The Dance of Romance

The Strangest of Father's Days

2011-02-28T15:48:00.000-05:00

(I want to preface this posting. This is a writing of mine I expected to keep to myself. It was written the evening of Father's Day, 2010. At the time, I was single and not necessarily looking for someone to come into my life. I've lived a life never shying away from things that may make others uncomfortable, but, COME ON, these are my parents we're talking about here! Have any of you had a similar experience? I ~~want~~ need to hear about it.)

In the scheme of chaotic things that make up my life, I need a constant that grounds me; something to keep things in a certain perspective. For my entire adult life, this stabilizing force has been my parents.

For those who don’t know my parents, my Dad is a man’s man. Blue collar to the core and devoted to Mom. He’s never cheated, he’s never raised a hand and he’s never called her a bad name. All this yet he still frustrates her to no end. The only reason she never left him is because he is one of those men that swoops in and unknowingly does an absolutely perfect romantic gesture that buys him more time.

My Mom on the other hand is hard core German. Rough but fair. She doesn’t put up with much and I’ve never met anyone stupid enough to challenge the 300 pound personality she carries in her 80 pound frame.

They are proof; opposites attract.

At this point there is a little more background that is needed before I can proceed. You don’t need the details, so I’ll spare you, but here are the highlights.

I lost my virginity at 10, yes 10. To a 14 year old in a hospital bed at Children’s Hospital. Much too young to realize what was happening yet when it was over I wanted to learn more, a lot more. Understanding I was conceived and born because of a similar act, I began scouring my parent’s bedroom for answers. It didn’t take me long to find out my Dad had a penchant for shotguns and Playboy magazines. Even at the rebellious age of 10 I listened to my parents and he always told me to never, EVER touch a gun. He never mentioned what I should do if I came across a stack of Playboys.

I sat on the floor of my Dad’s closet and flipped through what had to be a few thousand pages of magazines. I never knew what a Playboy was before that day but I had heard someone say once, “I only read it for the articles.” There was a certain obligatory reaction which triggered inside me; I HAD to let that person know what they were missing!

I put the magazines away and stacked them in perfect order like my Dad kept them. Sadly, there was a part of me that wondered why he would look at these when he had Mom. I supposed that was an answer for later in life and closed my father’s closet doors.

Flash forward two years and I am in the grasp of puberty. Over the preceding 24 months or so, there wasn’t an issue of my Dad’s Playboys I hadn’t perused without my parents knowledge. I had even snuck a copy or two to the local bike trails for my friends to see.

One night, sitting in my parent’s living room watching TV, I hear that unmistakable tone between parents in which something serious is being discussed. I turn my ear away from the TV and attempt to listen in. What comes is in spurts, my Mom first, “…at that age. You have to do something.” My Dad next, “I know but…..”

Further whispered sentences were exchanged before I watched my Dad stomp down the hall to his bedroom. He closes his door, then 30 seconds later, opens it again. This time he is stomping towards me with an all too familiar brown paper slip-covered magazine. Uh-oh, he knows!

Always having a mischievous side growing up, I learned early on to wait and find out what they knew before I confessed to anything. This time certainly wasn’t going to be an exception. I watched as my Dad sat next to me, hands rolling the magazine in his hands nervously. He looked me in the eye and began with, “Kevin, your mother and I feel you are at an age where you need to know about certain things. Adult things.”

Looking down at his hands, he extracted a Playboy with a clichéd blond on the cover. He flipped through the pages and unfolded the centerfold. As he turned it to me, I could tell he was expecting a reaction. Seeing he wasn’t getting one yet, he decided to continue. Pointing to the model’s breasts, he started, “These are called, Breasts or Tits. Some people even call them Jugs, Honkers, or Bazoombas.”

I made a mental note to tell my friends we could start calling them Bazoombas.

He continued, “Women have breasts in order to feed their children soon after they are born.”

At this, a scream came from the kitchen, “Darrell, get in here, now!!”

Watching the invisible tail tuck itself as my Dad turned and headed for the kitchen, I was left with the centerfold in front of me. I looked back to the cover and was disappointed it was an issue I had already looked through.

No sooner had my Dad entered the kitchen, he returned, takes the Playboy from my hand and returns it to his room. There is no further discussion regarding the pictures he just tried to show me or sex or birds and bees or what goes on between them. I was 12 years old trying to get the look on my face and the rest of my body to exude towards my father; I know Dad, it’s ok. I figured it out already.

In my early teen years, my parent’s bedroom was right above my basement abode. I heard EVERYTHING through the ventilation system. I knew what went on and continued to take mental notes on what seemed to work and what didn’t. Not realizing until much later in life, I should have covered my head with a pillow like the rest of the world does in such situations.

The rest of High School, College and beyond was, to me, pretty typical. It wasn’t long before the side of my parents which made them conceive my brother and I faded into obscurity.

Flash forward another 25 years to today.

I am at my parents for Father’s Day. He has not aged so well and even though he is just shy of 70, looks 80. My mother has had some very serious medical problems of late and I was sure she wouldn’t make it to today. We have a nice visit that is sprinkled with me telling them stories about the kids and work. I watch as my Mom winces when she thinks I’m not watching. My Dad seems to be breathing harder than usual and it concerns me. I wonder how much longer they will be around.

I had brought a card for my Dad, one I spent hours picking out for a change. He reads it and his stoic face actually wells a bit with tears. He thanks me, we hug and give each other the uncomfortable three pats on the back, which when I was younger someone told me stood for, “I’m – Not – Gay.”

We spend another hour or so following a conversational thread that has become our Sunday norm. I get ready to go and my Mom reminds me to take their Sunday paper they have finished. When I get home most of the coupons from the circulars will have been cut out but the remaining pages will be in a perfect stack inside the folded paper.

I walk out to the car and my parents follow. I have to walk slower these days in order to make them feel less self conscious. It takes me twice as long to get to my car and when I do I turn and my parents are still shuffling up. They don’t hold hands and I haven’t seen them with their arms around each other since my wedding 20 years ago. The last time I saw them kiss, I was 15 and they were alone on the patio, half-drunk and grilling midnight hamburgers after they thought I was asleep.

I stand inside my car door and take a long look at them as they come closer. Having been unlucky in love for a while I consider perhaps it is tolerance and compassion I should look for in a partner instead of a true connection and sexual compatibility.

