Another Friday

This time last week, I was turning 39 in Freeport, alone with a lovely muse who answered when you called.  Today, post the thrilling 3-3 Spain-Portugal match that has set the World Cup alight in its early stages, I am left to reflect on her absence.

How excellent, to be described as "Delightfully odd, quick witted, non-traditionally sweet, and mostly hilarious."  To be motivated to put out the best version of yourself.  To be understood, in such a way.  And to remember the length of time in which you awaited such a visit, and see it evolve mostly as imagined, in a fashion just so.  And how sad it now feels, to know that the next such time remains distant, and yet uncertain.

No matter, you try to convince yourself.  Forward is the march of time and so we drift in that direction, regardless.  The next Friday shall be in St. John's, en route to Dublin en route to Moscow en route to Kazan.  Brazil seems close even as 4 years is an enormity.  What will the next, consequential revolution bring?

As you cope with the waiting, another letter dropped into the void this afternoon.  To help distract from the longing for further, instant contact, and also to see if you could find the words to draw out another encounter.  Amidst the impossibility of knowing another's thoughts, and the distraction inherent in the hope/fear of what may be yet to come of this mutual attraction.

Time for laundry.  And sunset.  And Charlie Christian.  And wine.