We Only Have This Moment

When the words left his mouth—softly, almost reverently—I felt tears rise.

We were seated outside at the Columbia Restaurant on St. Armands Circle, one of my favorite places. Even in the warmth of a June afternoon, a gentle breeze moved through the courtyard. Before our meal arrived, he wandered off in search of the restroom and returned a little later, delighted by a brief detour through the gift shop. He loves to browse, and the quiet pleasure on his face made me smile.

This would be our last meal together before I drove him to the airport, closing a weekend that felt both intimate and unhurried. It was our first extended time together after a handful of earlier dates in cities we both love.

We only have this moment.

He returned to the phrase again and again over the weekend, not as a warning, but as an invitation—to stay present, to notice the small details, to let each breath and each touch be enough. Less than a year had passed since he lost his wife, and in the spaces between us I felt a reverence for the life he had lived and the love he still carried. It made his presence feel especially rare.

Many of the men I spend time with are accomplished—intelligent, successful, interesting in their own ways. Some are charming, others reserved. But this man stood out for something quieter. An emotional fluency I don’t encounter often. “I was raised by women, for women,” he said once, simply. And I believed him.

I will always remember that weekend, and the calm intimacy of that afternoon. The warm, garlicky croquetas. The peach sangria, light and effervescent. The faint trace of jasmine in the air. Everything felt slightly heightened. But what remains most clearly is the feeling of being fully present with another person—of meeting each other in the brief, beautiful truth of now.

It is moments like these that remind me why I value this work so deeply.