My Mom leans in first as is her routine, steps on her tippy toes and kisses my cheek. I hug her but I don’t squeeze anymore, I haven’t in years. She is so thin and frail I’m afraid I’ll snap her.

I turn to my Dad to wish him another Happy Father’s Day and he startles, looks up at me like he forgot something and tells me to hold on before he heads back towards the house. I look to my Mom for an answer and she smiles with neutrality which has left me guessing since childhood. She is not giving it up.

My Mom asks a few mundane questions to pass the time and after a few minutes my Dad comes back out to the car. In his hand he is holding what looks like a greeting card but it’s hard to tell. He stands behind my Mom as I answer her last question then says, “Look. We have something we want you to have.” He steps from behind my Mom and I glance at his hand. I can see where I get the ginormous hands everyone tells me I have because I can’t see anything but fingers, veins and a corner of cardstock.

My Dad has always been somewhat of a character. He will set you up for what I have always affectionately called, “The Whoopdie Woo.” My Dad gets all serious then hits you with something comical, trying to get a laugh. Over the years I have been able to gauge Whoopdie Woo serious with plain old-fashioned serious. This was plain old-fashioned serious.

He brings his hand up and while looking me in the eye, says, “You can’t have this out when the kids are around.”

I glance at my Mom and she is still a statue, except this time, the corners of her mouth are turned up the slightest bit.

Looking back to my Dad, my mind is racing. In his hand the card begins to show itself. I can see large lettering at the top but it is still upside down. I can make out the letters “emo” and that’s it. Reversing them I try and find a word ending in “ome”. During my Dad’s next step I come up with: come, some and home.

He pauses again for dramatic purpose as he does when the point he is about to make is to be taken seriously. At this point, I’m at a loss. No matter what it is, I’ll handle it. I’ll step up as I usually do and get them through it. After his pregnant pause he confides, “You know I’ve had a subscription to Playboy, right?”

All I can do is nod my head because my brain is throwing up Mayday signals right and left, trying to come up with a cover-story to the few missing Playboys I snatched over 30 years ago.

I steal a glance at my Mom and she has not stopped looking at me but her smile has widened and her eyes are a little shinier.

“Well last month your Mom renewed my subscription and this came with it.” My Dad continues.

He turns the card around and for the first time as he’s handing it to me, I can read it. Across the top in large letters, earlier hidden by my 69 year old father’s arthritic fingers, it reads, “Playboy’s Uncensored Home Videos”.

My world goes hazy for a moment. What the flying fuck is going on here!

“Your mother and I thought you would like to have it.” He gently moves it towards me like he’s handing me a family heirloom.

I’ve been in a lot of awkward situations in my life but this one has officially trumped them all.

I thought, until Mom spoke up.

“Which track was it, Darrell, where I thought the dark haired girl was Kevin’s type?”

WHAT? NO! My mind is actually convulsing. I can see sparks flying and smoke behind my eyes. This isn’t happening.

“I’m not sure, it was early on because we were still actually watching it.”

Did my Dad just wink at my Mom?

I force my mind to come up for air. There has to be a reason for this. Some pre-conceived joke I haven’t been let it on yet. Yeah, that’s it.

I notice my Mom looking at my Dad in a way I’ve never noticed. A way which makes me feel like an intruder. A way which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t give the local paramedics a heads-up to keep an eye on the house for a few hours after I leave. What the hell is going on here?

I’m never at a loss for words, except here. What on EARTH do I say? Thankfully my Dad steps in and mentions the fact I haven’t seemed very happy lately. I glance at the blond on the front of the card with her seductive lips and wanting eyes and wonder how on earth he thinks she is the answer.

Folks, you never in a million years want to picture your Dad masturbating to a porno. For over thirty years since the “M” word was brought to my attention, I have fought the good fight and kept those thoughts at bay.

Until today at 2:58 pm.

My Mom, sensing my disturbed demeanor, assures me with, “You don’t have to give it back.”

Really Mom?! You mean we’re not going to have a book-club type meeting after I watch it and discuss the motivation behind Miss Lovealotacock’s character?

In order not to offend them, and to, let’s face it, stall. I decide to look at the back of it. What possessed me, I will never know. I’m not into Porn, never have been but I feigned interest like a Pro there in my Mom and Dad’s suburban driveway this afternoon. “Oh, it seems they are amateurs!” Weak, Kevin, real weak. “That’s good, right?” I pray it’s my Dad that answers.

“They say that but you can tell those girls are pros.” It’s my Mom that assures me of this fact. NASA has begun a countdown for all my brain matter at this point. Her statement screams the next question, How do YOU know?! I don’t dare ask it aloud for fear she answers.

Begging for my Dad to take the reins again, I look him in the eye and thank him. It wasn’t a genuine thanks or even an impersonal one. It was a new, just made up on the spot, I don’t know what else to say Thanks.

He punctuates my thanks with a quick nod of his head and I scramble to get into my car trying desperately not to look my Mom in the eye. I start the car, close the door and roll the window down, finding temporary solace in our parent/son routine again.

I place the card which contains the DVD under my visor. I distract myself by jamming my car in reverse and slowly backing out of the driveway, putting too much acting into it; anything to keep from dragging this out.

As I roll to a stop and begin to drive away, I always stop for a second and wave before moving down the road. My parents have their positions they always take, next to each other, yet apart. This time, however, my Dad is standing next to my Mom with his arm around her and it is my turn to turn the corners of my lips up in a knowing smile.

This actually happened this afternoon. Right now it is less than 8 hours later and I have written it all out. I am by myself, laptop firmly placed and the DVD is in the drive. I haven’t watched it, it’s not my thing. There is a part of me, however, that wonders what exactly my Mom and Dad, when it comes to Pornos, think is my type. In the right corner of my screen is a small box asking me what I want to do: “Play DVD” or “Eject DVD”.

I’ve spent my life looking for that one perfect person. Today, I witnessed how an imperfectly perfect relationship is supposed to work. There is an imperfectly perfect person for me out there; I just need to find her. I hope to anyone reading this you find yours as well. With that in mind, I think the button I press will be…

I "Luff" You!

2011-02-22T11:14:00.001-05:00

   How often will we fall in love during our lifetime? Will we really truly fall in love as many times as we think? Or are we only fooling ourselves?

   How many times a day do we say we “love” something? “I really love that shirt!” or even, “I love the hamburgers at Five-Guys!” Some of us even, "...love watching reruns of Sex and the City!” Then, with the same auto-pilot temperament, turn to our significant other and profess, “I love you.”

