romance

Fucked Up Fruit Bowl

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“I like to do the Southernmost Slow Ride. We ride under the full moon from the White Street Pier to Truman Waterfront Park to catch the sunset—and sometimes we have themes, like fairy rides,” I say.

He looks perplexed over his pitaya parfait. “What did you just say?”

“Is the white stuff yogurt?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Do they have non-dairy yogurt?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t know.”

“I’m doing this to build the anticipation and to distract you. Because you’re about to say you know me from the bike ride, and I know you don’t. I’d remember you.”

“Were you wearing a tutu?”

Snap. I WAS wearing a tutu.

“I was wearing a tutu.”

And then, right there, you could hear the pieces fall into place. The switch flipped on. And in its light, we could see that we both remembered the real first time we met. 

“You were doing time-lapse photography with the cruise ship turning just as the sun set.” I could see in his face that this was true.

“And you were in a tutu and super easy to talk to.”

I smile at this. I’ve been told that before and I really like that about myself.

But it was more than that. Earlier in the day, I’d thought about that encounter. I remember ending the conversation with him because the group was heading to the next destination. Before riding off, I’d said something about missing his final product.

“Look for it on Facebook,” he’d said as I pointed my bike towards the other cyclists.

“How will I find it?” I called over my right shoulder.

“Key West Sunset!” 

And today, weeks later, it crossed my mind that I never did look.

Now, here I am, sitting across from him as a curtain of rain holds us hostage under the awning.

It didn’t shelter us from his ex-wife, the mother of his children, biking by.

She smiles at him. And she turns to me, “Do I know you?”  

You know damn well you don’t, my eyes reply.

“I don’t believe so,” my polite words say.

“Can you give me a ride? I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she motions to our fancy fruit bowls, “but it’s raining pretty hard.”

He starts to acquiesce, to my slight surprise, and I start to mark the date done.

I still don’t know who she is. But I sense by now that there’s some history there. This is not some random acquaintance encounter. 

“I mean, I’m happy to give you ten dollars for a cab ride home,” he offers. 

Okay, he’s clearly uncomfortable. Who is this woman?

“I hate cabs. They creep me out.” She’s smiling through this scene, but it is not a happy smile. “You really can’t take me?”

I check my phone for the forecast. One, because I don’t know what else to do, and second, I’m hoping it will tell me that the rain is about to end, so her point, whatever it is, will be moot. 

He starts to assert himself. She throws out the idea of going into a nearby store under the same awning.   

I secretly hope she goes.  

And then I say, “Yeah, I can lose an hour in that store easily.”

She looks to him to save her. He doesn’t. Good boy.

She rides off, pouting. Only then does he fill me in on who she is. “She loves to create awkward situations.”  

She’s really good at it. I think, but don’t say.

We resume our awe over the fact that we’ve already met, and the road has somehow curved to allow us to meet again.  

Funny how that works. Funny, even though my world works like that so very often.  

Leveling Up

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. A movie that makes personal growth into a video game

I just got rid of someone I thought I already had from my life—my ex. I’d broken up with him years ago, but we still maintained a loose friends-with-benefits kind of thing. Because we’ve got chemistry, and good chemistry is a great thing! It’s a personal pastime of mine, carving out and trying to hold onto what worked between a guy and me without all that stuff that didn’t.  As if my men were something to dissect like frogs in Biology class. 

It never works, of course. You can’t just have the passion without the other parts coming along. Painful parts. All the reasons I can’t be with them are still there, and those reasons sneak in and spoil things. 

Mel Robbins did a reel on Instagram about compatibility versus chemistry. Getting with someone who matches your energy is the key to a sustainable partnership. Sometimes someone you don’t even know can call you out and make it impossible for you to hide from yourself in the same way. To do the same things. 

As my ex raises his voice, overrules my emotions, and insults my processing of the rainstorm upon us, I realize Mel was talking about me. Her reel replays and gets ready to say, ‘I present to you, Exhibit A.’ 

That’s how growth works. We hear or learn something that resonates on some level. It sort of festers and infects us, in a good way, and slowly but surely, we rise to the occasion this revelation offers us. 

We can try to forget things we hear, but we cannot unhear them. I could not go back to acting as if someone hadn’t just summed up my post-breakup M.O. in a two-minute video on Instagram. Something in me rose up and said, I’m done. Really done. 

