I am not used to going out by myself.  As much as I want to get out and do things, doing them alone doesn’t sound appealing.  At least not at this point in my life.  I don’t mind traveling alone.  I can go where I want and see what I want without consulting my companion.  If I want to linger in a bookshop, or make a spontaneous stop, then I can.  But there are some things that I want to share with another person.

Last night, I went to the theater and saw a great production of “The Gin Game”.  It was a “pay what you can” night and I had a fiver in my pocket.  What’s great about going to the theater alone is that I got primo seats – second row center.  Great view and I could hear everything, which is a bonus for me with my hearing loss.   I sat in between two old ladies.  I knew when I bought the ticket there would be a chance that, as a single, I’d be stuck between two couples.  I enjoyed myself very much, but it was an odd situation.  Odd in the sense I’m not used to going to the theater alone.  It’s one thing to go to a hockey or baseball game.  Those were things My Love didn’t particularly enjoy.  But she did love the theater.  I almost expected to see her with a date, but I didn’t (thankfully).  I know that getting out alone will get easier over time.

The night before I didn’t sleep well.  It was one of those nights where I felt like to was perpetually tossing and turning, never really getting comfortable in one space.  I woke up first around 1am, then around 4.  It was after waking up the second time that I had a strange dream involving My Love.  I had come home and found three men waiting for her.  They were all blonde and better looking than myself.  She never appeared in the dream and I’m not sure what it meant, but it  wasn’t the type of dream that would like repeated.  I felt very uncomfortable when I awoke.  That set the tone for Tuesday.

I’m not certain why I had a dream like that.  Maybe it had to do with a story outline I was developing.  I’ve decided to try my hand at writing a short story.  On the wall near my bed, I have a print of “The Singing Butler” by Jack Vettriano.  You may have seen it. 

 

 

The print, not my bedroom.

It’s a couple in evening wear, dancing on the beach at low tide.  There are two servants standing by, holding umbrellas.  My Love gave it to me because it was a favorite of mine, as well as hers.  I was looking at the print while lying on the bed, and began to wonder about the story behind the painting.  I began to think about possible plots, how these two people came together, and why were the servants standing by.  I wrote down everything that came into my head.  Things like possible scenarios or character sketches. And I starting thinking about My Love.  I thought of her, not because she gave me the print, but because I was looking at the woman in the print.  This woman had wonderful curves, just like My Love.  My Love wanted to dance, wanted us to learn to ballroom dance.  She loves ballet dancers.   She said she wasn’t graceful despite loving the dancers.  I saw something different in her. She has amazing grace.  I can see it when she walks and how she gestures.  She has a unique sense of style I could see her dancing with a carefree attitude.  She would often catch me watching her and would want to know why I was watching.  I could see the grace in her, even if she saw herself as  clumsy.  She is a beautiful swan, not an ugly duckling.

I looked at the print and saw My Love and I dancing, oblivious to the people close at hand, caught up in each other like we were the only two people there.  Maybe that effected my brain before I went to sleep.  Maybe it affected the content of the dream is beyond me, but I can’t see how.  Please don’t play Freud and offer your analysis.

Nobody said I would forget here all at once.  But when I do think of her,  I become confused and discombobulated, quite rattled and nervous.  I try to keep busy and get my mind off her, but I can’t stop thinking about her.  I don’t understand what’s happening.  One minute I am collected and focused in the present.  That can last a couple of days.  But then I’ll have a passing thought triggered by anything, and I turn to jelly.  Last night, as I lay in bed, I prayed and asked God what was happening to me.

Maybe it’s not the time to understand all of this.  I wish it would pass soon.  I understand things take time.  It’ll take time to get used to this new segment of my life. 

She’s been back to read some more.  She confessed that she’s not sure why, but she thinks it has something to do with her own issues.  I do know this:  there is one post she has not read.

And I think she knows which one.