I spent the day the other day in bed watching movies. Sure, I got up for meals, to let the cat in and out, to spend a bit of time on the phone with the Estranged One, but overall it was cozy and warm and just a bit too self indulgent. The weather outside was perfect for the event, blustery and grey and far too cool to interest me in walking or second handing. It was something I needed to do, long overdue. The only thing missing was you and sending out for Chinese.
It was a serious departure from that morning I spent in the sack with Mi Novia Ex last September, the one that capitalized on my new employment status. That morning, that sexless but loving six hour soujourn to the South of France, has to be, after all these years of wild and crazy moments in bed with lovers of all kinds, probaby the nicest morning I've had since I can't remember when. Why would that be, you think? I didn't walk downstairs sweaty and sex satiated. I didn't feel anything but sober and happy. I didn't feel cheated, used or abused. Frankly, I was just feeling perfect about life. I laughed all morning long, watched the sun brighten the inlet, smelt the warm fragrance of friendship eminate from underneath my bedcovers. We didn't share champagne but we did coffee and bagels, instead. We didn't get crazy but made each other feel like humans. She had an art show to do that day. I made plans to meet her there later. It all worked out the way that it was supposed to. A perfect end to a friendship.
I look at that day as the imperfect bookend to what I pulled off on Sunday. It was a set of days that, except for you, completed my fantasy package of what that bedroom of mine is supposed to be used for. I look at all the times and opportunities we had to make love, but how we instead used that bed of mine for a magic carpet of sorts. We nibbled on Dove bars, poured over sick room gifts, quibbled about books, recipes, movies and life. We exchanged hearts, so to speak, there on top of my sheets, and we laughed at the wildness of what we couldn't ever possibly share. But what we did share, what we chose to share between us was far more powerful and bittersweet than anything two standard sordid lovers inbetween the sheets could ever possibly do.
We exchanged words in my bed that, to this day, when I think about them, makes me soar, blue and winsomly happy, happy in that bittersweet kind of way that only a good novel or a grand European art film can do.
I spent the day watching film the other day, wishing only for takeout, a bit of a sunbreak and you.
Your WHMB
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