My dearest, if you could be anywhere you wished to be on earth tonight, where would you be, what would you be doing? Perhaps you're in just such a place now, though I'm not there, ah but I always am, like an angel (so I was called today!) invisibly hovering, well-wishing. Kisses, my love. Let me put on my psychic garb for a moment... I picture you, not at this precise moment perhaps since it's not yet dark, not here anyway, perhaps by a small campfire, flames flickering, lighting up your face, sober and thoughtful when you're thinking, instantly radiant when something has tickled your fancy and you smile - you just light up. And so the flames illuminate your delighted, delightful radiant face as you've laughed at someone's joke, perhaps you're poking a stick into the fire, a kebab perhaps, or marshmallow at the end of a twig.
Am I close? Not even? Okay, I'll try again. You're at a McDonalds in Antwerp. I don't even know where Antwerp is exactly. Belgium?
Sweetheart, where would I be? Let's see. Hmmmm. I'm not terrifically well-traveled, so it's hard for me to imagine an exotic locale, European or otherwise. I've never been to Poland. I'd like to go someday. I wonder if I would feel at home there? Probably not, except behind closed doors, in our hotel room.
Ah, where else? Can you tell, sweetheart, that I'm beating around the bush? I have so little to report for myself this evening. Felt vaguely dyspeptic all day, nothing went terribly wrong, then again not terrifically right either. Took a walk at the conservation area this morning and someone on the path looked awfully familiar, it's been haunting me a bit all day, but I could very well be - probably am - wrong. But such is the life of the overactive mind. Had a frustrating time with old toy, and then restless got up, threw on robe, went downstairs, and at that very moment UPS pulled up with - unbeknownst to driver who innocently dropped off small brown carton - new toy. Psyched! Ah, but the thing needed to charge. It looks like a pink oval egg, quite odd. I feel like a character in a futuristic Woody Allen movie - you know, the one with the "orgasmitron," only this thing, made of silicon and fitting in the palm of my hand, has silver + and - portals and a red light that flashes on and off while it charges and glows seductively red like an amorous tiny pink spaceship when it's good & ready for two hours. Wow. But I don't know, it was one of those days, it just wasn't happening. Ah - but I am an optimist - there is always tomorrow, when perhaps I'll feel better rested, and my imagination has examined this odd object from all angles and settles on the one that does the trick. It does have several speeds and "pulse patterns" uncannily like lingual action, which I have to confess I have always had a bit of a problem with just - well lying back and letting go of anxiety and just going with it. It has always felt - empath me - so strenuous on the part of the giver, but here's a possibility - this little mindless pink egg will keep giving & giving and never tire of it so long as I charge it up - so here's my chance to lie back, as if bound, I don't have to - can't possibly - reciprocate, give anything back to it. So - in the spirit of ascending staircases - perhaps I will finally learn to relax, and learn to love the bomb.
Oh right, so for me... I'm thinking a campfire on a small private beach, perhaps in Maine, just you & me, and some beautiful wine, and the flickering flames, the fire's just for fun, no serious cooking that's too much work, I've brought a delicious picnic of the wine, crisp baguette whose crumb we tear at with our fingers, lovely cheeses, small assortment in paper-wrapped packets, and peaches (yet again!) from the CSA share today, and no one there but you & me and the steady rhythmic pounding of the surf, tide coming in, so we're high up on the beach, and the fingers of water run tantalizingly up towards us, then recede, run up like crab fingers all as the sun has set somewhere else not where we are because here the sea faces east, and it's darkening, and the moon is rising, and the sky is going from blue to slate to black, but right now it's still slate and there's the moon shining down (oh so like your radiant face and, I suppose, like mine) over us, and we've got this little ridiculous fire going on the sand, how on earth or why, but no matter, it's my fantasy, and it becomes progressively darker & darker, and we have the beach to ourselves, and so we lie down on the cavalcade of cotton blankets & towels that keep us afloat from the unpleasant sensation of sand at our skin, none of that, and we lie back and look up at the stars that have now emerged, Pleaides and - too - meteor showers, the Perseids - we watch them both, in tandem, and laugh, and giggle, and you've taken off your glasses, because you don't need them for stargazing, or for kissing, and you take me into your arms, and I you into mine, and we merge and meld, and all the while the pink egg buried somewhere in my handbag flashes on and off, on and off, needing electrical charge...
Many kisses oh my love, wherever you are