The mundanity of you and him

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You are sitting at the kitchen table of the Van den Bosch residence, surrounded by maths textbooks and economics homework. It’s quiet. Serene. The only sounds are the rustling of pages as they turn, buttons pressed on a calculator, pencils scratching answers in notebooks - an accompaniment to your teenage life. Trivial and small.

It could have been any other Tuesday afternoon. The house is deserted, apart from you and Daniël – and Boef, of course. The Bernese Mountain dog had planted himself on his pillow and complained in lazy barks when birds came too close to the window, but refused to get up and do something about it.

In about two hours, his parents would come home from work, and his older sisters would return from field hockey training. You and Daniël would escape the sudden shift in activity by taking Boef on a walk through the streets of Utrecht. Boef would, characteristically, complain. Complain about the length of the walk, about cats daring to share the same cobblestoned streets, about moving too slow or too fast in those signature low grunts that could barely be called barks. The two of you would simply walk alongside him, wandering until dinner time, chatting and philosophising, building dreams of days yet to come.

Your dreams were as different as your personalities. He wanted to travel. Experience the world in all its wonder, see the beauty in every fragment and every moment. Observe and feast. You wanted to understand the fine print of it all. Uncover the chaos caught in rules and regulations, so you could change it. Learn and reshape.

It made sense. Daniël had been allowed to believe in wonder a little longer than you. He never had to skip school trips that didn’t fit in the household budget, or realise that ‘being nice’ had nothing to do with the presents you’d get in December. Not that it mattered, of course. Sjaan, your mother, loved you as much and more than any father, grandparent, or sibling could, combined. She was your best friend and supporter, and together you made it work.

So when Daniël laughs and jokes how one day you’ll find the right obscure little regulation to save the world, you smile and nod. Some afternoons you’d wish you could see the world like he did, see the wonder and excitement. And other afternoons you’d curse yourself for breaking the one rule you promised yourself you’d keep: don’t fall for a straight boy.

And the next Tuesday afternoon, you’d do it all over again.

Daniël clears his throat, and you’re back at the kitchen table.

"Can I ask you a weird question?"

"Sure," you say.

The two of you are like day and night. He’s charming, you’re snarky. He’s tall and slender, you’re rather short and stocky. He’s the kid everyone gravitates to, the life of the party. You’re the kid in the corner that everyone passes by.

"How did you know you were gay?"

He was the only guy in your class who didn’t shun you when you were outed at fourteen. Height of the AIDS epidemic. They called you slurs, called you contagious, said you’d die before graduation. Kids are cruel.

He and the girls hurled back every insult thrown at you. They cycled home with you for months to make sure you were safe. You learned to fight back, mostly with words, and with fists if you had to.

"How did you know you liked Annabel?" you say. "Or Laura? Or –"

"Yeah yeah, point taken." He flashes that smile that had enchanted so many girls (and at least one guy). "So you just knew. Were there really never any girls you liked?"

You lean back, carefully thinking it over while you draw the frown on your face that would imprint itself in wrinkles in the coming decades.

"Dolly Parton," you finally say. "But that turned out to be awe of her talent and style. Shame I can’t pull off that look."

Daniël chuckles. God, you think, it’s not fair.

"And you? Ever considered going both ways?" you ask teasingly. It’s not like you were holding out hope, so better to just rip the bandaid straight off.

"Both ways?" Daniël echoes. There is something in his tone that you think you recognise: too far. You took it too far. (Don’t you insinuate, don’t you dare) Retreat.

"Yeah, like Bowie," you say, suddenly captivated by the contents of your economics textbook, avoiding his gaze. "Must be pretty cool. He gets all the options in the world."

"I guess it is," you hear him say. "Never considered that." There is something in his voice that sounds like music to you. Soft and lively. Like the opening notes to Vivaldi's seasons, played on cello. You know that if you look at him right now, you'd be sure to melt away.

So you don’t. Instead, you look at your textbook, your notes, your pencil scratching down numbers deeper and deeper into the paper until the tip breaks. So much for ripping off the bandaid. Now you know, and you still feel that knot twisting in your chest.

It was silent for an eternity, or maybe just a minute; what’s the difference for a teenager with a heart that aches?

"Could you explain integrals again?" Daniël says, bringing you back to this moment. "I thought I finally got it, but –"

You drop your pencil, gladly taking this chance to move forward. Glad it’ll be the same, still. Nothing lost. Nothing wasted.

You push your chair closer to his, mumbling a what would you do without me, as you lean in to read his notes.

