The holiday market was the opposite of a shit show. A Christmas scene played on a big screen—the only snow we in The Keys will ever see.

I also didn’t get there early. I never get anywhere early.

After chatting and syncing up with a few of my fellow creative types selling their wares I look around for the promised–-and promised land–-of coffee and baked goods.

“I made that.” Mr. Sidewalk Synchronicity joins me in the corner I’ve found to sip, nosh, and wake up in.

“Thank you.” I raise my cup. “It’s good.”

“I went for just below rocket fuel.”

“Nailed it.” Taking another sip. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” motioning with my cup, “It’s not much of a shit show.”

He bows his head in fake failure, playing along. “No, it’s going pretty well. I’ve never done it before, so you just never know. I had some good help.”

I look at his tightly groomed hair, smoothly shaven face. Even his eyebrows are tamed. A blue-heathered T-shirt hugs him nicely, accentuating his biceps. He clearly cares–not only about what he does but about how he looks. He doesn’t look like he’s been here since 6:30 am on little sleep.

He looks good. Too good. Crap–he’s probably gay. 

The topic of the film festival comes up (the party for which put us on the sidewalk a week ago). “When the power went out, the first thing I did was go to a window to see if anyone else was out, too. What a relief, it was the whole block. I thought, good, it’s not something I did!”

Boy, can I relate. My default when something goes wrong is that I broke it, and my relief comes from knowing I’m not alone and I didn’t. “I feel like this place [The Studios] is becoming a home base. It started as a place I visited to admire other people’s work, encouraging me to submit my own work. Now, it’s a creative hub where I belong. Like family.”

He can relate. “I know.” He motions into the space between us as he talks. It’s an extension of his words and I feel the emphasis. The energy between us swirls, warming me like the coffee, but differently. “I started as an artist in residence, and now I work here.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist. What’s your medium?” My interest in him turned up a notch.

“I’m a screenwriter.”

I mention a few of my friends who are screenwriters that I met through the writers guild. He’s worked with them on a recent project. 

His eyebrows raise, chin tucks, “You’re a writer? What do you write?”

I pick one of my genres. Travel erotica. “Or, as my ex calls it–-exotica.” Still making me laugh years later.

His head bows again. This time, with respect. “Wow. That’s so cool.” No creepiness, no voyeuristic sideways glance eyeing me up like I must be easy. Actual respect. My favorite response.

“Yeah, I usually travel on my own…

“Me too!”

“And I always fall in love–-with the place and some of the people.” That’s the best way I’ve ever said that.

Then we flick into a mad exchange of our process: “It’s gotta be handwritten first. Gotta be.” He says with arms moving emphatically, like an umpire calling a runner safe.

I agree. “I’ve gotta feel it. Watch as the words pour from my pen. And I have to write every day. Or, as Stephen King says, it starts to feel like work.”

“I lose the flow.” He motions his agreement again, his arm stretching farther into the space between us, the back of his hand landing on my elbow. Briefly connecting our bodies along with our thoughts, words, craft.

“Exactly. Hate to lose the flow.” 

His touch didn’t electrify in the usual way. Didn’t turn my veins into live wires, sending butterflies to my belly.

It was just….nice.

I share what a professor friend once told me when I said I was waiting for inspiration to write. “‘I’ll tell you what I told my students–-that’s lazy. Writers write. Period.’ Nobody talks about the discipline and courage you’ll need in addition to the talent.”

Nodding, “I heard this great quote from Mike Tyson about training to be a boxer. He said discipline is doing something you hate like you love it.”

“That’s good. And we think we need bit slabs of time to write. But in Big Magic, Liz Gilbert says look at the lovers. They look to steal a moment together, sneaking a quick kiss and making it everything. Now I write everywhere, anytime.”

Somewhere it registers that I’ve used the word lover, which has a charge to it, with someone I’m attracted to.

“Ooo, that’s good.” His icy gray eyes burn with the spark of a new perspective. I love it when that happens. I like how he smiles and in all the right places. I enjoy eager and excited people who feel alive, and I can be fully alive with them.

After riffing on how we carve out our creative visions, he goes to ‘make a lap.’ I walk away richer, my mind more vibrant. Enjoying once again how the road curves exactly in the direction it needs to.

I like me best when I’m along for the ride instead of trying to direct traffic.

The slow development of a bond. Intimacy with clothes on. A connection through intellect igniting inspiration. It’s been my M.O. to be swept away by chemistry(eventually landing hard, right on my ass).

This was more of a settling-in. Mind exercised and expanded. My thoughts acknowledged–and finding accompaniment. My world felt bigger and cozier at the same time. 

He’s coming at me from the brain down instead of bottom up. It’s something that I’ve wanted for a long time.