There’s a boy at my house. And he’s been here for a few days. Sleeping on the couch.  And I’ve been drinking a glass of wine tonight. And he’s on the back porch playing the guitar. And the thought of all of it together makes me smirk with an anxious satisfaction.  

He’s the same old type of boy I’m always attracted to. Wandering in life.  Handsome as hell.  Dreamer.  No car. (not something that has ever bothered me.) Musician. Complicated by life. 

He’s sweet with my girls. He has three of his own (which always prompts the Brady Bunch theme in my head when I think about it.) They keep asking me where he is when he goes outside. Fern especially.  Her own daddy has not been so involved in her life (his choice.boo).  I don’t flirt with him in front of the girls.  At least obviously.  Because I don’t want them to get attached.  Because I don’t really know what’s going on. And I don’t really know that I care to know.    And i don’t wanna get attached.  Unless I do. 

Flow. Going with it.  Playing it cool. Not hanging on the every move of him.  Don’t even really want to?  Though he is becoming a thought in my brain.   I like to kiss his cheek I guess. Yeah. 

I’ve been so very alone for so very long. I’ve become so independent. So very to myself.  I think I’m not as good a talker as I used to be. And I don’t care to pretend I’m some great conversationalist. And that seems to be okay.  Just the way it is. 

I’ve snuck away long enough to think about it all.  More wine.   He doesn’t drink.