In the process of moving out of my office I came across a lifetime of mementos. A postcard from Mexico caught my eye. I flipped it over to see who it was from. Chris. It didn't ring a bell. So I read the note:
"While you are standing at your till being harassed by Gary and his nephew, I am sitting out on the veranda eating shrimp, drinking beer, and watching the surf crash against the beach. While you are sitting in that dismal employee room chainsmoking, I am swimming through jade colored waters, amongst bright colored fish and swaying seaweed. But wait! I am coming back. I sent you this to show you I really do like you. I will become a doctor. I will give you foot massages. I will give you Valium. I will give you codeine. I will give you phenobarbital. Wait for me -- Chris"
That may well be the most romantic missive I've ever received. I believe the author was a busser at the Mallory Hotel, where I worked as a maitre d' during my college summers. I wonder if he became a doctor; it seems he was a talented writer.
Last Valentine's Day I received a small card, it was bright pink and had sparklies, which means some thought had gone into covering all the girly bases. I'd rebuffed the guy, so the note was particularly amusing: "Happy Valentine's Day. Whatever."
I miss being in love. That feeling of exhilaration. Having someone to cook and bake for. Sleeping next to someone who just "fits."
Hopefully, one of these days I will find a guy who "fits" and we will both have a sense of urgency about being together, a realization that time and connections are fleeting. Yet I don't want to be the center of anyone's universe; I can't handle the responsibility.