Me, last night, reading that colds are rarely transferred through saliva: Hmmmmmm.
Me, unexpectedly kissed, on a date, anxiously looking for my Uber, after sitting bored on the beach, watching a long, thin strand of clear snot drip from my nose to the sand: I don’t want to get you sick!
Stayed out with him in a foreign city until the bars closed, 6am, on the way back to the hotel, we ran into the ocean, and then I was surprised when he tried to have sex with me because I am naive
In my bedroom, “a spider,” I said, to him, the gentleman caller from out of town, sitting on the bed.
“Do you want me to kill it?” He inquired, testosterone levels perking up, as I was already smushing the creature into a tissue.
I catch myself dancing alone in my apartment, the music loud, the beat draws rhythm from me. I think, “it’s getting late, I should go to sleep,” but when I’m dancing, I’m happiest. “I must be in a good place,” I think. I shake my hips wide, swing my arms left and right, giving in to their moment. I catch my own reflection in the mirror, makes eyes at myself and smile back seductively. I’ve always done this. In my parent’s home, in my room, in the long hallway, the perfect length for pirouettes. When no one’s home, when someone’s home but no one’s looking, in my home, I find me as I lose me in motion and music, I go until I lose my breath, collapse, and spring up again at the next chorus.
I love it, but I think, “how long will I do this alone? How long until I share this warmth with someone?”
I think back to the apartment with wooden floors and wooden cabinets and a playing record player. I’d dance there sometimes. Sometimes freely, sometimes more to illicit giggles and eye rolls from my audience of one. I think of that happy place. That warm, feeling of home. That kind of home I hope to have one day. What a nice memory.
I’m sad that if I spend the majority of my life with someone, they probably won’t spend time with me at my hottest.