   In most cases we really do love that person, but we also love that shirt and the hamburgers at Five-Guys. Because of this ambiguity, I came up with another word besides Love to use with my Soul-needle. The next time (last time) I fall in love – true love – I am going to hold her close, look deeply into her eyes and say, “I Luff You.”

   Silly? Maybe. But it’s something I’ve never said to anyone before. It will let that person know she has something from me I have never given to anyone else. I have to let her know that even though I love that dress she’s wearing, I luff her.

   I thought I had tasted true love in the past. I believed I held it right in the palm of my heart. I held it tight and didn’t let go for awhile. Everyone thinks love is elation and comfort and security. It can also reveal past pain and regret and grief. There’s a reason the heart is the symbol for love; because that’s where you feel the pain and exhilaration of love. Wives clutch their hands to their breastbone protecting their heart when their husbands pass away. Men pull their children’s heads to their chest to comfort them. Girls hold their hand over their heart while being proposed to; feeling the palpitations which prove to them it’s real. In good moments and bad, when love is real, the heart processes it.

   I had a pretty warped sense of love not long ago. I felt beaten down by so-called love yet still pined for its veritable existence. I guess it’s called falling in love for a reason because at some point you hit bottom. The exception is when someone actually catches you before you hit. That’s the person who has proved their love. I felt I was falling every day. Not in love but just falling through life, waiting to be caught. Waiting for that one person to catch me and let me know they will never let me crash again.

   I am amazed at the people I have discussed this with in the past year or so who are in relationships for the sake of being in a relationship. I can understand that to some extent. Hell, I’ve been guilty of it. In the past, the need for me to share another’s company in my life or another’s body against mine was to the point of excruciating. Fortunately my head had conditioned my heart over the last couple years to not fall for superficiality any more. To stop letting the perfunctory pull of lust and basic human need drag me into what would ultimately become regret. It was hard…so hard, but I believe in Karma. I believed once I convinced myself to stop hanging out in the shallow end of the pool and go deeper, it would pay off. I was picky, oh so picky, about whom I would give my hand, my body, my heart and my life to again. It’s an odd thing for a man to say; especially this man.

   I’ve been drilled on this and guy friends had tried to influence me in other directions but I held my ground. I felt like Adam some days in the Garden of Eden. It wasn’t easy resisting the apple but the hand which held it didn’t belong to the person I saw myself walking through the rest of my life with.

   Luckily for me, my patience paid off and I proved my friends wrong. I’m a believer now. The relationship trials I had gone through in the past have become small prices to pay for having found my Soul-needle. I’ve now spent time at both ends of the love spectrum and as we all know, the end filled with promise, hope and unconditional love is certainly where we all want and deserve to be. I hope you have found your Soul-needle. If you haven’t, give it time. It’s a hard thing to do, but the payoff is worth it.

   I will continue to share my stories, both past and present because I have always been fascinated with love and all its facets. In the meantime, I’m going to meet my Soul-needle for lunch. Afterward, when I drop her back at her office, I’ll turn to face her and with an extra little squeeze of my hand, look in her eyes and tell her, “I Luff you.”

   HH

Daniel and Sylvia (Part 3)

2011-02-18T18:07:00.001-05:00

Sylvia stood in the doorway of the bathroom inspecting the figure on the bed. The light filtering through the window gave his body an angelic quality. He had obviously reached for her after she slipped from the bed to use the bathroom, grabbing his shirt from the night before to wear. There was no need for modesty with Daniel; she wore his shirt to keep him close to her.

She watched as he stirred, unconsciously sliding his hand over her side of the bed, still looking for her. The sheets were in tangles below his waist, revealing the upper part of his legs and butt. Her eyes traced the muscles her fingers had navigated only a few hours ago.

She had seen him naked many times before yet still couldn’t keep her body from reacting. She loved the thick waves of hair her fingers gravitated to every time they kissed. There were touches of gray peeking out and she teased him about it last night. His eyes, so at peace when he slept, sparked fires in her stomach when he caught her glance during the daylight hours. She swore he could see inside her, deep into the places she never allowed another to go.

Her eyes landed on the red scratches her nails made during their love making, piercing his skin from his lower back to his shoulders. He never seemed to notice when she did it, they were both too entranced with the oneness of the moment. She cried out when she scratched him, feeling his passion shoot into her as she herself exploded against him.

It had been five years since they made love. Five torturous years since she left him in the middle of a night no different than this one. She never told him why she left and when she appeared in his life again last night, he didn’t ask. Sylvia could see the questions in his eyes when she handed him her key. When he slid the key in the lock she could see the questions fade and the love and lust they used to share return.

She didn’t want him to see her when she came to Cleveland. Now she stood, staring at the one true love of her life, wondering if she’ll be able to silently say goodbye. This time for the rest of her life.

Her mind floated to the love they made last night; the lust, the hunger, the animalistic desire. Daniel knew her better than any man ever had. He had explored every inch of her body during their time together. He knew what made her cry and what brought her to rapture. She admired his hands and twines of muscled forearms. Oh how those hands had ravaged her, caressing her skin, maneuvering her body, and conducting her heart.

His hands were so strong yet could carry themselves featherlite over her body. She loved how his hands would turn from gentle tour guides introducing her to sensations she had never felt, to starving beasts during their love making. She closed her eyes and imagined his hands on her body, sloping their way over her breasts and stomach, impatiently finding their way to where she wanted them most.

Sylvia felt Daniel's shirt fall open and let her hands slip between her legs. She was wet just from the thought of him. Remembering the way his hips moved above her before they fell asleep she stroked her fingers slowly along the length of her, feeling herself open at the thought of him. Her fingers caressed themselves further into her desire. Feeling herself get more excited, she let out a soft moan. Opening her eyes, she saw Daniel staring back.

Feeling caught, she jerked her hand away, making the shirt fall from her shoulder. She immediately tried to cover herself again.

"Leave it off." Daniel purred michieviously then commanded, "Come here."

He held his hand out and she went to him. Falling against him and letting herself be wrapped inside his arms. She felt him harden against her as his lips pressed to hers and her heart began to race with the knowing of what was about to happen and she hated herself for it. As his hands guided her hips onto his, she looked into his eyes and all she could think of was, How could she do this to him all over again? She loved him so much her heart pained at the thought of being apart from him but it was because of her love for him she was going to have to run away again.

