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Or better yet, call her. People make phone calls still, right?
1:00pm
It’s been three hours and nothing. I’m starting to get worried. She wouldn’t have just not shown up.
11:30pm
Near midnight, I finally get a text from her.
“At my parents, she says. sorry, i can’t really talk. i had some family business come up unexpectedly.”
And that’s all I hear from her.The good thing is that David has a business trip soon to San Francisco where her parents live. So maybe he’ll be able to find out something?
* * *
23
Kitten and Evil Blankets
An open letter to the person who says romance is dead,
Carry on, dear soul. Romance may be dead for you.
I must be one of the fortunate. I collide into romance daily; in rare, heartfelt cinematic moments; my friends’ lives; stories shared with me; the daily good morning and good evening text from my friend; sweet, little gestures I see walking in the city.
I see romance in television series and movies— will you insist to me that romance is the stuff of scripts, but those same writers are unable to demonstrate love in their own lives? Surely you’ll grant that one or two of the more sophisticated among the writing class have the mysterious ability to both say a thing and act upon it.
Am I so lucky, or is my memory failing me, in only finding partners capable of romance and love? Lovers that speak my love languages. Partners that daily prove their commitment to our relationship. Girlfriends that remember the little things. Or did I steal away all the good men and women? Well, I’m polyamorous, so, please, go ahead and date my awesome partners!
I’ve flirted with strange girls at dance clubs who stared into my eyes with sultry gazes, bought sparkly sexy drinks, dressed up cute, had others dress up cute for me, admired my partner in a suit and new hair cut, sauntered down the riverwalk at night enjoying gelato, fled through the rain with a lover, randomly explored a random neighborhood with my girlfriend, indulged in outrageous displays of public affection.
I’ve popped down to the hot tub in the evening at a moment’s notice, relaxed along many, many road trips across the country while partner touches my leg, waist, whatever he can reach, every now and again; kiss my forehead in the dark as they whisper a “goodbye” and a “see you very soon” in the same breath.
And as I fall asleep, my master tells me that I’m the best part of his day.
Romance needn’t be dumped on a person all at once. Perhaps I am not that “good” at romance, I don’t crave it the way others appear to need it. But I, at least, savor the slow romance. Sweeter than any sugary confection was the first time he whispered, “I love you.” I thought I dreamt it, but I don’t dream of romance. I did once dream of getting married– I was on a boat and I ran around very stressed out and garlands of deflated balloons and toothbrushes hung from the ballroom ceiling. I told an old friend they were part of a pulley system. Is that romantic?
I don’t chase romance. I don’t manipulate others into pursuing me. We play, back and forth, with each other. We share affection. Stories. Vulnerabilities. We fall in love.
I’ve had times with my lover when I didn’t even think about romance, until I’d already fallen waist deep.
Of course, if it’s been too long since I’ve felt romance, I do miss it. However, I won’t placidly wait for it to find me. I will goddamn do what it takes to make my own romance, and I am not subtle or coy about it. I don’t wave a delicate flag informing you, the hunter, that I am desirous of pursuit. I’ll chase you down myself. Knights in shining armor? Go find a damsel who is distressed. If you can find her.
Romance is dead? Perhaps we’re not looking for it very hard.
Sincerely,
A Very Loved And Loving Kitten
* * *
July 24, 5:30pm
I am really looking forwardto the weekend because she’s coming to visit. I still have not heard anything from Laura. But I’m not worrying about that today, becausesheis here. She’s my French angel. And I am hercherie.The way she says that to me,cherie, sends tingles across my skin.
I met her at a party (of course!). She’s not exactly French. French Canadian. She speaks French, but she lives in Montreal. A city of wonder, at least insofar as I’m concerned. They have this big leather festival every year held in an abandoned pool. Plus lots of other festivities around the city. I’ve never gone, but I’ve always been quite curious. It’s not easy to get out that way, but fortunately, she loves coming to the States. Last time, she was my roomie for two weeks. We never got a chance to play, something always kept getting in the way. So this time, she’s flown towards me with the intent to spend three perfect days in my bed.His bed, I correct myself automatically.
She’s on time. Of course. But he is not. So when I arrive at the apartment, it’s to an empty home. Nobody was there. Turns out he’s gotten stuck in the airport on the other side of the plane ride. I scrunch up my face, take a deep breath, and tell myself, You can just pick her up from the airport yourself. I don’t love driving, but I can do it. Fortunately I know how to drive stick, as that is the one that is waiting for me. It’s just like riding a bicycle, right?
