Feels Like a First Date Continued

Old friend from high school needs a name. From here on out I’ll call him Jake. Not in the least because he could be Jake Gyllenhaal’s brother they look so much alike. 

That evening we lingered over drinks. Then we lingered over dinner. Finally we lingered over dessert, still talking. Still sharing mutual memories but from our different perspectives. Brief touches on hands, arms, shoulders were scattered throughout. When the server came by a third time and asked if we needed anything else we exchanged sheepish grins. 

“I suppose we should leave,” I said. 

“I’m getting that feeling,” he said wryly.  

Neither of us moved. I took a deep breath. 

“I want you to invite me to come over to your place. And I want us to have one more drink there and keep talking. I’m not ready for this to be over,” I said.  Continue reading

Feels Like A First Date

When I last left you I was sipping a drink waiting on an old friend from high school to arrive for an evening of catching up. Would you like me to paint you a picture? I need to. I’ve been burying myself in work for ages. Even now I have windows open that are explaining some new social media tips and tricks that I can use to get my business to the next level. But that’s not why you’re here reading…  Continue reading

Choices We Make 

I glimpsed soul mate love. It’s fleeting glory touched my lips briefly and passed. Passion. Fire. Thunder. All these things touching me. And then gone. 

But I found a new path. A new way to be happy. He is steady. He is safe. And he loves me. 

And I love him. 

He is a good man. 

But sometimes I see the passion I glimpsed in others. And I miss it. 

This song plays as I help Nathan wash my car. 

“She lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man

She dreams in colour, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man

Can’t find a better man

Can’t find a better man

Talkin’ to herself, there’s no one else who needs to know

She tells herself, oh

Memories back when she was bold and strong

And waiting for the world to come along

Swears she knew it, now she swears he’s gone

She lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man

She dreams in colour, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man

She lies and says she still loves him, can’t find a better man

She dreams in colour, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man

Can’t find a better man”

And I know that’s true. I won’t find a better man. Maybe the passion will come. I see hints of it sometimes. 

So it comes down to choices. And I choose to stay with this good, better man. 

Packing 

I’m packing a carry-on bag for an upcoming trip  and realized that I am taking more bras than shoes. 

The plunge black one for the low cut cocktail dress. The nude one for under my casual white tee shirt. The black and violet lace bra for the square necklined dress. The white strapless one for the strapless sundress. And finally the sports bra for the yoga class I plan to attend. 

That’s five bras. FIVE! For a three day trip! 

And for those wondering… I’m only taking three pairs of shoes. 

Xoxo 

In the Absence of Plans 

Tonight I try an experiment. I have no plan. Well. That is a lie. I have a plan to have no plan. The idea is to simply begin writing and see what happens. 

I know. It’s an old trick. But I’m still curious. The title of the post just came to me. The Absence of Plans. Funny… On the surface I can appear to go with the flow. And that is perhaps because depending on the situation I often do. Why fight a current if it will take you where you’re headed anyway. 

But often I have deep and well laid plans. Ones I tell no one about. Ones where I have visualed the many paths that can lead to where I want to end up. 

I rehearse conversations. It’s something I’ve done ever since I was a child. Suppose Ashley says X, how will you respond, I would ask myself. And then if you say that, she could retort with X,Y, or Z, the train of thought would continue until I had bounced around how I would respond to a tangle of conversation. All this in a matter of moments. 

I wonder if all that bouncing around in my brain at such a young age developed stronger links throughout regions in my brain, making diplomacy and thinking on my feet second nature. 

Why do people call it second nature? If it’s natural enough to be second, isn’t it really first nature? I digress. 

But I suppose that was the plan all along. 

But oh yes. This is supposed to be a somewhat sexy blog. And I’ve been letting you all down of late. 

No. You will not go reread what you’ve written while you dream up something sexy to write. It just has to flow. 

-pause while I ignore my own instruction and reread- 

Is feeling centered and happy the absence of sexual angst? I ask because that feeling of being on edge, that terrifying delight of almost out of control, is absent. 