Daniel and Sylvia (Part 2)

2011-02-17T16:54:00.001-05:00

The bank of six elevators lined the hallway just outside the entrance to Baroque’s. Three to the left, three to the right, like two teams faced off to play some mechanical blinking game. The panels on the last door to the left were beginning to shut and he dashed forward hoping he would make it in time.

As he threw his arm out to keep the doors from shutting all the way, a flurry of thoughts spun inside his head. He thought of how cliché he felt, running after the girl like in every chick-flick he'd been coerced into watching. When those predictive scenes came on he would wonder if it was really possible for two people to experience a love so strong they would actually run like a maniac down a city street. Now, he realized, he was one of those lovestruck fools.

Even with all the thoughts and questions he had spinning in his head, the one he needed answered first was: What was she doing in his town?!

When Sylvia left him five years ago she was living in a little town outside of San Juan, Puerto Rico, or so she told him. Now, he didn’t know what to believe.

Daniel had been vacationing on Isla de Vieques, an island off Puerto Rico’s coast, when he saw Sylvia for the very first time. He had purposefully rented a single villa for three weeks after his first full year at his new job. His boss had promoted him six months earlier to Senior Sales Associate and for the first time in his life made a six-figure income. He had achieved these goals without taking a single day off or even vacation time. When his year was up and his boss handed him his latest bonus check, Daniel hesitantly said he wanted to take a few weeks off to reboot so he could have an even better next year. Daniel had moved up pretty fast in the company in a short time yet wasn’t sure Craig would let him take the time off. He had a reputation of being difficult to work for but Daniel never had any problems with him. He was hoping this wasn’t going to be the first.

Craig was an ex college football player but the 30 years since hadn’t been kind to his body. He hulked in at over 300 pounds on his 6 foot frame and always had a disheveled look about him.

His boss seemed to give it some thought then offered his massive hand to Daniel and said he could have his three weeks off if he waited two weeks to take them; a fair compromise. Even though Daniel knew where he wanted to go, he still had some planning to do so was willing to oblige. Allowing Craig’s hand to swallow his, he replied, “Deal.”

The elevator doors clapped against his arm and immediately sprung back open. He straightened himself and noticed his heart was racing even faster than before as the doors unveiled the sea of faces before him. His eyes pinballed from face to face trying to find Sylvia; certainly this was the elevator she had gotten on! The car was packed and the last face his eyes landed on was hers. She was standing stoic as a statue in the back corner behind a couple he remembered from the restaurant. The way she was staring at the digital floor indicator, he could tell she knew he was getting on. Besides the couple from the restaurant there was a group of three 20-somethings standing in the middle of the car which forced him to take the front corner crosswise from Sylvia.

The doors closed and he felt the car begin to descend. Not being able to turn towards Sylvia or even elbow his way towards her, he took the time to examine the floor buttons with hope of figuring out where she was heading. He noticed the “L” button wasn’t lit which meant she was staying in the hotel. Why was she here? Who was the guy she was with? Is he going to follow once the check is paid?

They stopped at the 11^thfloor and the 20-somethings exited. Noticing there was another couple waiting to get on he quickly took a step backward and stood along the back wall of the car with the couple from the restaurant between them. Sylvia was still feigning interest in the digital readout but he noticed a quick flash of her eyes his way as the other couple entered. The doors closed and Daniel turned enough to the right to give himself a chance to look at Sylvia without coming across as trespassing to the couple between.

He knew before this last couple got on there were only two more buttons lit up: the 4^th floor and the 3^rd floor. Unless someone else got on, he had a chance to catch his breath and try to get his bearings. He forced himself to look at her face, the face he spent many mornings in the last five years wishing he was still waking up next to; while at the same time hoping he’d never see again. A face he once cradled in his hands and felt the flush of heat in her cheeks when he first told her he was falling in love with her. Did she even remember that moment?

The couple between them was giggling over something they just whispered to each other and it drew Sylvia’s attention toward them. Standing this close to her again and not being able to hold her was becoming difficult. He was surprised not only by his body’s reaction but his heart’s as well. For years after not being able to find her, he forced himself to start hating her. It was a defense mechanism, he knew, but it was a way of getting over the pain, a way of moving on and trying to forget her, a way of convincing himself how foolish he was to fall so quickly for someone he barely knew. It seems he was right to have hardened his heart. She claimed she lived in Puerto Rico yet here she was in Cleveland, Ohio standing in an elevator with him. She had once cried against his chest and begged him never to leave her then vanished into thin air, leaving him with only the scent of her on the pillow next to him. If he is able to get her to talk to him, how is he going to believe anything she says?

Then he thought of their times together: their intimate talks into the wee hours, their walks along the beach, and even the way their hands fit so perfectly together. The memory of how her body would sigh against his every time he held her tight began dusting itself off in his mind and he knew he had to stop. His hands were sweating and trembling the slightest bit. In all the scenarios he had played out about this moment in his mind, he never thought he would be as nervous as he found himself now.

Daniel felt the car come to a stop and heard the slide of its panels. The couple between them stumbled forward to exit, completely oblivious to the barrier they had been providing. Before the other couple was able to occupy the vacancy, Daniel took a couple steps closer and backed himself against the wall next to Sylvia. As the doors began to close, they both stared at the red number 4 on the panel in front of them. The next floor was hers and he had every intention of following her off.

Daniel could feel the warmth of her standing next to him. He wondered if he was just imagining it or if it was real. Out of the corner of his eye he tried to gage her, figure out what she may be thinking. He noticed she was breathing heavy and doing everything she could to keep from looking at him. The number changed to, “3” and as the elevator car settled to a stop he took a chance. Daniel reached his hand, brushed its palm against Sylvia’s and slowly began weaving their fingers. Sylvia’s hand was damp as well but in that moment the last 5 years never happened.

The doors slid open and Sylvia gripped his hand even harder. She stepped forward without looking at Daniel and led him off the car, directing them past the other elevators before turning down a hallway lined with hotel doors and picking up the pace with each step.

“Sylvia, where are we going?” he asked, hoping to break the silence.

They ran past a few more doors before she slowed and let go of his hand. Pulling her purse in front of her she stopped at room 311. Sylvia removed a room key from her purse and slowly raised her eyes to Daniel. Those deep brown eyes of hers always were able to make him melt but he had to keep his head straight. They were both breathing heavy and he tried to make sense of everything while keeping himself from wrapping his arms around her.