“You can’t act that way and be in my life,” I hear myself say. “You can’t hijack my emotions and use my perspective against me.”

And if I keep letting him in, I’m telling him just the opposite. Louder than my words are my actions. What good are boundaries if you don’t enforce them?

That goes for my inner boundaries, which I have between me and me. I can’t say I deserve better and keep hanging out with someone who treats me like I don’t.

All hope that he’ll change, extinguished. We must accept that some people can’t, or won’t, change. Behavior rewarded is behavior continued. So is behavior justified. If someone gives you all the reasons why they do something—tired, angry, hungry, jealous, frustrated, drunk, stressed—what they are saying is, ‘When this condition returns, so will my behavior.’ 

We may see their potential, but potential is not something to fall in love with. 

Loss is painful, but fear of pain is not a good enough reason to stay. Change always feels weird at first. And exciting. There’s an opening in my world—I can’t wait to see what happens in it.

Promises don’t make change. Begging and pleading doesn’t either. Nor does fighting, demanding, or ultimatums you can’t follow through on. And repeated apologies without any behavioral modifications are manipulations designed to buy time—until the next time. 

The only thing that sparks change is a personal decision, and it usually sounds like, “I didn’t know my actions were having that effect. I’ll handle it differently next time.” And then, they do. 

People tell you who they are every day, all day. Better to believe what you see than your fantasy. 

Another thing I’ve learned (later than I would’ve liked), them not wanting to be without you is different than doing what it takes to be with you. Don’t get it twisted. 

I won’t take the former as adequate substitution for the latter ever again. 

Flip or Flop

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

Some things are best mended by a break. ~Edith Wharton

I know I promised last Throwback Thursday to write about the three things that led to my gypsy life on the road. But there was one big thing that cleared the way for them–I’d better talk about that first.

I bought a house (this probably sounds like a move in the opposite direction, but stay with me). A broken house bought with a man I was in a broken relationship with. Perhaps I thought I could fix them both.

The house was a foreclosure, the deep neglect of it assaulting my nostrils with a stench of mold so strong I thought it must’ve opened the door itself, to escape. A small pond had gathered in the basement, black mold climbing the walls like velvet wallpaper. Wires and plumbing hung from the rafters where the furnace and hot water heater had been ripped out. If a house could be raped, this one was. Plugging my nose and holding my breath, I couldn’t see any potential through my watering eyes as I ran back out to the motorcycle waiting for our ride to resume. 

But M could. He convinced me we could flip it, make a profit.  

A few months later, when the lease was up on my apartment, I moved into this work in progress–everything I owned in the garage, an air mattress on the floor where spackle would fall all around but thankfully never on. I hung drop cloths for curtains and aligned my transformation with the house’s–knowing when it sold it would send me somehow…somewhere. I’d been escaping winter more and more and for longer and longer, leading to the realization: the world was too big and beautiful to keep living in one place. With each trip, my grip around the only place I’d ever called home loosened. 

I was living on a launchpad.

Searching through paint samples prompted the searching of my mind–I was looking for what spoke to me on both fronts. “Caribbean Aqua Blue” and moving to an island. “Afterglow” and afterthoughts; all the things I’d miss, leaving all my friends. Could I do it? Would I be miserable? I painted walls and contemplated possibilities, altering us both. Designing the bathroom while searching new designs for my life. Out west? I loved the Zen feel of Sedona and her hundreds of hikes. Farther? The part of California where some of my dad’s family lived had a chic vibe with laid back surfer towns a quick drive away.

Into this reverie and renovation came an invitation to attend the wedding of M’s cousin in New Zealand. 

Our feet were dangling from the chuppah where a freshly minted marriage had vowed “til death do us part,” but my relationship was dead on arrival. No, nothing had happened. There hadn’t been a fight, none of the usual drama. Just an insight breaking across my heart, as soft as the mist beginning to fall–that’s how I knew it was true. We’re not going to make it. This will never be us.

An inconvenient truth only three days into a trip on the other side of the world. The timing was weird, ditto the location. Our vintage dress and the black and white photos would show us having a great time, our inner demons distracted for a while. But there was no mistaking it. A chasm was opening between us. M was sitting and talking right next to me, but he felt farther away. 

