My sailor has been gone a few weeks now. Long enough for his absence to become normalized and for me to start missing him–I mean REALLY missing him.
As I become lonelier, I notice that love is in the air and it’s not just the birds and the bees and the squirrels in the trees who are getting some.
It’s like when you try to not drink so much; you suddenly become inundated by images or joyful wine drinkers on TV, in fiction and even on the streets of some neighbourhoods. I am noticing affectionate behaviour everywhere.
When Fifty Shades of Grey blasted onto the scene, I skimmed the first book of the trilogy, but skipped the others. It’s not that I am averse to a hot sex scene (have you read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?), the plot didn’t work for me. By this point in the deployment even DH Lawrence is too provocative and my reading has veered in a different direction. (Have you read World War Z?)
My friend M is writing a novel. It’s a murder mystery and she’s sending me chapters as she completes them. She has a gift for writing excellent descriptions with vivid sensory details, and I’m caught up in the unfolding investigation. The most recent chapter had the protagonist falling into bed (actually a deep bubble bath) with a handsome man in uniform. It’s like Fifty Shades of Suds. M, you are killing me!
A quick glance at the calendar makes me feel worse. My sailor won’t be back for eight months–eight! That’s 240 long, lonesome sleeps.
Thank goodness I’m not in one of my wine limitation phases. That box of Chardonnay cooling in the fridge is the only comfort I’ll get for quite some time.