“What’s going on?” he pleaded.

Her eyes welled with tears and desperation crossed her face. The need to hold her became more intense and he stole a look over her shoulder to see in anyone was coming. When he looked back at her she took his hand and gently placed the room key in it. Sylvia didn’t move and for the first time in five years he felt he held the answer to every question he had for her in the palm of his hand.

Looking back up at her then down to the lock he knew his answers waited for him on the other side the door. Now that he finally had his chance, he had a sick feeling he didn’t want to know what those answers were.

(Continued tomorrow...)

Daniel and Sylvia (Part 1)

2011-02-15T10:05:00.000-05:00

There was no doubt he was going to get in trouble for what he was about to do. Even knowing eyes were cautiously watching him, he wasn’t about to keep from doing it. For the last six years he had played out his forbidden act at least a few times each of those years and, quite frankly, it had become a bit of a game to him.

Daniel had been frequenting Baroque’s on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton since that day six years ago when he landed a position as a Sales Associate for a Medical Supply Company. Coupled with the final hearing of his divorce three weeks earlier, he felt the need to celebrate a new start to his life. A life he hoped would be full of happiness, stability, and eventually, true love; things which had been sorely missing for him. That evening, after getting the call he was the candidate hired, he tapped “Cleveland fancy restaurants” into Google and told himself the first result was where he would treat his newfound beginning. Since that first ceremonial dinner, this cavernous restaurant with its $50 steak dinners, minimalistic décor and patrons who come to rub elbows rather than to eat had become his celebratory hiding place. Anytime he earned a promotion or sold an account the rest of the office envied, this was where he came to do his private end-zone dance. He would always call ahead and ask the maître d, Marques, to save his table in the corner where the walls were windowed from floor to ceiling, showcasing the entire Cleveland nightline before him.

Tonight, Daniel was sitting with his back against the line of windows which showcased the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Almost always, he would sit with his back to the other patrons so he could take in the horizon and pretend he was all alone in his temporary triumph. For some reason tonight he was in the mood to people-watch. Of course he ran the risk of being caught sooner with what he was about to do but he didn’t care. He took a quick look around, making sure no one was watching before reaching inside his suit jacket. He noticed as he reached for what was in his pocket Marques purposefully turned his back from him as had become their routine.

What he was about to do was really rather childish but since that first celebratory night it had become tradition. In actuality, it had become a bit of a superstition as well. If he didn’t do it, he believed the next great success would never come his way. He always scoffed at the athletes and their superstitiously laced rituals yet here he was doing exactly the same thing. As his one hand was reaching into his suit pocket, his other retrieved the personalized, Colibri lighter his boss had given him a few Christmases ago.

Lying his lighter on the table, Daniel began un-wrapping the cellophane from the cigar in his other hand. He had already pre-cut the end of it, learning from past incidents, time was of the essence. Sneaking a quick peek at Marques, he placed the commemorative cigar between his lips and fired his Colibri, hearing a gasp emanate from nearby.

As the flame scorched the pressed leaves, his eyes surveyed the patrons. There was a woman staring daggers at him from the direction he heard the gasp and he knew he wasn’t going to have as much time as he usually did. With an arrogance that pretended she had never done anything wrong herself, she turned to Marques and tried to get his attention with the wave of her hand; her husband's face flushed with embarrassment the entire time. As he took the first puff on his cigar, he found peace in the fact Marques would take his time noticing the skin-flare the lady had just sent up.

With his other hand he gripped the glass the waitress had instinctively brought him moments earlier. It contained two fingers of Gentleman Jack; an indulgence he allowed himself during only such occasions. Aware other patron’s skin-flares were also being fired, he quickly downed his drink, closed his eyes and savored the burn before taking another long drag on his cigar. This act, in his mind, assured there would be more success to come and for the next few moments, the rest of the world didn’t exist.

As the first puff of smoke began to dissipate, he could hear the mumbled complaints of the other customers become louder. He thought back to the first time he lit up 6 years ago and was scolded by Marques. He had retreated to Baroque's bar and was surprised when, after a couple drinks, Marques joined him. Over the next couple hours the conversation began with taking sides of the basketball game on the television and ended with why Daniel had come to Baroque's and the desperation he felt in jump-starting his life again. He explained to Marques that his persona isn't as brash as he must have come off in the restaurant and that he was truly unaware of their no-smoking policy; he just wanted a celebratory moment. Thanking Marques for his time, he paid for both their drinks and slipped into his jacket. As he stood and reached to shake his new friend's hand, the maître d paused for a moment before offering if Daniel ever needed to wallow in another success, he would take his time coming over before demanding he put the cigar out as long as Daniel would feign ignorance and immediately put it out. Daniel agreed, not sure he would actually ever do it again.

Of course, since that exchange at the bar many years ago, he had taken Marques up on his offer a number of times. Now, as he watched his friend approach the first gasping patron, he took what he knew to be the last puff on the stogie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the maître-d nod in all the right places while stretching out the conversation. The heightened level of ranting let him know Marques would cave early and, when he turned to already head his way, he proved himself right.

There was an improvised script Marques and he worked out over the years. Marques stood before him now and, with a little too much familiarity said, “Excuse me sir but you can’t smoke in here.”

As Daniel swung his head upward to deliver the scripted line to his friend, he caught site of her. She was sitting three tables over, staring back at him with controlled panic on her face. He felt all the air being sucked out of him just as it had the first time he saw her five years ago. Her hair had been cut shorter but still fell over her shoulders with a softness his fingers were already pining to stroke themselves through again. She was wearing a black fitted sweater with a modest skirt which exposed no more than an inch or two of stocking before disappearing inside her knee-high boots. They had locked eyes and both were frozen in time.

Marques was talking to him but the words sounded as if they were coming from two rooms away. Daniel didn’t want to take his eyes off Sylvia. He never thought he would see her again. If he were to look away, he was afraid she would disappear without warning just as she had before. His mind began racing, trying to make sense of what was going on. He noticed she was sitting with man at her table and they were done with their dinner. Her date was scrolling through his wallet like it was a rolodex, looking for which credit card he was going to use. She broke their connection by turning to the man and saying a few words he absently nodded at. She stood up, shot a quick look back to Daniel which pleaded for understanding, then quickly weaved her way around the tables towards the exit.

