their relaxed state.

Anwuli sips the wine; her eyes roll back as she savors the medley. "He may talk too much, but he under-sold this Merlot. I can taste the sun of a thousand summers."

The ecstasy on her face makes me forget that I hate alcohol, and I take a sip and almost gag. My eyes bulge slightly, and my face collapses into itself as though a black hole has formed in my mouth and is pulling at the corners. I force the vile-tasting acid down. That may have been an even worse decision than taking the sip. The familiar pain sends me back in time.

"I, ACK, hate, UGG, al–co–hol. YUGH!" I blurt, coughing out every syllable. Anwuli holds back her laughter. Tears well up on the corners of her eyes, and her lips pucker, sphincter tight. If her earthen complexion didn't hide the flushing, she'd be as red as a cranberry or the deep rouge of a pomegranate.

I glug down my glass of water on the table. I've lost all composure, and I couldn't care less at the moment. Anwuli passes me her water, and I repeat the process. "YUGK."

"I take it you don't drink wine," she retorts, blotting the corners of her eyes and maintaining the integrity of her makeup.

"When I was like 13, I was at as unfamiliar church with my youth group…"

"Olu, you're going to read scripture this morning." My counselor said matter of factly. I didn't mind; I was good at reading scripture, I thought of it as acting. I could get into character and deliver a riveting interpretation.

"Sure." I shrug with the nonchalance of youth, not wanting to seem like a goodie two shoes to the rest of the cohort, but also not wanting to be disrespectful of authority. After getting my scripture, I sit on this ancient, ornate oak bench behind the pulpit. The crowd of 4-500 congregants begins settling into the pews. Their faces aimed right at us.

Service goes on, songs are sung, prayers are prayed, then comes the time for The Lord's Supper. The trays of bland Matzah bread are passed without complication. But then, the "Fruit of the Vine" gets passed. All of my life, in the many churches I've visited, it has been Welch's grape juice. The sweet, tart, and brash flavor of concentrated Concord grapes was my favorite part of church. It washed away the cardboard of the Matzah.

I excitedly grab my little shot glass and throw it back. Everything went wrong at that moment. The sweet was replaced with bitter, the usual chilled liquid was warm, and the tart was now acid. I force the foul trickery down my throat; my face, my mind, inscrutable.

"Then, then came the pain." I look deeply into Anwuli's eyes. She is aglow with stifled laughter. Having seen my current reaction, she has guessed what's coming.

"The fire of that strong wine meets the fuel of my empty, acid reflux addled, adolescent belly, and a wildfire erupts in my esophagus…."

For the briefest of moments, my mind goes blank. I want nothing more than to double over and vomit. But 500 people are watching me; I've been given an assignment, and the Lord is watching. With a force of will that I've never had to muster again, I sit stone-faced and composed. 20 or 40 of the longest minutes of my life trudge by as torrents of acid burn higher and higher through my body. Eventually, the acid spills over into my sinuses like a lake of fire behind my eyes. After an eternity of internal hellfire, I finally get up to deliver my scripture reading.

"I don't even remember what the text was,'' I exclaim as though it were the most ridiculous part of this retelling. At that, Anwuli can no longer hold in the laughter. She laughs with her whole body. Her arms flail about, clapping disjointedly; her head is reeled back, mouth wide, legs splayed. There was no dignity in her laughter, no composure, no facade.

"Oooooooof." She exhales, composing herself. "No wine for you then," she takes my glass and pours it into her own. "Can't let this miracle go to waste."

"At $400 per bottle, this must be the wine Jesus made at the wedding," I volley back, causing us both to erupt in laughter.

As we gather ourselves, Sébastien returns with dinner menus. "Y'all are having a grand old time. How's the wine?"

"He hates it. It's a character flaw with a traumatic backstory. We're gonna have to work through it in couples counseling." Anwuli slyly answers.

Sébastien chuckles, "There's an older couple over there reminiscing over y'all. They said they laughed like that on their first date. They've been married longer than we've been alive.

“Well, let's get some food in you before you dive in too deep with that wine. We have some delightful appetizers, a scallop risotto, served fancy-like in the seashell…”

My mind is stuck on Anwuli saying we'd work through my hatred of wine in couples counseling. The glimmer of hope that she’s imagined us in couples counseling lights me up inside.

Sébastien takes our orders; I had my order memorized. My socialization coach taught me to research the menu in advance so I could quickly decide what to order at restaurants. I worked out all of my decision maps about the menu before I got to the restaurant. I knew I could get the duck if they didn't have the steak. I called ahead to ask if it would be appropriate to ask that they hold the red pepper oil in the risotto or if I could ask for extra caramelized onions in my salad. When he leaves the table, we have a calm, warm silence. I enjoy the intimacy of the silent gazing we share. Neither of us is afraid to look away. Neither compelled to break the silence with idle chatter.

“When you said yes, the only thing I could think was, ‘How is someone as beautiful and accomplished as you are single?’”

Releasing an audible sigh, Anwuli replies, "There’s a bit of backstory to that.” She takes a sizable swig of wine, steadying herself to tell the story.

“Just before lockdown began, I ended a long-term relationship because I wasn't happy. We were comfortable, but I wasn't happy. I was checking off the boxes." She shifts in her chair. Her body language and tone say she's passionate about her decision. I'm catching a glimpse of the REAL Anwuli.

