On getting back into it, or getting out of it, or something of such a sort.

I went looking for a muse in a crinkle-eyed architect with affection for hard white lines and poured cement. I stumbled across a red haired charmer studying data security who says she “mostly dates men”. I fell back into the safety of my husband who doesn’t live here anymore. At some point, I have to stop calling him that, husband.

I spent the afternoon on the eve of turning 32 playing poker with 5 people who didn’t remember the rules, betting with blueberries.
I learned to skip stones today. I swam in the river.
I ate a cherry so ripe it bled down my palm while I moaned at its sweetness.
I had a day of blissful, childlike joy.

I did not get sunburned.

The crinkled hazel eyes looked at me and said,

“I have a problem with the color red”

“I can’t look at it anymore after so long staring at screens. For example, that car, if the sun were hitting it I couldn’t even look at it.“

And what am I if not the woman in the red dress?

Evidently, I am an acquired taste.

When I awake on my birthday my husband won’t be there, but he’ll visit for breakfast and some performative cooking. Some obligatory romance. 

I‘ll be sad tomorrow, feeling stupid about the things I said.

I feel foolish already, and full of regret, and uncomfortable with silence. And somewhat ashamed of my bright colors.

 But I did not get sunburned today.

And perhaps it would have been better to have ended the night early. But I am glad I got answers. These days, my heart’s dalliances are more and more fleeting. They just don’t make them like they used to, and so on.