Fighting to keep eyes open at work, typing characters into computer screen. Fuck it all to hell. Falling hardcore for sexy older man. Leo sun and moon, Mars in Libra, Venus in Virgo. Crazy fucking laugh. Sweet hazel eyes that whisper warm (not cold) sex. Incredible kisser and lover. Intuitive, creative, kind, tender, hilarious, intelligent, street smart. Knows his shit but doesn’t have a monster ego or attitude. Been there, done that, lost all the t-shirts in storage. Drummer. Writer. Yum. Double yum with hot caramel on top. Right man, wrong time. There is no right time. A man worth his salt isn’t a tabula rasa learning love and lust for the first time. He’s beaten down and bruised and battle scarred. He can’t be played or fooled. Danger. Yes! There is no wrong time. When love falls into your lap like a ripe gleaming McIntosh apple, you better take a bite outta that sucker and not worry about the worms. Herpes, unresolved issues with exes, wanderlust, rapidly approaching midlife crisis, financial woes. Whatever. Chomp down and let the juices dribble down your chin. Yes yes yes. Yum yum yum. Your ass is smack dab in the middle of the crazy orchard once again.
“Tangled Up in Blue” on the radio as he drives you downtown to get your car, which you parked on 5th and Silver to meet him at Anodyne for beer and billiards and illicit kisses. Windows down, spring heat on faces, singing along, sharing a cigarette. “Tangled Up in Blue” again at Kelly’s, sang by a mellow guy on an acoustic guitar. Cuddled close in a booth sharing a cigarette he bummed off a stranger. Tip the performer two bucks. Tell him, “That’s our song.” Talking about New Orleans and the beavers on television. Writing words of love in your Animal (the Muppet) spiral. Going home in your car, still filled with Barbies in boxes and pots and pans and videos. Discussing drugs. He wants to do speed with you. You’re mainly interested in marijuana and mushrooms. You aren’t thinking of your husband, the triple Libra with everything crammed in the First House, the House of Self. The man who taught you how to pronounce various words and turned you onto The Church and enthralled you with stories of fishing on the Hudson and hanging out at City Lights in San Francisco. The first man who brought you to orgasm. No, you aren’t thinking of him. You’re thinking of this new man, this fresh miracle. This crazy Leo who tells you your eyes change from blue to green and back to blue again. You want him to stay the night. You want him to hold you and say things that may not be true but sound good, anyway. He fills up the leaky air mattress he gave you and goes home. You feel like puking. Is it love or was it the coffee and cheesy quesadillas?