Sometimes when L goes out of town for work (which is often), I wear the same shirt all week. The gray fuzzy warm one he brought me back as a gift from an event in Portland.
“Did anybody help you pick this out?” was my first question after the “thank you.” I know, I am a wreck.
He looked at me perplexed. “The salesgirl?” he said.
The last time a man brought me back a gift from a work trip it was the cheap drummer. A rose stone bracelet and matching earrings, presented to me at Katsuya my favorite sushi bar in the Valley.
“Manuela helped me choose them,” the drummer told me as he gently locked the delicate silver pieces of the bracelet. “It’s the first time a woman has chosen me over the lead singer.”
Yeah, so you can imagine more reasons why I need to chant just to stay with my nice boyfriend. But maybe one of the women that he travels with did pick it out for me.
Love is very complicated after fifty. There are so many patches of dry desert gone but not forgotten.
Still, I wear the shirt every day L is gone. And often, I do not shower or shave my legs. Yesterday I didn’t remember to brush my teeth until 2:30. It’s like that when I’m home writing. It’s truly a luxury and I don’t find it gross at all. Neither does the cat.
It’s cold. It’s Fall. I am in love with a man who might possibly not cheat on me or leave me for another woman. The odds are in my favor.
“I mean, he’s 62,” my sister said. “How many marriages does he have left in him?”
I would be the 5th. How many wives did Henry VIII have? Am I destined to die alone in a cold stone dungeon? No, the 5th wife of Henry VIII was Catherine Howard, somebody nobody ever heard of. They were married for two years and then divorced. Later, she was executed. And Henry married a sixth time.
Well, then, I just mustn't lose my head.