Through the fog they come drifting in and out. I strain, stretching my fingertips towards them, aching to capture the will-o’-the-wisps before they slip into the night. But they dance just out of reach, leading me over the tangled roots and mossy undergrowth of my mind. I follow, brushing away the branches of distraction, determined to capture them. I’m so close. They pause in a misty clearing, as if waiting for me, finally ready to accept my claim upon them. At last! The words flow and sentences form. I push up my sleeves and rest my fingertips on the old metal keys, preparing to type the words I’ve struggled to find. But alas. There is no paper.
I have nothing to write about. Or so I thought.
Then I remembered how I felt on Wednesday when Mr. Intrigue shared his excitement about an upcoming date—his first real date since we started talking several months ago. He and I have not met in person, yet I’ve come to depend on him for emotional support in so many ways. Never once has he let me down as a friend and confidant. Due to distance and some other factors, I doubt I will ever know the joy of being in the same space, breathing the same air and touching the face of this man. But that does little to negate my feelings. I care for him deeply. Which is why, upon hearing about his date—with a sexy little twenty-five year old nurse no less—I felt ugly, green envy rise from my chest. Mr. Intrigue should date. He deserves a relationship with a wonderful local woman. I know all this. But inside I was stomping my well heeled foot and throwing china against a brick wall, a picture of bratty, juvenile defiance. Because I wanted to sit beside him, listening to the band play while sipping margaritas. I wanted to tentatively reach out and hold his hand. I wanted to be the one he kissed goodnight. Continue reading