July 22, 2003
Pasta and Solemnity
I like streets that have more than one name. Some know it as This, others as That, but it still takes you to the same places. I'd like to think I could be like that, assuming a purpose for each person I encounter, and yet remaining unchanged, the same.
I was driving home, Ani Difranco cranked up to drown out the sounds of the wind pushing at my windows as Spartacus barreled along at 60 mph, and I just wanted to keep driving. I was tired, in body and mind, but a small, generally dormant part of me wanted adventure, introspection, no matter the hour.
I want to drive into August, September; 2004, 2005; I want to see Mike and I, what kind of shoes we are wearing, how we have cut our hair. I want to see plans laid out like blueprints, degrees to be won and fortunes to be made, I want to see the two of us, together, hands and endeavors joined.
I could barely make myself come home tonight. I hung onto him, my lips seeking his, my tongue pulling his into my mouth. His hands followed, sliding over my hips and up my shirt, fingers pressing themselves into my spine, intercepting the signals there so that they could be shared.
Our bodies conducting electricity on this, one of the few stormless nights we've had.
I feel full of something, but I'm not quite sure what it is. Certainly not that grilled chicken pasta, nor the chocolate cake that followed. Something more like creativity, or madness. I forget sometimes how young I am. Must come from driving like an old woman.
There are things I like about being alone. I like shopping alone, writing alone, watching Star Trek: TNG alone.
I like listening to Ani and driving the speed limit (and sometimes slightly under).
What do I like most about being alone?Knowing that he is, too, and it makes him all the happier to next see me.
I like knowing that I don't have to be.
astera at 12:59 a.m.