A Woman Can Only…

Today he brings me a CD at the coffeehouse after the lunch rush. There are lots of lovely smiles, little touches. A few pecks. I find him after dinner out on the porch of The Pines and we talk, talk, talk with a few others sitting around, enjoying the view. And later, we sneak back into the coffeehouse after hours (I have the key) so I can study and he can check email. He’s decided against the party, seeing as how it’s a goodbye party for someone he doesn’t know, but again there is that gentle hug goodnight, that sweet turning of the face so that lips can meet.

But I wouldn’t call it a kiss. I wouldn’t call it all anything, really, except a gentle friendship. I can feel myself and how badly my body needs someone right now. Something uncomplicated, something along the lines of cherishing rather than, well, fucking. I really don’t have any interest in the latter, in fact, even the thought of it fatigues my spirit at this juncture. I just need someone to be close with, someone who can reside with me for a little while in that coveted space of bodily appreciation without pressure. Someone who understands that the fragility of new attraction and the ferociousness of new attraction are one and the same, and that both should be treated with respect.

One person who understands that, I think, is my Colorado poet who, incidentally, left a poem for me as a comment on yesterday’s post on Blogger. A woman can only wonder so long about the timing of things without making meaning of it all. A woman can only give so much patience of her heart before giving away its secret. And a woman caught in between temporary attraction and longstanding, unnamed affection, can only hope that if neither is the real deal, that the real deal will soon come along.

Meanwhile, to the page, to the page, to the page.

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