Like many writers, I usually find myself daydreaming about imaginary people engaged in clever conversations or deep, rambling monologues. I guess it’s my way of playing out things I wish I had said or will say one day. Whatever the reason, it’s a good mental exercise, and it lets me escape the “everyday life.” It also helps to form personalities for characters in the dozen or more manuscript ideas I’ve scribbled down here and there. So, the following is my letting at least two of these characters think out loud:
The way she loves me is…automatic. I don’t mean that in a cold, unfeeling way. I mean…she knows exactly what to say, what to do, and when to do it. She knows all of me. How did I get this…lucky? How this…good? I can’t believe we’ve been together this long. I expected to always be single and many times wondered if I should take out a personal ad in the paper, “Lonely lesbian lawyer looking for a well-educated, financially savvy, faithful partner who likes Chinese food and Aretha Franklin. Reply to the address below.” My whole world centered around eighty-billable-hour-weeks and keeping my goldfish and garden azaleas alive. (Actually, they owe their survival to my nosy sister who dropped by every weekend hoping to catch me in bed with some one-night-stand that she recommended from some swinging singles website. I swear, sometimes I can’t believe we’re related).
The more I think about where I am now, the sillier my old fears seem to be. Twelve years ago (when I first met her), I wouldn’t even think about coming out of the closet. No way in hell! Especially not to my parents who lived and breathed to see me marry a “good man” (i.e., a church-goin’ brotha with a good job). And naturally, they expected grandchildren. Good Lord, those two were like white on rice when it came to hounding me about my love life. Thank goodness my sister’s brief engagement to her chiropractor threw them off my trail.
But the day came when I finally realized…I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be touched in a way that I only experienced in my dreams. I slowly reached a “I don’t give a damn” point that pushed and pulled me out into the open. That’s not to say that I became a flag-waving, Doc Marten kind of chick with a fade. But I acknowledged a truth about myself and confirmed it when others implied or curiously(or rudely) asked. Truth liberates! And so does time. So, here I am–a middle-aged, married broad who wakes up every morning next to a woman who steals the covers in the middle of the night and who can’t boil an egg to save herself from starvation. Yet, she loves me and tells me and shows me every single day–through her actions, her words, and her gestures. It’s automatic.
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