In Passing

I've only thought about her in passing.

Between work and busy store aisles, soft cat bellies and cinema-scope.

A sip of Chardonnay might bring her to mind, or lazy moments stretched on the couch, sock-clad with book in hand -

This her I haven't met yet. I don't think about her all that much to be honest...

Approaching mid life is a funny time to start over, but these things aren't planned like one writes a list for the store or takes out the garbage.

Still, in those passing moments I can almost see her, but the picture is always fuzzy. Someone articulate yet silly, passionate but reserved. Fun and spontaneous but dedicated and focused.

We joke a lot. Humor is key. She doesn't take herself too seriously but views the world as a beautiful and complex mystery – damaged but resilient. She doesn't have strict guidelines, and understands we are all shades of gray in continued definition. She questions and reads and analyzes life too much, like me. She reads into, between, over and through blatant facts given. We laugh about the details and other times work them over like a rubik's cube.

She says random sweet things like, “Your hair reminds me of an autumn day.” and “Puddles are tears of joy made for jumping in.” Her scent always pulls me in and reminds me of her bold uniqueness. Her gifts aren't flowers but silly special things that are very 'me' – a used trinket at a thrift store, or a rock shaped like a question mark. I save them all and love them like gold.

She likes quirky things like playing frisbee in the park, hunting for agates in the river bed with rolled up pant-legs, crossword puzzles in bed and hazy discoveries over a shared bottle of Merlot. She's kind of a nerd, but her smile is so contagious I often get giddy despite myself. She knows when to walk away and when to dig her heels in. She isn't butch or Femme or anything else with a firm title, she's just Her. I am utterly drawn to the person she is and the magic she projects just by breathing.

I miss her when she's not around but it's understood and appreciated that we have separate lives and are complete people on our own with overlapping colors. Her hands are noble but delicate like intricate maps or bisque fired pottery. They've worked hard and created beauty in the world and I want to slip into them and wear them around.

Her history doesn't fully define her, but she doesn't forget it. She wants me in a way I can give and vice versa.

Sometimes I feel like she is a mythical heroine who doesn't exist. She is simply all of the favorite character's I've read in books rolled into one unique, but fictional blur.

But, I don't think about her all that much...

No.

Just

In

Passing...