Sex is an almost daily (sometimes thrice daily) event. Sometimes it’s quick. Other times it goes on for ages… foreplay to coupling and back again multiple times. But I’m slowly fumbling at something here. 

I’m. Not. Lonely. Every night I share my bed with this man who is figuring out how to show me he adores me. I am happy. 

There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. And not just in the physical sense. Love is like that too. Take it to the very edge… The brink… And it fucking hurts. It’s not happy anymore. 

So maybe I don’t love him as passionately as I have loved in the past. That doesn’t mean it isn’t love. 

He’s fondling my breast now. Perhaps in his sleep… Or not. I will put my phone away and find out. 

My Eyes Changed Color

I looked in the mirror literally moments ago and was surprised by my reflection. Normally my eyes are a peridot green, flecked with yellow and gray. But tonight there is no green to be found. Instead they are almost void of color, like an overcast day 24 hours before storms come rolling in. They were this icy shade of gray when I was a child. The green didn’t show up until my late teens. I wonder what it means. If anything. 

   
 

Marking Time

Shuffle. Step. Shuffle. Step. Shuffle. Step. The old woman eases down the hallway one careful step after another, the constant dance with her tennis-ball-footed walker part of the routine. Oh, the dreaded routine.

Skip breakfast because it’s not served after 9:00. And who wants to get up early for a day filled with the same nothing-to-do schedule? Buzz for help to go to the bathroom. It’s not the going that’s the issue. But pulling her pants up while holding onto the grab bar isn’t something she can do anymore.

There are so many things she can’t do anymore. So many things she misses. It’s a waiting game now. There’s still family to live for, but for how long? Each day is a tick box marked off. One more down. Not as many to go.

What Ever Happened to That Girl?

Jake leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck as had been his habit since he was a kid when he was trying really hard to remember something. He frowned.

Pete took another sip of his beer, watching his friend. He didn’t ask the question. Men just didn’t. If Jake wanted to tell him what he was trying to recall, he would. Simple as that. The two men had spent many hours in companionable silence. That’s what you did when you had a history. You didn’t have to fill it with small talk.

A fly buzzed around the bottle of hard cider near Jake’s hand. He watched it dip and dive in the fading evening light, dancing around the rim. Just as it prepared to land he exhaled with a whoosh, blowing the insect away.

“Rebecca. That was her name,” Jake said, no longer scratching the back of his neck.

“Rebecca who?” said Pete, who hadn’t been privy to Jake’s internal train of thought.

“You know, I don’t think I ever did get her last name. Just didn’t seem to matter much at the time.”

“What time?”

“August 16th, 1969,” Jake said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ahhh,” said Pete, suddenly wise to Jake’s reminiscing, “You met her on the second day didn’t you.”

“Yeah, late in the afternoon when we went down to the pond to wash some of the mud off. She was just standin’ there. Short hair. Biting her bottom lip as she looked at me. Wearin’ nothing but some jean shorts. I’d never seen a pair of tits I wanted to touch more.”

“They were something,” Pete agreed, but now he had begun his own trip down memory lane. Those four days at Woodstock had been life changing for Pete. But not in the way you would expect.

“I wonder what ever happened to that girl,” Jake mused.

“No way to know,” Pete said, as he leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering.

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His Ghost Visited

The Australian came to me in my sleep last night. We walked moorish hills with the sun positioned just on the horizon for hours. He held me tightly against his side every step of the way. His death was never mentioned but it hung in the air like the peircing wane of a boat whistle signaling departure. 

We fell asleep together in a grassy hillside nave overlooking miles and miles of sunset cover country. As I began to wake, slowly returning to consciousness, I felt myself drifting away but could still see him resting peacefully, a soft smile on his lips. 

Was it only a dream, brought on by my conversation about him with a friend yesterday? Or did the tears I shed as I listened to his recorded voice for the first time in ages call him from the beyond to meet me in the golden lit firmament  between his world and mine?