As he watched her walk away, Daniel tried to get his body to do what it was being told. He knew he had to go after her but couldn’t get his legs to cooperate. Thankfully Marques was there to snap him out of his paralysis. Grabbing his arm and giving it a quick jerk, Marques was genuinely concerned when he asked, “Hey! Are you ok?”

Turning his head towards the maître-d seemed to awaken not only the rest of his body but his train of thought. He knew he had to leave now and his legs were finally willing to oblige him. He snapped himself upright and dropped his cigar in his drink before apologizing to Marques that he will have to take care of his bill another time. Daniel was sure the surrounding patrons believed he was storming out because of their complaints but they couldn’t have been further from the truth. Five years ago he and the woman who had just fled from him again pledged the rest of their lives to each other. Then, one morning when he rolled over in bed and reached for her, she was gone without so much as a note. It took him years to get over not only losing her but realizing he would probably never know the reason behind her leaving. He always asked himself how he would react if he ever saw her again and tonight he got his answer.

As he picked up his pursuit his mind began recalling all the questions he wanted her to answer but all his hands wanted to do was touch her again. All his heart wanted to do was love her again. He wasn’t sure whether it would be his mind, his heart or his body that would prevail if he caught up to her. Now, running towards the elevator he was sure she was on, he knew he was about to find out.

Ruby's Love Story

2011-02-11T22:11:00.004-05:00

(This is an actual true-life story from about a year and a half ago. To this day, Ruby's commitment still emanates with me. It IS possible to find the love of your life and always be with them.)

As I stood at the bus stop, impatiently waiting for the bus to arrive, I couldn’t help but notice the fluttering in my stomach. It’s an odd reaction for my body to have for a woman I barely know, yet here I stand hoping and praying she will be on the bus with an empty seat next to her.

Ruby and I met under unusual circumstances. Our relationship began a few weeks ago when she climbed onto the bus and, with no other seats available, I graciously gave up mine. Surprised by a chivalrous act in a day and age of un-chivalry, she appeared pleasantly shocked and thanked me before claiming my vacated seat.

Last Tuesday, Ruby turned 83 years old. The first time I met her she was carrying two bags of groceries in plastic sacks I guess weighed more than she did. Her ebony skin carries a youthful glow which even through the creases of her years, give her a much younger demeanor. Always impeccably dressed, Ruby carries a certain nobility about her learned from the days of boarding schools and etiquette classes. She never slouches; her shoulders always back with a subtle respect always demanded in the most feminine of ways. This four foot-nine inch lady carries a sense of knowing her place in the world and she’s perfectly content with it.

The second time I spent with Ruby was exactly a week later. This time when I got on the bus she was already there. Even though there were a number of other seats, we caught each other’s eye and with the recognition of the gesture from a week earlier floating between us. I asked her if it was ok to join her. She seemed rather tickled by my manners and said as much as I sat down.

“They don’t make them like you anymore you know.” she said. Each word perfectly annunciated.

“I’m sure there are a few of us out there still, but I appreciate the compliment.” I said as I smiled back.

We ride for a couple of brief stops before she shyly asks me while looking out her window, “Do you know of a game called: Would You Rather?”

Finding this an odd question, I offer hesitantly, “I think so.”

“There were a couple of girls that got off the bus just before you got on and one of them kept telling the other she wanted to play: Would You Rather? ,and the other wouldn’t play. I have never heard of the game before. What is it?”

I respond, “If it’s the game I’m thinking of, one person asks the other two things they normally wouldn’t want to do and then asks them which of the two they would rather do.”

Ruby gives it a second or two then replies without ever taking her eyes off the passing scenery, “You mean like go to the mall or shop at Walmart?”

Smiling to myself I say, “Yeah, kinda. Except you’re supposed to pick two things you would never want to do.”

“But I don’t want to go to the mall OR shop at Walmart!” She looks at me like I missed some point of hers.

“Point taken.” I can’t help but chuckle before furthering, “More like…Would you rather…eat a cup of worms or drink a cup of spoiled milk?”

Ruby’s whole body seems shocked by the question. She blurts out, “Neither! That’s disgusting!”

“Well that’s kind of the point of the game, I guess.”

Ruby and I watched the landscape roll in silence for a bit before, out of nowhere, she answers, “I would rather drink spoiled milk.” She then pressed her lips together and gave a subtle nod of her head which confirmed she had made up her mind. Then without missing a beat, she asks of me, “Would you rather eat raw broccoli or raw brussel sprouts?”

“Neither!” I offer up a little too quickly. “You’re supposed to pick things that are shocking or disgusting, but in this case, broccoli.”

“You remind me of my husband.”

“You’re married to a 43 year old white man?!” I quip back.

She breaks into a wide grin and I actually get a laugh out of her. “No! He hates vegetables too.”

When she laughs, it actually brings to the surface the little girl in her. I see the girl her husband fell in love with so many years ago. She seems to become embarrassed before she turns back to the window and its televised landscape.

Trying to draw her back into what she asked for, I respond, “You’re right, I don’t like vegetables. Let’s see…Would you rather…lose a finger or a toe?”

Without giving it any though, she exclaims, “A toe! I can hide a missing toe with my shoes!” She then gives some thought to her next question before asking, “Would you rather… be attacked by a bear or an alligator?”

“Ruby, I’m impressed! You’ve really stepped up your game!” She gives me this coquettish smile that reflects back from the window she’s looking out of and I again see the little girl inside.

“I would have to say an alligator. I’m pretty sure I can outrun a bear if attacked.” Not knowing at all which is faster.

The bus pulls to Ruby’s stop and I stand to let her out, instinctively grabbing her grocery bags and handing them to her. She thanks me, we exchange niceties and say maybe we’ll see each other again which has become our routine.

Now, another week later, I stand anxiously, waiting to see if she’ll be on the bus today. We have spent four rides together since the first and each time I’m just as anxious as the last. Sometimes I replay our past attempts at Would You Rather through my head but more likely, I’m thinking about our discussions of politics, religion or even ‘kids today’.”

The bus crests the hill and comes to a stop at my feet. I climb aboard and, sitting in her usual seat, is Ruby. While she’s always dressed in her Sunday best, today she is put together in all purple. She is even wearing a purple beret which sets off the tufts of gray hair that spring out from under it. Her jacket and skirt match her hat and today I notice that for the first time since we met, she is wearing high heels. While not high enough to be inappropriate, they’re high enough to make me worry about her safety.

Taking my seat next to her, I remark, “Don’t you look nice today?! You must have a big date planned!”

