Standing in the dark. Looking outside at the icy landscape. A distant porch light coming through the window making interesting patterns on the walls behind me and I’m sure across my tear streaked face. I’m not even sure why I’m sad. Maybe I have been holding in too much. Keeping strong, emotional and conflicted feelings bottled up inside me, which ultimately and without warning, find their way to the surface in the form of tears. Sitting here hours later, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling, I’m still not sure. It seems as there could be a number of possibilities, and frankly, they all sound trite and sophomoric. I think ultimately I miss my friend. My person I freak out to and that by saying it all out loud with, makes it okay. She is dealing with her own issues in life now, and me, the stronger of the two, doesn’t want to burden her with my baggage. I also miss a partner in crime. A man who gets it, you, and loves you anyway. Funny, they both serve similar interests, but very differently. I need them both in my life. They give me balance. They make me honest. They make me a better person.
Why and how do they find me? 
Waking up with a wicked hangover to find my clothes tossed about the room with complete abandon. Open condom wrappers on the floor. Buttons scattered down the stairs eliciting the memory and the sound of him ripping my shirt open and the buttons dancing off the walls. Bandaids on the counter but no idea why. Several wine bottles on the bar. My sweater tossed over the table. A chair knocked over. His shirt in my bathroom and picking it up and deliciously breathing him in again. Snippets of the shape of his body, how beautiful the silhouette was behind the foggy glass of my shower. Wondering what shirt he picked of mine to wear to work. Laying in bed half covered by the sheet hoping he will stop and come back as he passes me on his way out, he does...twice.
I should be in Vegas right now winning. My predictions are spot on. Just a few posts back I dared open up and actually speak about a new relationship. Hinting to its potential and daring to hope but predicting its demise in an embarrassingly defensive maneuver in order to protect my heart and pride. Now instead of the hard press, the daily texts from him wishing me a good day, planning for a date days in advance, hanging out every Saturday for college ball, I get a text that says “I am sorry I’ve been MIA, I’m just trying to figure my life out right now”. And when approached on exactly what this means by asking him “Do you still want to see each other”, as I don’t get hints very well, the response is “I don’t know”. (Sigh) And taken from a writer I lurk after, “It was easy. Love was hard. Love is impossible for me. Sex, though, very simple.”
Cupcakes. At 1:30am. I’m making cupcakes for this man at 1:30 in the morning. There are so many things wrong with this. I don’t bake. I like to sleep. I’m choosing, choosing to make cupcakes instead of open another bottle of wine. I’m getting up early, on a Saturday, to meet him and his friends for college football. Which, actually I really enjoy watching. But instead of running by the store and picking something up on my way to his house, I have decided to make homemade cupcakes to bring. And, pull wine from my personal stock and not something from the store. Who am I??
What is this? A boy, no…a man, opening my heart. Speaking honestly, about wants, and needs and fears so early on in this relationship – so new, it feels funny even calling it a relationship. Why am I allowing my barriers to be penetrated, and so easily? What is it about this man that let’s me speak the truth without fear or consequence? It’s not real. There is a catch. Surely I can’t trust this. 
I’m not sure what has gotten into me.
The feel of his hand on the small of my back. His fingers drumming against my skin to the beat of the music. His body protecting mine against the crowd. Leaning into him, the solidness of an oak holding me there. Holding me present, not allowing me to completely focus on the band. My thoughts dance between the feel of his touch and the feel of the bass reverberating through my body, the mixture of the two is intoxicating. He leans down to hear what I have to say, his ear and neck so dangerously close to my lips that I have to consciously hold myself back from kissing him each time. I fail on occasion.
I love words. So much so, I actually keep a list of my favorites. The list includes words such as beguiling, languidly, cacophony, sybarite and robust. They are more to me than just letters organized, they are feelings that envelope me when they are heard or spoken. They are especially powerful when used by someone I find attractive. In the right moment, they could be foreplay, sexually yes, but almost more powerfully, intellectually. It’s not that I find a “book worm” sexy, actually, it’s those moments when the least expecting of men use wicked smart words. If they take the time to learn and use language they will take the time to learn and use me. It shows inquisitiveness, patience, folly, and drive or dedication. For me, these are adjectives to describe men that I am drawn to. Tell me, what are some of your favorite words?
I want my life to be like stew instead of soup. This statement rolled across my mind recently and I thought how succinct this is. I’ve been going through a life review of sorts. Deciding what is important to me and what should be tossed to curb. And how much my life is wasted on the peripheral and how my time would be better spent on those things that matter. Really, just making thick rue instead of being satisfied with broth
When did I turn 40? When did it happen exactly? I mean it was just yesterday I was fresh out of college trying to find my way in the world. And although I don’t know if I have exactly found my way at 40, I do know that I have at least traveled along a road that resembles the directions I had in my mind. A path peppered with no regrets. But 40 – as a kid it sound so old and at 40 it still feels so young. It’s funny – sometimes I catch myself walking through the house, usually doing something a bit naughty, and think “I can’t believe I own my own home”. It almost feels I’m just hanging out at my parent’s house while they’re out of town. But oh, how I do love being an adult. Not having to answer to anyone (read single adult here), doing what I want, when I want and with no real consequences. I like the freedom of making my own decisions, of being able to choose almost anything and act upon it. It can almost make you drunk with power, don’t you think? It’s a real responsibility to be an adult and some days I choose wisely, others not so much, and still others do it and damn the consequences. Those moments usually make the best stories. Tell me, what do you love about being an adult?
What is it I want to say as I type away here in the dark? The light of my computer screen filling the room and the music loud and filling my head. I love the way music feels. The bass or the thump thump that reverberates in my chest. I close my eyes and lean back into the chair and I hear the music around me, and it, and the memories and images it conjures up, float around in the vicinity of my ceiling. I shrug out of my sweater and take my hair down. I feel the dampness of when I put it up hours before and smell the freshness of my shampoo and imagine the sound he makes when he buries his face into my hair. I catch my fingers stroking my lips imagining him, his kisses, the smiles he makes when I take him into my mouth. I want to see in the dark with those senses that know best. I want to dance to the music around me, its rhythm and ours matching. But alas, I’m reduced to communicating my needs to him via text and unable to relish in the details flooding my mind and body.
