Journal, August 12
I connected with someone on WordPress. A writer. An actual writer, that’s his job. A technical writer, but still. There’s so much I don’t know about him, but so much doesn’t really matter. I know he is married, two kids. She is younger, younger than me. And he is older than me, by about ten years.
Will this keep me from my writing, or will it infuse my writing? Is it an asset or a liability? Those questions plague my mind while my heart flutters with joy. Someone to talk to about writing. Or anything else. And how important is my writing anyway? Not as important as connection.
Since we met, he has hardly posted anything on his blog, and neither have I. It’s a flurry of emails between us—ingratiating and warm. And so very welcome. I’ve been so lonely as a writer. As a woman. I’ve missed this feeling.
How can I make it work this time? How can this be sustainable? This could be even better than before if I work it right. I love the way this is exploding my carefully organized days.
We spent the entire day together online yesterday. I know that sounds crazy but we did. A part of me wonders if he has done this before. And the whole of me truly does not care.
Hot House Flowers, Part 3
“We should get some fresh air. Let’s go for a walk.” He lays down the bills on the bar, placing his other hand against her back in a paternal manner as she stands to join him.
They stroll the perimeter of the property as the sun makes it way down the far corner of the western sky in blinding orange and red.
“I wasn’t expecting to feel this way. So instantly connected.” He glances over for her reaction.
“I know what you mean. I am still processing it…trying to decipher the message contained in this magnetic pull. It’s heady, but I don’t trust it.”
“You don’t trust your own desires?”
“I tend to leap before I look. I get caught up in the momentum…and I don’t want to do that. Not this time.”
“This is different.”
“Yes, this is different.”
“I yearn desperately to be known…to be witnessed. To be acknowledged.”
She knows all too well the false intimacy created by jumping the gun. The fruitless bartering of sex in exchange for love. But up until now it has been the only action available to relieve the aching insecurity and psychic terror of true intimacy.
“I’m not looking for love. I’m not looking for sex. I’m looking for something bigger, more sustainable, more powerful than what two bodies can create.”
“You are a fascinating woman. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have certain thoughts about you.”
She smiles knowingly, jostling his arm with hers, breaking his step.
“Intense, but fleeting, though…as you said. So, we’re going to have to ride it out.”
“Is there another option?”
She stops walking while he continues striding ahead a few steps before noticing she’s not there. He turns around with a quizzical look.
“Here’s the thing. The most important thing.”
“Should I get out my notebook?” he laughs at her suddenly serious expression.
“I am loving this thing we started. I don’t know what it is, but I know that I want you in my life. I want a friend, a mentor, a brother, maybe even a father, I don’t know.”
“Wow, that’s not a tall order at all. You want fries with that?”
“Listen, I’m serious. This is everything.”
“Okay, I’m listening.” He sits down on the concrete wall outside the hotel lobby. She sits beside him.
“I want to wake up every morning the way I do now. Excited to talk to you, to read your words. I want to go to bed every night anticipating the next day so we can keep sharing just as we are now.”
“I feel a but coming on.”
To be continued…