Ruby gives me a brief smile and answers, “As a matter of fact I do! Today is I and my husband’s anniversary.”

In past conversations, I had learned that Ruby and her husband, Micah, had been married for over 53 years. This was both their second marriage and they were never able to have children together. I had noticed in conversations past that her husband had been her favorite topic. I turn to her and recall for her benefit, “Today is your 54^th then, right?”

She seems a bit surprised that I remember before replying, “That right! Fifty-Four!”

“Well congratulations! If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your secret?”

Ruby looks out the window and seems to be really putting some thought into the question. After a few beats she answers, “Talking. Two people have to know what is going on in the other’s head. How else are they going to know what the other wants, needs or expects? Communication is what worked for us. My husband has always listened to me and I appreciate him for that. He is my best friend first and my husband second.”

I would have to agree with that answer. My experience has been that relationships go sour when the communication stops. I’m just as guilty of it. I have people in my life I want to say so much to but am afraid to pick up the phone to do it. I’m more afraid of what they’ll say than what I’ll reveal. I also have people in my life I wish would say what is on their mind. I share this fact with Ruby.

Ruby seems perplexed by what I am saying, staring at me in disbelief. “You HAVE to tell them what’s on your mind! You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by being completely honest with your feelings and what you expect of them.”

“You’re right.” It’s not like me to be this hesitant in a conversation but there are other reasons I am being lazy with my half of the discussion. I ask, “Have you and your husband always been together?”

“We had some rocky times but we never separated. Even when I was mad at him I still loved him dearly. It hurt me when we would argue because it meant lost time we could be doing other things we liked to do.”

I immediately raise my eyebrows and shoot a mischievous grin at Ruby. “Oh yeah?”

Ruby becomes flustered and I can see the heat rise in her cheeks. “No! I didn’t mean…!” Then reluctantly, “Ok, yes, I guess that may have been one of the things. We did other things as well though. We’d go to parks, we’d travel, or sometimes just going to the store together was a joy for us.”

“I take it you two don’t fight anymore?”

“Never!” she answers before I get a chance to completely ask.

My stop is coming up and I don’t want to get off. I have some selfish need to hear the rest of her story, to try to learn more about Love, Happiness and Togetherness; something I desperately need to know is out there. I make the decision to ride the rest of her trip out with her. Maybe I’ll learn a little more about life if I do.

When the bus pulls to my stop she gives me a questioning look. I stutter and stammer before confessing, “I want to keep talking.”

She nods a subtle acceptance before I further ask, “Did you ever think of leaving him?”

“He was a good man.” She replied. “A real good man. He made me laugh even when he made me cry. I couldn’t picture a day of my life without him. It seemed rather ridiculous to walk away from that.”

“You weren’t even tempted?” I ask disbelievingly.

“Oh, I had opportunities. Anytime some man found out we were having problems it seemed they were eager to fill his shoes. It was during that time I realized how one-sighted most men can be. My husband wasn’t like those men. It made me even more committed to him because I learned how different he really was.

I have selfish reasons for asking these questions and I suspect that she knows. “Had he always been faithful to you?” I ask cautiously.

“I have no doubt he was. Anytime we had a disagreement, he spent the days after making it up to me. It made us stronger and I don’t think he even realized it.”

We pass the high-rise apartment building she told me in a past conversation she lives and I look at her questionably, asking hesitantly, “Wasn’t that your stop?”

She tells me she’s on her way to see her husband and that she just came from the store after buying her husband an anniversary card. I’m trying to piece everything together and conclude her husband must be in a nursing home or assisted living facility. My mind then goes to the devotion couples beyond my years actually give to each other. Circumstances I can’t imagine. Happenstances all of us realize are coming, all of us promise to power through, but none of us actually know if we really can. In Ruby’s case, it seems she stepped up to the challenge and in typical Ruby style, stared it down until it gave in.

Ruby pulls the card from her purse and begins fingering it nervously. I wonder the reasons behind her nervousness but can’t quite place it. I am beginning to feel a bit of a voyeur and try to focus on a location beyond the windowpane opposite the aisle I’m sitting in order to give her privacy.

We sit in a self-imposed silence for the next five minutes or so before Ruby’s frail, overly veined arm reaches up and pulls the stop-cord above the window. I immediately look around and try to figure out where she may be going. There are four corners to the stop. Two of those corners contain gas stations. Of the other two, one contains a dollar store. When my eyes finally gravitate to the fourth corner, I see nothing but a chain-linked fence at first. Ruby is accumulating herself as the bus comes to a stop and I snap from my curiosity to let her out.

There is a look of sadness and longing I’ve never seen before cross her face as she stands. For the first time, I see fragility in Ruby. I want to ask if she wants me to accompany her but I know her answer will be, No.

As she stands in the aisle of the bus, she composes herself before turning to me and, with eyes beginning to brim with tears, tells me, “When you know it’s right, don’t EVER let go.”

She walks down the aisle with the presence of a dignitary. With each step she seems to grow greater in stature and even greater in virtue. I still don’t know where she is headed other than she is on her way to see her husband.

The driver waits after she exits for her to cross in front of the bus. Luckily the light turns red and I watch as Ruby begins walking up the street where the chain-link fence is. With each step she seems to become more anxious. As I wait for the light to change, I lose sight of her as she’s beyond my field of vision. Finally, the light turns green, the bus turns left and I capture sight of her again.

I’ve never been up this street before and within a few seconds see the opening she is headed towards. At the opening of the gate she is guiding towards is a large sign proclaiming: Holy Cross Cemetery.

My heart sinks.

I can’t even comprehend at this point. Our bus is powering along and I can’t see the entrance to the cemetery anymore. I actually get up and move to the back of the bus hoping to get closer to Ruby. This may seem silly but it’s true.

I don’t know how long Ruby’s husband has been deceased but with Ruby, it didn’t matter. He was as alive in her heart as he was before he passed. This day was the day of their anniversary and nothing was going to keep them apart. For whatever reason my mind asked: What if the roles were reversed? What if Ruby were the one who went first? In my heart of hearts, Micah would have done the exact same thing.

Today, I witnessed a rarity in this generation’s love-spurned populace. I witnessed an ever-lasting love that actually exists. It doesn’t matter that their love was founded during a couple of generations ago. Their love is still in full form and function today. As my bus pulled to the next stop, all I could see in my mind’s eye was Ruby kneeling at her husband’s headstone, placing the anniversary card against it and closing her eyes before reminiscing of moments past. I couldn’t help but think of how lucky Micah was with having married Ruby; sure they had a great marriage but long after he passed she still pined for him. I know without a doubt he would still pine for her had she passed before him.