The mist turned to a soft rain, drops hitting my skin like punctuation marks. Okay, I get it. To make sure, it rained harder–in exclamation points. We ran into the big tent and joined in celebrating the newlyweds’ love with a night of drinking, dancing and laughing. Everyone was happy. We were happy. I pushed the chuppah revelation away, back to the inkling it typically was.

But the next day, it started to develop, like a photo appearing in the darkroom. Faint at first, then becomes more defined with time. Finally, as we traveled to the tip of the north island–officially named the Far, Far North–I could see it clearly and had to call it.  

Each linoleum square on the kitchen floor represented the intermittent intimacy in our six year on-again-off-again relationship. Both had fallen out of fashion. Both took time, strength and deep determination to rip up, my motivation rewarded by what I was uncovering. The original design. Hardwood floors and a heart ready to shine.

I learned mistakes could be corrected, sanded out, painted over, re-measured and re-cut–no one was going to look at my results as closely as I did. We took chances on a lavender accent wall in the living room. The belief everything was always getting better carried me and a trust in the outcome–for the house and for the new direction of my life–gave me inner peace (and power). There was a divine designer in charge. 

PS I like to sleep on everything I write, editing it the next day before posting. I’m on my way home and quickly pop into a Mexican restaurant for some guacamole to go. Without knowing why, I decided to dine-in instead. Amidst chips and salsa, a song M used to sing while strumming guitar comes on. It’s old and obscure, I’d never even heard of it before him. And it’s no mistake it’s playing now, in the hang time of this piece being published. Now I know why I felt pulled to stay, and I’m glad I did. M and I may not have been good romantic partners, but we’d been great business partners. And the house venture is what opened the way for me living on an island in January. 

Following Directions

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 1 Comment

It wasn’t just that I was attracted to him. What with the thick, dark hair hitting his shoulders, one group of tendrils separating from the pack, twisting down along his temple. Or his beard with flecks of ginger glinting, also full, and above a black vintage Levi’s Strauss T-shirt taut across his chest. The calm, considerate way he listened reflected in his thoughtful nod and unwavering gaze. 

But I was, definitely, attracted.

But to more. The air of adventure rising off him, swirling around me and mixing with mine, forming a threesome with the smell of freshly frying fries. The pairing effect similar to the scent of just baked cookies wafting through a realtor’s Open House. I spotted it right away, his position by the only outlet in the dining room, his two backpacks and dirty fingernails. I know this move. This is my move. I’m a gypsy writer. And I’m always scoping for future places to plunk down, pop open my laptop, and write. 

My first words to him, full of curious exploration,“Is that the only outlet?”  

“Yeah…but, I have a double plug, if you want to share.” His answer further endears him to me. The misunderstanding makes me smile and his generosity restores my faith in humanity. 

I love people who share.  

They call my number and I excuse myself. I return to a booth not too far away. After reading and eating, I rise up to go and our eyes connect.

“I like your pants,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Because, with their rust-colored, complementary striped bell-bottom style, I like them, too. “I think they make me look like Donna from That 70s Show,” and that’s a good look. They’re one of those things you know you’ll get compliments on when you wear it. We all have them.  

“Where did you get ‘em?”

Really? Not only a follow-up question, but the same one I was asking myself as I pulled them on this morning. 

Thus begins two hours of talking about adventure and freedom and herbs and the island. About following one’s nose, and one’s calling. And biking the Sunshine-Skyway bridge (him, not me. And not even him, because the cops stopped him at the top). “I had a song all cued up for the long coast downhill.”

I liked how I felt in his presence–comfortable. The longer I was in it, the more comfortable I became. Our initial ease was growing into a warming glow.

He motioned to the other section of his booth, “You’re welcome to join me.”

Like a flower blooming, our conversation was, and I within our conversation. We spoke of where we were from (me Wisconsin, him Michigan), how to properly sleep in a hammock (diagonally), and how old versions are better than the new and improved (countless examples). I liked what was coming out of me. All my best stuff–my words, my perspective, my suggestions (he’d only been here a few weeks) . . . even my hair looked good, judging by its reflection in the big window framing winter’s early darkness.

I was into me, and I was really into how this had all come to be.

