I stand in the doorway, and the flat looks entirely different. I have moved in. I have a jewelry tree, I have lilac paint on the walls, silk scarves and dirty socks strewn carelessly across furniture.
I am here on my own. My hair tossed up on top of my head, my skin itching.
Is it sorrow? Is it restlessness?
When I look into the bedroom, I fear love.
I have flashes of dreams, of running hand in hand down a road in the rain, dodging the cars and laughing.
Of waking up and cooking breakfast for someone.
That I'm happy, intimate, that I don't think romance is dead, that I'm with someone that sees me, understands me, loves me.
I spend way too much time thinking about that, because the more I do, the more I fear it.
The inevitable disappointment, the scaling back of passion to the Little Love that sustains a relationship alongside dogged commitment and a refusal to give up.
I am not sure this shows on my face. My eyes are dry.
