Love Is Small

By Erin Deborah Waks

I watched a couple fall in love today.

I was sitting on the balcony at the Tate, absently reading my book and drinking my coffee, when I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. And, naturally, I couldn’t help but pay attention.

I pretended to read my book and listened to them talk for an hour.

He shared a story of heartbreak, of mental health, of the darkest time in his life. They teased each other for their choice of tea: hers peppermint, his hibiscus. He held one of her hands as she fiddled nervously with a cigarette in the other, and I watched as they paused awkwardly, running out of things to say but wanting to say everything.

I listened to them talk about nothing and everything. Why is it, when we fall in love, we share both the biggest parts of ourselves and, almost in the same breath, the small, silly things?

It was a meaningless conversation intermingled with a meaningful one; it was about love and heartbreak and pain, but also the joy that can be found in the ordinary. The gallery she’d clearly dragged him to, him only conceding because of his growing affection for her. The way they both grappled for things to say, teetering between frivolous anecdotes and emotional revelations. The subtle kicking of each other under the table, inconsequential to the rest of the world but so much more to them. 

Love is big. But it’s found through the really, really small.