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She had put the ball back in the yellow cup. It was silly to give up something she liked to stroke just because the giver had rejected her. Besides, the season was coming up. The birds sang it.
She only played catch the one time, but it felt like it could have been a regular thing. All of it confused her. There was a query in the 'dating over 50' sub - Jesus - she followed and it asked how love was different at "our age" than before. She wished she could have said, "oh, it's calmer. You just like someone and it flows. you don't care about any of that drama or heart stuff." She would have been lying. It fucking floors you - just like before.
She had hung on like a tick to a moose to try and keep him - even trying the theater. She was a huge fan of Khalil Gibran like all sensitive wannabe writers are - something like "oh human, should love choose you, don't quibble, hold on as much as you can and ride."
It did her no favors as she sat in her overdue widow's weeds. She had kind of sucked at love - the part where you voice all your thoughts and get all vulnerable and probing tongue licking. She had to stop herself from getting super pissed. Although she had played with someone, he had been the first person she'd loved since fucking miles fucking Davis - and they'd been the same type: brilliant, deceptive/light, and distant.
She knew Leon was someone who felt pretty deeply. She also knew that whatever it was, she wasn't going to be privy to it - had to take her ball and stroke it until the cowhide fell off because there's - oh god - how sad. Hopefully, the illusion of him would whither. She reminded herself that she grew out of two others - or rather stopped seeing them from the vantage point of a kind god - and more like a scorned mutt. Men tried. Women tried.
Things change. She was probably going to be a terrible writer for a while - no strong emotions to ride upon, yet whatever, she wrote. When she paused, when she let herself feel instead of being flippant and callous to protect her tender vein; the only regret she had was - fuck so many regrets - but chiefly that she hadn't realized she was operating from ancient wounds. He had been her first love since the hell marriage. give it a break.
Mockingbirds were so mean. There was one that owned the bush out of her writing window. It had just chased a cardinal couple away. The Norfolk Pine was still barely alive, but she could see it was on its way to a thorough death.
She wasn't going to leave you hanging about Haiti/St.Domingue. The tragedy and the fascination with that particular jewel of the Caribbean was that people had loved people - even though the power play was always in place - hadn't women always been aware anyway - except in Eleusian mystery times maybe - of the deal - man got the power. But it always intrigued her that an entire class/segment of people were the mixture of a master loving the product (and maybe the conduit) of a relationship with someone they owned and refused to let them be back in the mire.
"you think too much."
"that's what beer is for I guess."
"you drink too much."
"you feel too little."
"I love you"
"I know".
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