In 36 hours, I will smile at the man I will fall in love with. At a bar, can you imagine anything more banal? One little smile and I will be flat on my face in love. But sitting in an airplane seat to my destination, is there an inkling, shimmering premonition? Or is it the gin? Perhaps just wishful thinking with a dash of middle-aged stupidity. At 36, certain facts must be faced.
In 36 hours, the man I love will leave me. Due to the flexibility of our rendez-vous, I will wait a long time, anxiety increasing in increments. Hotel lobbies are horrible places, or heaven with a piano, depending on your perspective. Everyone is there with a purpose, I guess.
This time, our separation has been interminable. This time has stretched me so thin that I think that people can see straight through me. I think I might snap. Apparently not.
36 weeks of going weak at the knees like a girl at the very thought of him sliding his hand from my knee, north. Squeezing my hand under a table while strong-holding my eyes. The caress of his voice as he talks. Hypnotizing and terrorizing a mature woman.
We make plans and promised through misted breath and misty phone calls; while licking the sweat of each other’s skin, twisted in damp, hotel sheets. His eyes on mine like shooting stars, his fingers supple and swelling into my willing flesh. Ditto that for him. We go in eyes wide open and ready for anything. Why do they say love is blind?
I have a meeting with clients in a little over half an hour, then I’ll try calling him again. He’s later than I thought he’d be. The anticipation of seeing him feels like a southern wind.
There is a problem of communication lines, pressing commitments, life getting in the way, trying times, he explains. I smile, excited at out tryst.
Not understanding without him standing in front of me, that he’d already left me.
Later there will be a bare-faced finalization at least, at the bar downstairs before I take the lift upstairs to lie stripped down on a king-sized by myself again. He’ll go back to his loft; his life.
The question remains. How must I live my life?
I had ordered us gin and tonics. Ice clicking in them, dripping down the glass. It’s 36 degrees oC outside but the air conditioning of the lobby bar raises goose flesh and more questions than can be answered.
Barbara Turney Wieland is an artist/painter who always described herself as a ‘frustrated writer who paints instead’. She finally found the courage and inspiration to start gathering the words that have been flying around in her head and started writing in 2015. Satisfied, she can now say that she has also begun to be published too. ( see below)
She is currently stuffing poems and stories into a back drawer to see if they mate.
BTW works as an English /Art teacher, lives in Switzerland with her family but hails from the UK and Australia
The Mulberry Fork Review
Rat’s Ass Review
Blue Mountain Review, issue 4
Walking Is Still Honest Press W.I.S.H ( poet of the month )