It seems I am doomed to keep odd hours. Long nights awake at a desk, a late evening escaping solitude over a glass, a quiet walk in the November chill, a Sunday sunrise bicycle ride, noontime musings lounging in bed, and long weeks of silence, distracted from my writing. Days pass, the weather turns. The quiet is slowly broken by the whisper cum roar of a passing car. The roads are lit only by street lamps. Quiet residential alleys recede into the gloom, joyful in the sunshine but in the waning hours of daylight coming to stillness both poignant and eerie. The heels of my boots click softly against the concrete, the only sound aside from the last straggling vehicles finding their way home alongside me. I am alone tonight. Cold sheets and an empty bed lack the welcome I’m accustomed to. Earlier this evening I shared a bottle with a traveler, facing for months at a time what I find difficult to endure even once: sleeping alone. Both of us shared delicious hours fending off the inevitable.
My partner is away to the east side of the state for two nights. It will be my first lonely sleep in a very long time and more importantly, my first lonely evening, morning, and day. The house is always filled with the sounds of NPR or PBS, enticing scents of sizzling onions or fresh baking bread, visions of a smiling face, heartwarming hugs, everpresent knowledge of a home shared. I am fortunate, so incredibly fortunate to have this. I only hope that with every meeting I am able to share a moment of that safety and security, the joy that comes from shared pleasure, the reinforcement of a kiss and a smile.
For the moment, however, I am alone and lonely. It will pass. It would even if my personal life were different; no one is alone forever. In the meantime it reminds me why I do what I do: because sometimes you just need someone to be with.