"So, for this function –" Your voice falters. Your heart skips a beat as it shrinks, only to expand in your chest with a wave of dazzling heat as you realise he placed his hand on your knee. His thumb draws small circles on the fabric of your jeans.

Play it cool, Gijs, for fucks sake. Not that you’d know how to do that. This isn’t exactly your field of expertise. None of it is. Did he hear your surprised gasp for air? He must’ve. Do something, at least!

You lean in closer, placing your arm on the backrest of his chair - a move you've seen played out in Sjaan's favourite films. The tips of your fingers brush over his shoulder as you go over his proof.

"You solved that correctly, actually," you say in a voice shakier than you’d wanted. So much for cool and aloof.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I figured it out."

God, he’s so close. You feel his breath on your skin, could count every freckle, every lock of blond hair dancing around his face.

For a moment, there is nothing but quiet and the fast beating of your heart. Then, you feel his lips on yours, and the world falls into place.

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The world has been a dark, dark place as of late. At times, the air in Amsterdam felt thick and dense, as if it planned to crash down on you and those around you. For some, it already had.

You’ve always been the stubborn kind. You wanted to be here. Felt you had to. This was the place and time to do your part. Despite it all.

Sjaan called you almost every night. Daniël wrote cards and letters, chronicling his adventures overseas in the Land of Opportunity. You know he’d always wanted to study in America, and you would never take that away from him. It’s just –

You miss the light he brings.

It was a warm Thursday night when your wish was granted, and he walked back into your life.

You were working the bar at Café De Tandarts when a tall, handsome young man came in. His hair had been bleached even blonder by the Californian sun, his nose covered in more freckles than you remembered. But his smile was the same, charming and bright.

"Howdy stranger," you say in your thickest, fakest Southern American accent. "What brings ye here."

"Heard you served some great spirits," he says, and he winks.

"’Fraid you were lied to, old friend," you say. "Only Heineken on tap. But you know what they say about beer: even the worst pearpiss can be satisfying if tapped by skilled hands."

You grab a clean glass, roll it over your arm like a bartender’s coin trick, and start to tap.

"Oh, I certainly trust the skill of your hands."

You can’t keep the awkward giggle in, and then stumble when you turn to hide your blush. The beer you tap (and promptly throw out) consists of more foam than liquid.

He sits at the bar for the rest of your shift, striking up conversation with total strangers, or chatting with old friends as if not a day had passed since they last spoke. Every time you two lock eyes you feel this pull; a string around your heart or a magnet finding its pole.

When it’s finally time to clock out, you step into a dreamlike haze. The canals of Amsterdam greet you with a new passion, the uneven cobblestones cheer with every step the two of you take. The sky is painted in purples and blues only seen on the pages of a fairy tale book. A little place of wonder, of beauty, the way only he could make it.

You don’t hold hands – you don’t know who might see, might have an opinion to express. You don’t have to. The pull between you surpasses anything physics could define, built from belonging and willpower alone. For the first time in what seems like forever, you allow yourself to dream again. Two beating hearts and a future they could build.

Only when you arrive at your crummy student apartment and you’re placing the two wine glasses you own (or: ‘borrowed’ from your job) on the kitchen table that doubles as your desk, you break the spell.

"I thought your flight was tomorrow?"

"Took an earlier one," he says, opening the bottle of wine he brought. "Barely slept, but I’ll catch up on sleep one day."

The time measured in one glass of wine was all it took; the catching up binding you to another form, with your shirt on the floor and his fingers unbuckling your belt. That night, when you felt his body move with yours in the throws of a mundane ritual, his breath caressing the skin of your neck, his tongue outlining every curve and every corner of your existence, until you are whole and completed and more, so much more than that.

That’s where you find it: a belief in wonder.

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You never thought much about marriage. Sure, you saw yourself settling down someday (with him, certainly). Maybe legally register as partners, or become that couple of gentlemen friends that throw the best dinner parties. Marriage, though, marriage was never really on the table. At least, not for you.

Daniël could’ve gotten married if he’d wanted. If he had picked someone else, someone not like you to spend his life with. You knew he’d always wanted a big celebration. In the deepest, darkest corners of your anxious heart, you wondered whether it was fair you took that away from him. You were the one without a choice. You were the one kept out of that part of civilian life. If he had found a woman, he could have walked down the aisle. House with a garden and a white picket fence. A dog, three kids, ski trips and field hockey training. He would have thrived in that kind of life.

You weren’t made for mundanity, even if you craved it.

