[about the author]
i actually like speaking in front of large crowds. freakish,
i work crossword puzzles in ink.
i am the american nigella lawson. or maybe the american eddie
izzard. can't decide, really.
i would be a really good mom, but i'm cool with being a really
i am sometimes more perceptive than i would like to be.
i am fiercely loyal. sometimes, stupidly so.
i never play dumb. never.
i am way too hard on myself.
i am a change agent.
i sometimes cross that fine line between assertive and aggressive.
i am not afraid to tell people that i love them.
i am militantly pro-choice.
i am pro-adoption.
i know a little bit about alot of things.
i typically enjoy the company of men more than women.
i am capable of being really mean and nasty, but i fight it.
i am a lifelong cubs fan. do not laugh.
i have been known to hold a grudge.
i have hips.
i am not my sister.
i am lousy at forgiving myself.
i am an indoor kind of gal.
i am a bargain shopper. to the point of obsession.
i am 32 flavors. and then some.
when my last relationship ended, i wanted to take my time. to rediscover myself. to strengthen my sense of self. i was determined to feel at ease with myself. alone, but not lonely. strong. capable.
i've been alone for almost two years now. and i feel proud of the changes in myself. the progress i’ve made. the way in which i have come to appreciate things about myself i had long since forgotten. now, more than ever, i feel able to be a partner. i know who i am. i know what i want. what i need.
but, now...lately...increasingly...i ache for the comforts of a relationship. the support. the partnership. the sense of peace that comes from knowing that there is someone waiting at the end of the day.
someone to be my cheerleader. my honest critic. the spencer tracy to my katharine hepburn. the one who gets my monty python references. my obscure movie quotes.
and, of course, there are the other things i miss. the intimacy of being with someone else.
i long for someone’s shirt to slip into while the two of us sit in bed on a rainy sunday morning working the times crossword.
someone who knows about the spot on my back. just below my right shoulder blade. the spot where, if he puts his mouth there everso softly, i’m putty in his hands. and he knows not because i told him. he knows because he found it himself.
someone who looks into my eyes and smiles as his fingertips slowly trace along the curve of my ribcage until it becomes the soft slope of my breast.
someone to put his hand on the small of my back when he leans over to kiss me good-bye.
someone to fall asleep with his head on my stomach and my hands in his hair.
someone to put his fingers on my lips so i can kiss them softly.
someone to tell me that, while he adores my hands, and he gets lost in my eyes, that it’s really me – my smell, my taste, my synergy, the sum of my parts, my eclectic collection of imperfections that makes him lightheaded.
i've worked hard to make myself forget. forget what it feels like to long for someone. forget how good it feels for someone to long for you. i won’t let myself think about how long it's been since someone held my hand. since i buried my face against the side of someone’s neck and breathed in deeply to smell him. since someone put his hands on the side of my face and kissed me.
and then, when you least expect it, someone comes along. out of the blue. with no warning. and he looks at you and your breathing gets shallow. and you fumble with your answers to his questions. and he makes you feel as though it’s just the two of you talking. that you’re not in the middle of a loud and crowded room.
and then, he’s gone.
but not before he has made you ache just a little more.
not before he has reminded you of all those things you’ve worked so hard to make yourself forget.
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