Dear Diary,
The past month has been hard, full of uncertainty and stress and a nightmarish dose of fear. In the last four weeks I sold and bought a house, changed cities, and interviewed several times for a new job while struggling to show up and be mentally present at my current one. Lover has been ill, exactly at this crucial turning point, and so I handled everything alone, without even a shoulder to lean on for fear of catching whatever cooties he was harboring. With so much going on, I simply could not afford to get sick, too.

It was strange and lonely; our relationship felt exhaustingly long distance, even as plans were made for future events. Lover was pale and fatigued, dark circles rimming his light blue eyes as I dropped by to re-stock food supplies and help out with a few chores. Our super-charged sexual tension transmuted to something gentler, quieter, more suited to the sickroom.

Waiting and waiting–my whole life, I have always felt that I am waiting for something, even while barrelling forward into the future.

Then last night… We had plans to go out, but I was exhausted when I finally showed up. He was still wrapping up his work day, gave me a kiss and a squeeze as he headed off to take a shower. Usually I would have followed him in, or at least watched from the couch. But I was cranky, and cold, and I felt strangely separate from my surroundings. So instead I went to his bed and curled up, clothes and all. I thought maybe I just needed a quick nap to re-set while he washed up.

Weeks of insomnia weighed heavily upon my eyelids; I was asleep within moments. Until I felt his hands gently pushing aside my heavy hair, soft kisses on the nape of my neck… Blearily I murmured, “I–sleeps” but his hands kept moving, sliding down my pants and slipping into my underwear, jolting my sexual center with an exploratory finger, then two, and a craving to feel him on me-in me-with me exploded inside every nerve ending like a nuclear chain reaction, like Armageddon, like there could never be enough of his mouth, the taste of his skin, his breath in my ear whispering, “Yes, ohhh, I love it when you squeeze me tight, deep inside.” And I couldn’t say anything at all, immersed in every sensation, as I panted his name, over and over again.

Later, much later, we showered and headed out to LowBrau for a late dinner and drinks. As we walked along 20th Street, I admired his new leather jacket, a custom order from a Kickstarter based in Pakistan. Stroking the soft leather and making off-hand sexual references out of nothing at all, I marveled at his silouhette, bright glimpses under the street lights and then shaded by shadows. Lover is really, really handsome, I thought, and for a moment I felt shy, almost awe-struck. Something echoed inside that empty warehouse I used to call my heart…but I refused to listen.

I am the cat who walks alone, I reminded myself, and all places are alike to me. Yet that warm feeling, like Christmas morning, persisted, as if–as if–

Then he turned and said something that made me laugh, loud and free and entirely un-graciously, and I forgot everything else.

We are together; what else could there be?

For now…