You also know it isn't fair to think that way. He chose you as much as you chose him. Your life together was one of a combined making. Just because he could’ve hidden, doesn’t mean he would have been accepted. Being erased is not approval.

But those small pangs of guilt you feel, they are only human. Who wouldn’t wish to spare their loved ones the hurt of exclusion? The uncomfortable jokes from colleagues or dismissive looks from acquaintances? Who wouldn’t wish they could hug or hold hands or dine or travel or simply even exist without a second thought, without a care in the world who saw.

It’s the fear you made his life harder than it had to be. And that your presence in it wasn't enough to make up for it.

That is the essence of partnership, is it not? Love can only carry you so far. Partnership, marriage, companionship of any form; it’s the choice to carry the burden together.

You discussed registering as partners when you moved in together. You could throw your own party, create your own vows and symbols. But that specific ritual, that symbol that held special meaning to him – that would always be out of reach.

Until the new millennium began, and with it a new era. In those final months of 2000, Daniël had followed the news religiously. Read every piece of press coverage, devoured every debate. There hadn’t been a moment in his life he had been as interested in politics as those days, until the law was passed definitively. From April 2001 onwards, the Dutch government allowed legal marriage between same-sex couples. The first in the world.

I won’t tell them how he proposed to you. I know you think back to it often, when you wonder how you’d get through the day. Your own little personal mantra, a symbol that guides you through the dark.

That moment is only meant for you and him.

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You’re sitting at the kitchen table, head in your hands. Uncharacteristically, your briefcase and coat have been dropped in the hallway, discarded. No need for procedures, for putting stuff in the right place, for neatness. For appearances. What does it matter anyway?

The front door opens, and the smell of fresh fish fills the room.

"You got herring?!" You look up at Daniël, who is putting the white plastic bag in the fridge.

"And wine. It seemed like a ‘comfort food’ kind of day," he says. "What happened? They didn’t like your proposal?"

You shake your head.

"It’s over."

"It can’t be that bad," he says. "The Christian parties can’t bury their heads in the sand forever, you’ve got enough –"

"It’s over," you say, definitively. "The policy proposal, and my political career. It’s dead."

"How?" He finally sits down next to you, taking your hand in his.

"I kicked against the wrong institution," is all you say.

"Just like that?"

You nod slowly, then mimic an explosion. The metal of his wedding ring slips over your skin as he massages your hand.

It's quiet for a moment. You’re still processing what you saw today. That life-shattering, world-bending, forever-changing revelation that makes so, so much more sense. A slumbering mass of the unimaginable that changes everything you’ve ever known. How much more was there, hidden under the everyday pragmatism of the Dutch? Under the ordinary events of the ever-spinning world?

You carefully say: "There is something else. I got a job offer."

"That’s good, isn’t it?"

"It’s not the kind of job I can put on a resume."

Daniël pauses. A boyish smile forms on his face.

"You’re going to be a spy?"

"Stop it, this is serious," you say, but the curl of a grin on your face betrays you.

"If I’d known that, I’d have stopped to get olives and gin."

"It’s not like that." You pull your hand back and sit upright. "But it is secretive. Background stuff."

"So do your pro and con thing," he says. "What are the pros?"

"It’s a fascinating subject that impacts our day-to-day so much more than I ever considered. Something new and exciting I can really sink my teeth in," you say. "The department they’d want me for is relatively new, so I can build it up the way I see fit. It’s important work. Essential. I can really make a difference here."

"So what’s stopping you?"

"It’s dangerous."

"Remind me what happened to the last controversial, openly gay politician."

"That’s low. What happened to Fortuyn is awful, but it was an exception, not a rule. And his sexuality had nothing to do with it," you say. "Also, I resent the suggestion we’re politically alike in any way! I am not a right-wing populist! I’m a left-from-centre progressive," you add, gesturing to underpin every word.

"I know, I know." He takes your hand again. "I was just saying that every job has its dangers. What other downsides are there?"

"I wouldn’t be able to talk about my work with you."

"You barely do that now," he says.

"You’re not into politics!" you say defensively.

"And you’re not into the intricacies of marketing, but I can still talk about my day with you," he says. "As long as you can talk to me after a bad day, without the details, it should be fine, right?"

"It’s not the kind of world you can get out of, once you get into it," you say.

"Gijssie, sweetie, I’m going to be honest with you." He pulls you closer. "You’re a creature of habit. You haven’t changed your aftershave since secondary school graduation. The only times you take a step outside Utrecht is when I force you to."

"So you think I should take the offer?"