For whatever reason, I never saw Ruby after that. I looked for her. I still look for her to this day. There is a part of me that hopes she is now with Micah, because frankly, that is where she really wants to be.

No matter where she is, I learned a couple of valuable lessons: Love does exist, and when you find it, never let go of it, no matter what. In this day and age where everything is accessible, the one thing that is not is Love. You can’t find that in a search or a Craigslist listing. It has to happen naturally like it always has. Ruby and Micah were lucky enough to find it and I hope you either have already found it or soon will. In the meantime, send me your thoughts on the subject and what you ultimately think love is.

All my best,

What exactly is Romance?

2011-02-08T17:22:00.001-05:00

I posed this question the other day and was surprised by the stuttering and stammering which came back at me. While everyone seemed to have their idea of what a romantic gesture is, no one could pin down what Romance really means.

Everyone wants their partner to be romantic on some level. Responses of romantic gestures people wanted from their partners included things as simple as opening a door for them to as complex as planning a romantic vacation and surprising them with it. Coming up with things they wanted romantically was not a problem, getting them to answer why they wanted those things was a bit tougher.

It seems everyone claims to be a "hopeless romantic" but they are not sure why. Even I like to be on the receiving end of a romantic gesture. It may seem a little odd that a man actually wants to be romanced from time to time but it's true. It was during a moment of receiving such a gesture that I asked myself why it was so important to me.

Stripping it down to its barest form, I think it is simply wanting and needing to feel special. When your partner goes out of their way to show you, even in the subtlest of acts, that they are thinking of you and your well-being, it makes you feel significant in their world. If they leave a note for you on the countertop as they rush out the door, it reveals a moment in time where they stopped everything they were doing to make sure you knew they were thinking of you. What I have discovered in my conversations with others is that these romantic gestures are a dying art.

Personally, I'm a bit baffled by this fact. After-all, we send text messages and emails all day long to business associates, friends and family; so why not our lovers? I don't mean the, "What do you want for dinner?" text messages but the, "I can't wait to be in your arms again." messages.

Even after years of marriage, togetherness, or whatever you call it... we tend to fall out of lust and lose our romanticism. That's the biggest problem I'm seeing today amongst couples. The disappearance of Romance in a relationship was described to me this way more than a few times: "Once they have you, they feel they got you and they don't have to work at keeping you." Is that true? I guess there's a part of me that when you're involved with someone you're serious about, those kinds of gesticulations should come easy and never go away.

I mean, if we are truly in love, wouldn't we be trying to show it in the least obvious of moments?

What I would like to hear from you is what kind of things do you find romantic? What is your definition of Romance? In the meantime, I’m polishing the first “Dance of Romance” short story to be unveiled on Valentine’s Day so stay tuned!

All my best,

"Soul-Needle"

2011-02-04T17:48:00.003-05:00

6,873,800,306.

At last count, that is how many people we have weaving through this haystack called earth. If we subtract out the ones not living in the USA, we can cut the number down to 310,435,839. Of course no matter our sexual preference, we’re only interested in one half of the population so let’s cut that in half to just over 155,000,000. This is the pile of hay we are left with in which to find our “soul-needle.”

     Why "soul-needle"? Because it IS like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Let's admit it... finding the one we are meant to be with is no easy task. We've all felt rather silly looking back on a past relationship, remembering the time we thought: they are the one.

     I’ve lived many years looking for my elusive “Soul-Needle”. I've had everything from childhood crushes which escalated into Puppy-Love to a 15 year marriage which ended in divorce. I’ve dated, rebounded, and bounced a couple of times before finally landing at the feet of the woman I know is not just the person I am going to spend the rest of my life with, but is the reason I have one…my Soul-Needle.

     While this Blog is not going to be about our relationship, it IS going to be about the roads we take, (and sometimes, un-beaten paths) in order to find our Soul-Needle. There are some of us which get lucky from the beginning and find our other half early on. More often than naught however, we are forced by our own personal Gods to endure a lifetime of trial and tribulation in an effort to, apparently, educate us on what we really want. I was at this crossroad 6 months ago.

     At 44 years of age, I've been put through the ringer in the relationship category. However, no matter the circumstance, I never gave up hope. Somehow, I just knew my Soul-Needle was out there. It's daunting, I'll give you that; actually trying to hold onto hope the person you want to spend Sunday mornings with wrapped in a cocoon of bed-sheets, played-out fantasies and spent candles actually exists. As each year passes, we begin to compromise with ourselves, don't we? All of a sudden, things we would never give into months prior become not so big-a-deals.

     A few extra pounds? That's ok... they have dimples! An annoying laugh? At least they're not farting in public! A strange aversion to the color green? They seem nice enough!

     We compromise, Romancers! We don't want to and, most of the time, we don't even know we are doing it. We are so happy to have someone (anyone) in our lives we overlook our own needs and wants. I was a victim as much as anyone. Then it happened.

     Six months ago I (re)met my Soul-Needle.

     While I wasn't looking for her, it happened. They say (whoever "they" are) that that is when it will happen. I've always had a bit of a bullshit mentality when it comes to that theory but... it's proven me wrong.

     Out of 155 million plus opportunities, it turns out our paths had crossed a number of times. As much as I want to get into the specifics, I will save our story for a future post. What is more important right now is that after years of up and downs, ins and outs and rights with a number of wrongs, we finally came together.

     I'm not sure exactly when my Soul-mate turned into the search for a "Soul-Needle" but I remember coining the term at a point when I realized how hard it really is to find your ideal partner. The one you want to share everything with,  the one you don't keep any of your secrets from, the person you can't wait to get home to, the one you sigh at the sight of and melt during their touch.

     As I move forward with this Blog I am looking forward to hearing your stories as well as revealing more of mine. Some of mine will be fictional stories I've wrote, some factual. I encourage each and every one of you to leave your stories in the comment section. Whether you are still looking for your special someone, living with the one you wish would live up to their promises or are already blissfully happy with your partner, share your story.

     I will reveal my Soul-Needle story in the next couple days and begin my fictional serial story this coming Monday, Valentine's Day. In the meantime, feel free to comment on my first post and let's see where the discussions take us!

HH