Tired. Nauseous. The same spot in my stomach still aches. My stool is still iffy. My period is missing in action. My heart is still bruised but my ego is stroked. I've been aware of the 'geek heartthrob' nutritionist who lives down the street for months now. He's a single dad so judgement is out, at least on that criteria. I enjoy watching our children play. At first I wasn't sure what I was sensing but it's becoming more and more clear and I like it. It's nice to see someone actually make an effort to get to know me. He's getting bolder. I like being spoken to as an equal. He's not assuming that I lack intelligence and understanding due to my youth. He doesn't talk down to me or put up the strong and silent facade just to make me sputter nervously (I'm starting to catch on to why men behave in that manner).

I love the streaks of gray in his hair. I even got to touch it, recently. I think he cuts quite a romantic figure, playing the piano. There's a certain amount of anticipation in me, though I've been slow to respond, because I stupidly hung on to an elusive experience with a judgmental asshole for far too long, but seeing him chatting up that yoga princess by the library was all the wake up I needed. I wish them fat blonde babies.

We got groceries together and picked my little one up from daycare then he dropped us home and I wanted to kiss him... on the cheek. I didn't feel that way before. I obviously have more nefarious reasons for entertaining this man's presence, on top of being one of his clients. I haven't made love in a while. Years, actually. I want to work up to that again. Slowly. I want to hold and be held. I want to be touched by someone who actually respects me. I want to take my time and explore his skin. I want to giggle and have fun and relax. I want to write love songs...if we get to that point, obviously. I need something real.