Single moments of the evening–seemingly weird and random at the time–were now showing themselves in one fluid movie in my mind. I’d stopped at a Free Little Library to drop off a book. It wasn’t even my regular one. And I have a strict rule of only dropping off, but as I slid mine in, a spine of another caught my eye with its fiery sunset colors and title Heaven and Hurricanes. 

Just the back cover, I think because, the rule, and because I was trying to get to the seven o’clock showing of the Whitney Houston movie and had dirty laundry in my back bike basket to wash on the way. But as all good back covers make you do, I was opening the cover and reading the prologue. And then I was tucking it between dirty sheets and detergent and taking off, pushing hard to make up time. 

Everyone at the laundromat was on their phone, while I leaned against a folding table and sunk into the superb writing and intriguing plot. As quarters dropped and clanked, an idea dropped into my mind: check the rating on Rotten Tomatoes. They persuaded me to wait and catch it streaming. With clean sheets, I rode off into the night now wide open, sans plans.

Except to read more of this book. 

And I was hungry. Nothing at the cafe next to the laundromat had really grabbed me. The tartar on a Filet-O-Fish does, as the golden arches come into view. Suddenly, I can think of nothing better than my feet up in a booth, reading and eating.

Sailor’s Delight

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

We sailed for so long that second day, I felt the motion of the ocean while lying in bed–a joyous sensation.  While my body rocked, my mind rolled back over the events of the day.  The wind had been wilder this time, calling for more engagement from the crew. We began to keel and it took a lot to not fall over while filming as they rapidly trimmed the sails.  The snorkeling was better–we got the last mooring ball by the reef and visibility was clear.  Red coral, angel fish, parrot fish with pastel iridescent scales and light blue lipstick, some needle nose fish looking like a syringe with fins.  

I was also thinking about J.  He’d grabbed the check at the Happy Buddha Bar in the marina once we got back on shore–the unexpected move had evidently left an impression on me. 

Part of me thinks if he’s leaving soon, I should just throw myself at him and have a quick romp, riding it for all the good times I can–while I can. Part of me thinks I’m safe within his escape plan and I don’t need to do anything because why even start what’s got an expiration date stamped on it already?  I’m off the hook.  Besides, I’m off the market.  

The next day, my Facebook feed fills with sailboats for sale. After vetting them (okay, and picturing myself on them) I do my own little circumnavigation and text Pat about a few of my favorites.  They work together, so I figure he can tell him.  Pat tells me to friend J and tag him in it.  “He can be kind of shy.”  Feels like too big a step to take.  

I’m not sure what I’m doing when I reach out to him about coming to trivia at Waterfront Brewery the next night.  It seems pretty benign I tell myself, as I open then close Instagram.  Then open.  Then close.  

Then open. 

Pat had texted he’d be late, so I was preparing to wing it solo until he arrived.  Seeing J come around the corner of the bar truly startled me.  Since he hadn’t written back, and Pat didn’t mention him coming, I didn’t expect him and it caught me completely off guard.  

“What’s our team name?” Pat says when he arrives a little later. 

“Sailor’s Delight,” I say.

He laughs, “Leave it to the writer!”

“Actually, J came up with it, but I loved it.”

The TV screen with the questions is above us.  The scorecard on the bar below, I’m leaning over to write an answer when the next question comes on.  Fingers softly graze, then slightly rest on the inside of my arm, gently requesting my attention.  I lean back into this tender move as it withdraws.  Again I’m thrown.  It’s one of those moments you can feel getting recorded in the story of your life

J himself is a soft touch.  No big ego driven song and dance, no verbal billboard conversations.  His light teasing, when I make some comment about not minding mornings as long as no one’s telling me what to do during them, is: “Is that why I always beat you to the boat?” and a kidlike smirk.  It was more to say Hey, we have a history than, Let me use this to elevate myself.

After we come in fourth from last, Pat goes out to smoke and J and I swipe on the sailboats on my phone.  Island Woman.  Another one with a name we can’t read.  Again, I picture myself on each of them.  Again, I’m not sure what I’m doing or wanting to happen.  Left alone with him, I think I just panicked.  

Walking out into the humid locker room of a night, J makes another subtle move I find impressive. Pat’s first and we’re both in step behind him. Being closer to the door, J reaches out his arm and without missing a beat in word or step, he holds my gaze while he holds the door open for me via side arm.

