Music and Memories

Warren Zevon.

Fuck me.

I was already at a place he and I would visit.  We would sip good beer.  Me and IPA – he a barley wine.

We would sit knee to knee at the bar – looking at the list of beers – talking about life – and sip our beer.

I decided last minute to go to an erotic art munch.  G commented that it would be a place I love – this place with 100 beers on tap and good food. I left late, hoping that would translate into me getting there with people I know.

Good thought.

Instead it meant I went into a place alone – while Warren Zevon was playing – and I sat at a place at the bar we always sat.

Fuck me.

I texted G a question, “what the fuck am I doing here?”  Then  I explained why I was saying this.

He encouraged me to stay – the was like “come home if you want – I have a fire – and stew – and beer.

I ended up staying.

Even though Warren Zevon was playing.

And the beer reminded me of him too as I scanned it, without realizing it, for something he would drink.

“You said you need to get out more,” G reminded me.


But fuck me.

I never expected it. Warren Zevon on the jukebox.  Beer that reminded me of him.

What am I doing?

I don’t know.

Trying to embrace the good stuff while my emotions try to drag me into the dark stuff.

The dark stuff – missing the person I love. Missing the time where I don’t have to be Mom or daughter or wife – but get to be me.

As I told G earlier – I don’t fucking know what I need anymore. I know what I miss. I miss moments of not having to be mom – or wife – or housewife. I miss being able to push aside all of my worries and just be me. I miss having someone who cares outside of him – someone who doesn’t want me to be alone – but wants to be there. I miss that all. I miss intimacy and understanding and someone who understands me.




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