I’m well aware that I’m not the only one, but it feels no less odd to play the mental movie, to view scenes of idealized interaction. It’s no less weird to play the part of the calm, cool, and collected woman sharing stories and eating takeout as we walk shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk. To be the woman whose pace quickens as she circles around in front of you, her legs deftly reaching backward as yours reach out for them in time with the pounding in her chest. To be the woman whose free hand reaches out to slow you, fingers falling softly against your chest. Your feet stop their forward movement, eyes lock in curious challenge. Rising, her hand comes to rest as the contour below your ear fills the gap between palm and thumb, your heartbeat raging just beneath your skin. Her toes press into the ground, lifting her as she gently pulls your lanky frame closer. Eyes soften and close as her mouth finds y—brrrrring brrrrring!
Sharp and shrill, the ring of the phone brings me back. Exhale. I’m not that sure and steady woman, not entirely. Not yet?