I try to fall asleep for an hour, but I can’t because words keep coming, demanding to be written down. I write on three different pieces. Time with him hadn’t pinch off my muse, like I’d feared, it was doing the opposite.

Sailing, Takes Me Away. . .

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
From the boat


When I was a little girl, I loved playing with paper dolls. Wardrobes made of paper hanging onto bodies formed from cardboard with little tabs folded over shoulders and around waists and legs. It was temporary, a strong breeze could render them naked once again. Easy to change if I changed my mind. 

J stepping into my eye line was a lot like that. Hanging there, against blue skies and cotton ball clouds, a fifty shades of aqua backdrop bordered by island sand. Did I say stepped into?. . . I meant sailed. The background and my friend Pat’s boat (and Pat for that matter) were all familiar–the cardboard constant. Making J the paper outfit overlaid on top.  New. Different.

But what I was really grooving on that morning–besides my love of water, boating and snorkeling the reef–was my essay placing in the contest I’d entered.  It would be published in the next few days.  I had champagne and was planning to celebrate with mimosas. 

Earlier I’d shared the news with my close writing friend and she’d offered to build me a website.  After the toasting and enthusiastic congratulations, I floated what I thought was a crazy idea.  I wasn’t a big enough deal to warrant a website.

Pat nods and J says, “You probably should have a website.”  

His words spread on me like frosting–a nice feeling on top of the nice feeling I’m already having.

The wind picks up the farther we get out, so I man (woman?) one of the winches adjusting the sails, prompting Pat to make a compliment about my strength in relation to my gender. To which I quip, “I like to be all the Spice Girls.”  I’m sporty, at times scary, other times posh, and have been ginger.  I’ve tucked my frilly dress up into the leg band of my underwear so it didn’t get caught in my bike spokes, riding in wedges for miles. 

I  break into a really bad cover of “If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends.”

J chimes in from his winch, “I never understood that song.  Sure, I’ll get with your friends.”

I laugh into the gap extending to let this new interpretation settle in.  Clever. Sexy.  I’ll never hear the song the same way again.  

Another tab of J’s paper folds over.

I watch his back muscles roll underneath his shirt.  The way a sleeve folds into the crevice of a flexed bicep. And I watch myself watch, wondering what I’m up to.

Two weeks later I’m climbing aboard again and as we get ready to sail, I go down to link my phone with the Bluetooth speaker in the salon.  At my elbow is suddenly J asking, “Need any help?”

My knee jerk response to this question is always, no.  Because it hits me like an insult, implying I’m somehow incapable.  But in that instant, I see how it pushes others away.  I turn away in the circumference of this realization, a fighter pilot who’s just fired a missile but wishes she could take it back. It’s early and I secretly hope for another chance to play it differently.

A tab folds over.

We sail on and he says other things I like and jive with. And I notice myself watching his lips as much as I’m listening to the words coming out of them. Sometimes he does a little smirk and it makes me smile. I like his lips. I think the smirk makes him look cute.

Coming from self-awareness, he shares about needing to have his own personal space and how hard it is to have it in Key West.  How it’s all cramped living quarters for this huge chunk of change and he’s not really down with it.  Neither am I, that’s why I have a camper.  Neither is Pat, he’s on a boat tied to a mooring ball.  J couldn’t find a boat he and an insurance company could agree on so he applied for a job in Indiana.

There it is, the eroding of our island community conversation I’ve had with more people than I’d like.

“I’m so tired of saying goodbye to cool people,” I stare past him in a quiet moment of memoriam to all those who have gone before him. I feel his paper flutter in the winds of change.

I’m Off the Market Until My Book’s ON the Market

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“I’m off the market until my book’s ON the market.”  That’s what I said, and I meant it.  I was drawing a thou shalt not cross line in the sand. I should know better.

The last time I did that was after taking a trip with a guy I’d been dating for a few months.  We found a cheap deal to Vegas to escape winter in Wisconsin and thaw out for a while.  When we got there he invited his friends in Vegas over and they hung out pretty much the entire four days and three nights smoking pot in our hotel room while I complained about it to my sister on the lobby’s payphone. Had my car starting on fire on the way to the airport been a sign?  That’s right, on fire. The brakes locked up, causing friction to build and ignite something under the hood.  