"I think you’ve already made your choice, and you’re just asking me for permission to make a big life change," he says. "Because it’s too scary to make that choice on your own."

The best and worst moments are the ones when you realise that he knows you better than you know yourself. Worst, because he knows every flaw and every insecurity. Best, because he always has, and he still loves you.

"Maybe you can grow a beard when you’re out of the public eye. Fits with anonymity, and I bet it looks dashing on you." He leans in, planting kiss after kiss on your neck. "Especially when they give you a licence to kill."

"Stop fetishizing my career!" you say, but you’re laughing.

"I’m just saying, I’d make one hell of a Bond girl."

"You would, yeah. You got the legs for it," you say, your fingers sliding over his trousers.

"If you don’t want to be Bond, I can think of something else."

"It’s not spy stuff," you say again. "More like, grey area stuff. Working within the lines of the law in new areas, where the law needs to be defined. Paperwork and bureaucratic procedures. Research."

"Keep talking dirty to me, Mr. Smiley."

"Smiley?! That’s the only other spy you can think of?" you say. "Do I look like Alec Guinness?"

"It’s not appearance that does it," he says as he unbuttons your waistcoat. "He has a certain gravitas. Quiet, proper, and dangerous."

"That doesn’t sound like me."

"Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have that side. I can see it," he continues. "The man in the crowd, slipping in and out of vision. Pulling the strings from the dark, fighting the enemy from inside a filing cabinet."

"You’re really selling it to me, marketing man."

"We all have our talents," he says before kissing you, and you have to agree.

So you took the chance, and took the change. Entered a world of wonders small and large, unpleasant and dangerous. You became the man in the shadows, fighting an unknowable enemy armed with wits and a briefcase full of procedures and regulations. It was a life that fitted you like a glove, one you thrived at, even though you’d hardly admit it. Humility is a virtue in this line of work, isn’t it?

And on the days that glove chafed and the shadows were so thick you could hardly breathe, you got through it because of that man waiting for you at home, who was convinced the world was safer with you in it. And you knew that at the end of the day, you didn’t have to do it alone.

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It’s a morning like most others. You’ve just turned the coffee machine on and are staring out of the kitchen window. Dawn had only started to outline the world and your front garden, which needed a trim and some weeding - put it on the chore board for this weekend.

Daniël had gotten up at six, as he always does, and slipped out of bed to his home office. He’d answer emails or prepare slide decks for presentations about stuff that, in the great scheme of things, didn’t matter. Then he’d go for his morning run, and by the time he gets back you’d woken up.

As you are placing breakfast – slices of cheese on white bread and coffee for you, a protein smoothie and banana peanut sandwiches for him – on the kitchen table, you stare for a moment. Caught in the mundanity of it all. The smallness. Just another morning, like every other.

For a moment you can picture the two of you, sitting around a kitchen table covered in homework material. You remember giddily scrolling through matching wedding tuxedos, laughing at the tacky designs. You recall pouring over your finances when Daniël lost his job during the recession, and you had to figure out how to make it work on your salary alone. You can still feel the soft reassurance of his touch when you addressed the invites to Sjaan’s funeral.

All those moments, little fragments of what made your life what it is today. A place where you share your meals and moments, where you return after fighting, celebrating, making love. Every day again and again.

The spell is broken when you hear Daniël coming down the stairs.

"You won’t believe what happened," he says, still buttoning up his shirt. "They promoted Jan-Pieter to Head of Social Media and Branding."

"Is he the one that complained about his assistant’s pronouns in her email signature, or the one that preached about playing squash like he just got baptised?"

"The one who went on that juice cleanse that made him smell like fermented garlic and called it bio-hacking." He sits down and takes a sip from his smoothie. "You know what his first act of business was? Proposing to rename the team to Social Branding and Platforms. Since that ‘captured the essence of our work better’."

"Ridiculous," you say, guessing from context. "How do you survive these people?"

"Same way you survive all that paperwork," he says. "I soldier on."

You roll your wedding ring around your finger.

"What’s your day going to look like?" he says. "How’s Smiley’s business?"

"Under control," you say, with a small smile. And that is all he needs to know.

You live in a world of abnormality. Of wonders and miracles, monsters and horrors. But you keep them outside of your door. Here, at the kitchen table, the world is mundane. The world is small. And it matters, to the two of you.

So you’ll continue "Smiley’s business" every day, keeping the world going. And every night, you return to a table set with dinner cooked by your husband. And you remember why you’ll do it all over again tomorrow.

For those moments around that kitchen table, and the small, mundane wonder of him and you.