I guess I go through stages of writing. Stages of wanting to write, needing to write, and struggling to scribble every single observation and event in my flimsy notebooks. I also go through stages of simply living.
The past year and a half have been very nice. For example, I am more or less engaged. The ring on Christmas morning will not be a surprise. Although I did not pick the ring, I requested the stone—aquamarine. He says it’s almost as beautiful as my eyes. I hope it fits my birthday and my ridiculously accurate Pisces attributes.
I have not written much about him, or us. I’ve just lived the forehead kisses, the unexpected orgasms, and the tearful confessions under flashlight lit bed sheets. Sometimes I am afraid that when I am old and gray, these moments will be forgotten and gone.
So we replay the first. I sit on porch steps and ask if he remembers. He places his hand on the back of my ankle to confirm that he does. We wait, looking at each other from the corners of our eyes, talking nonsense.
I say, “This is about the time I leaned down to kiss you.” And I do. We kiss slowly and release. He smiles. I say, “Actually, you practically mauled me with your eagerness.” Still smiling, he grabs my breast like a door knob. We both laugh. He takes his hand away.
We put our foreheads together, and I think of the cliché ceramic swans that always form heart shapes. It’s better sober. It’s better with love. I still miss writing, but it’s always a struggle without drama.