Sometimes, I don’t mind singleness–when I’m hiking between cacti on the border of Mexico, taking a selfie at the Meyerson before the violins warm up, or forking a pumpkin ravioli with brown butter sauce in downtown Dallas. On these days, I might even like being single.
But, sometimes, singleness is the ache to feel a shoulder against my salty cheek, to feel an arm weigh on me as I flutter at the edges of sleep…
Photo courtesy of Karen Long via Creationswap.com
…for the scent of Gillette aftershave to interrupt my French Roast reveries, for the clack of oxfords on the stoop at six, for two steaming bowls of corn and jalapeño chowder, for a kiss that bristles after dark, and for another set of tired eyes to scan the small, black figures on the spreadsheet labelled “House Search.”
What does singleness feel like?
It depends on when you’re asking.