"College check." As she says "check," she draws a checkmark on the table with the sharp point of her sparkling nail. "Career, CHECK. Car, CHECK! Man, CHECK!" She pauses for a moment. She remembers where she is, saying, "This isn't first date conversation."

I put my hand on hers, mirroring how she grounded my previous apprehension. "I asked for your truth; keep going. In a world where people are often dishonest, a moment of truth on a first date is golden. I find dishonesty challenging to process and more so when I find out the truth. My autism means my mind has difficulty shifting between even subtle changes in reality.

"That's what lies are, people choosing to be gods for a moment and shaping new realities with their words. The greater reality always folds the smaller one in on itself until it breaks. Then we have to orient ourselves to the truth.” I pause, lost in the discomfort of reliving my encounters with liars. “I'm bad at reorienting; it creates so much erratic energy一 so many unresolved questions.” The sentence almost trails off as I realize that I’ve interrupted what she was saying. “Continue. Please, I want to hear more.”

She squeezes my hand in return. "I reeeally liked Malcolm, my ex. I wanted to love him一I also didn't want to continue if I wasn't being authentic. I want to feel something for the person I'm considering spending my life with." She straightens herself in her seat. I can see that Anwuli is confident in whatever she is about to say. "I left him! I paid my remaining half of the lease so he could keep the apartment, and I moved out. I got a place across town closer to my job.

Then Auntie Rona came to town and decided she wasn't staying a month as Uncle Sam promised. A year of just me alone." She pauses. A smile grows across her lips, so full of joy and promise as she reflects on her year. "I hate to say it, but it's been an outstanding year for me. I can't remember a year when I wasn't with some guy. I spent the year with ME!" She exhales the words so emphatically that the people at the table nearest us look over. She's too lost in her monologue to notice; I’m too lost in her truth to care.

"To brag, I'm awesome! I loved me before the lockdown, but now I know I like me. I can be good alone. I honestly— desire a partner," she pauses to find the words. I put my other hand on top of hers reassuringly. "Before— my list demanded that I have someone; now I'm free to choose a lover that makes me— feel." She exhales as though the weight of her numbness has been pressing on her chest. “If the last bit wasn’t enough to scare you off, and this did the trick, just remember to pay for…” she pauses, taking another sip, “On second thought, if you leave now, I’ll pay for the wine. It’s worth the money.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I chuckle. “Your honesty helps me feel safe in this moment.”

"Olu," Anwuli sings my name tentatively, the pitch of her voice raised a quarter octave. I'm sure this means she has a question. I regain my bearings.

"Yes, Anwuli?" I place my hand atop hers.

Her free hand twirls a stray loc. Pensive, she brooches the silent elephant, "Did I hear you mention you are—– have autism?"

The pause in her question was terrifying. It felt like rejection. It felt like "autism" was a dirty word, and she was afraid to be caught using it. If she can't say the word, how can she… "ti-tI-Ti-TICK-TICK," the clock’s distant cries for mercy rise above the oblivion of her comforting presence. I pull my hand away from hers. I wring my hands together as though I'm wringing out a wet sponge. I try to gather my breathing. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in. I slowly release my breath.

"Assuming rejection creates rejection," I whisper to myself.

"Yes, I have au-autism." I'm unable to look her in the eyes; I can't see her face.

She reaches out her hand to the periphery of my view, her's calls to mine. I unclench my fingers and timidly reach for her hand. She interlaces our fingers, and I feel a rush of calm.

"Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria and autism are common comorbidities. The way you asked the question felt like a rejection, and I spiraled. I'm sorry."

"A man look a person in'de eye when he speak. Especially when he apologize. Head up, back straight, right in'de eye!" My grandpa’s voice booms like thunder in my head.

I take another deep breath, "Head Up!" I look up.

"Back straight!" I pull my shoulders back.

"Right in'de eye!" My eyes meet Anwuli's eyes.

"I'm sorry." I offer having regained command of myself. I've seen genteel pity in the looks of others who have witnessed me meltdown, but her eyes are kind. There are only oceans of understanding and compassion.

"You told me there wasn't any place nicer than my presence, so stay here with me." She chides.

I weakly smile. "My grandpa helped me to be confident, say the right things, and make the right moves. My socialization coach helps me to plan and process unfamiliar interactions. But I can't hide behind that forever. Sometimes, more often than most guys my age, I have moments where I can't take the world. Sometimes that world is only in my mind; sometimes, it's the stupid clock that needs a new battery, so it ticks erratically like the death screams of a wild animal.

"Yes, I am on the autism spectrum. Some days I need more support to find my way; other days, I support allistic coworkers breaking complex concepts into concise chunks. And sometimes, I alliterate because my brain likes to start words with the same letter." I chuckle at the last sentence.

Anwuli smiles. "I don't appreciate you making up my mind for me." She says her tone sarcastic—the levity of her double meaning betrayed by her smile. "I'll let you know if I can't handle something. I stumbled over my question because I wasn't sure if saying you are autistic or saying you have autism was ableist. I've heard people use 'on the spectrum.' I was trying to pick, but then decided to use the words you used to define yourself."

I noticed Sébastien was waiting for some time to bring our food over. I assume he could see a moment happening and chose not to break the tension. I look up from Anwuli towards him, giving him a nod of approval. He brings out an array of plates, a daring feat of an expert server. As he explains each dish, his voice drifts into the background, and I notice Anwuli hasn't let go of my hand.