I’ve never seen the metaphor as crystal clear as I do in this instant.

By the time we got back the relationship was also in flames. Our break-up was the final straw breaking the camel’s back–the camel’s back being my attempts at having relationships. This break-up, on top of a string of other break-ups, on top of my recent divorce had me assessing my already poor track record with men.

I said to my bestie Renee on our next girls night out, “Thirty days. I’m benching myself for thirty days. No flirting, calling, kissing, hugging or fucking for thirty days.” 

The next weekend on our next night out, a tall, dark and handsome (it may be cliche, but it’s also hella accurate) half of a twinset (which made him even more sexy)was buying me drinks and asking for my number.  Had to give him the brush off for three weeks, after which I fell madly in bed with him.  He was definitely one of the better choices I’d made.  Perhaps my brief hiatus had performed some kind of reset to the ‘my type’ presets.

And now, many years later I’m doing the same thing but for different reasons.  To continue with the sports allegory, like athletes not having sex before a big game–I doubt Lance Armstrong banged anyone the night before Tour de France–I’m not risking diffusing my energy, either.  I’m too easily distracted when I’m attracted. 

The I’m-off-the-market-until-my-book’s-on-the-market statement was made a few weeks ago, to much applause from those close to me who know this about me and support my focus.  Evidently cuing the Universe: “Let’s send Jen a nice boy.”  

Why?  I mean, Why now?  I’ve been in Key West on and off for four years, and now suddenly my good friend who rarely invites me sailing, invited me to sail with a friend of his who’s just learned how and wants some practice.  A captain.  Sure, why not.  It’s not bad enough he’s cute, funny, helpful and has great lips–he can sail and has a sense of adventure.  Am I being tested or something?  

This is bad timing.  Good guy. . . bad timing.  Feels like I’m just hitting my stride with my book writing.  

That First Spark

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 1 Comment

What attracts us to someone? Their beauty? Their eyes? Their lips? Their laugh? Their touch?. . .

I met a good friend out for a drink and a listen to live music. I didn’t really want to. Having been out late the night before I was looking forward to catching up on sleep after a quick stop at the grocery store. I’m running this plan through my brain, sighing a little at the thought of my soft bamboo sheets, as I lock up my bike outside the dispensary, when I hear “Juniper!”

Only Pat calls me that. Uses my middle name as my first. I sashay over in my rainbow for Pride lit up tutu and say it’s between bands at the amphitheater. They’re biking around in the spontaneous gear of see-what’s-happening that’s so easy to do in Key West, especially on Duval Street. We go our separate ways but say we’ll stay in touch.

Once back at the amphitheater, dancing and writing in my head for a couple songs, something inside me start to drift. My mind’s casting about for alternatives and though I’ve just returned, I leave out the gates again. Pat’s texted me “At the tuna (Smokin’ Tuna) watching Marshall Morlock.” It’s a bar I’m not fond of and a band that’s been on my To-See list for half a year. I bike on over.

His friend Rob gives up his stool, but the crazy good cover of Message In a Bottle demands booty shaking, head banging, and fist pumping. Marshall Morlock’s guitar prowess continues and my “Just for one drink” quickly becomes a “Do I really need to stop at the store?” And after he strums the first notes of Purple Rain, turns to a declaration, “Sleep! Who needs sleep!?!” My mind scoffs.

The attraction to Rob begins when the night is ending. Already ended — it’s after midnight. He goes to high-five me goodbye and I feel something when our palms touch that makes me thread my fingers through his and curl them over his knuckles. Our hands separate after an instant, then for some reason we do it again. As a test? That feeling increases. It’s an inner smile somewhere behind my solar plexus, a warmth on an already steamy hot night. He follows my lead, folding his fingers the same way, latching us in, but holding me loosely enough so I don’t feel bound by it. He’s holding me, but I’m free to go.

A delicious, delicate, balance.

His skin’s dry roughness makes my soft skin even softer. I’m aware I don’t want to let go this time. So I don’t. Slowly dancing away, I raise our outstretched arms and twirl underneath them until they can stretch no further; swinging my hips and dancing myself out the door. I climb onto the seat of my bike wondering, What was that? The only answer is, Whatever it was, I like it. And I’d like more.