Love at the end of August: a year; a block away; a lifetime ago

The following are notes I took last year at the end of August, as I was leaving Brooklyn for Tucson, most likely never to return again. I was so in love with love. I was floating on air. And nothing felt quite real.

How could it be? I’d left my life in Tucson to come hang out in NYC because a year and a few months earlier, I’d slept with a guy in an extended stay hotel off the freeway in Marana and followed him to NYC. I just kept coming back. For him and then for me. It was libido-triggered fantasy. It couldn’t be real. That’s not how real people behave, right?

But it was. And I was. Real, that is. And I honor it. I’m just not in a place anymore where it means very much. I came back from the dead of heartbreak, emotional abuse and self-hatred and found my heart capable of feeling and giving freely without expectation of return. The way it should be.

Right now, a year later, I’m trying to make a life in Brooklyn, at the end of the block I stayed on a year ago. Love, at least the romantic kind, doesn’t hold much value to me right now. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Everyone says it’s good to have someone to keep warm with in winter here. I’m sure it would be. But I’ve been through worse things than winter. Indeed I have. And I did it all on my own.

Out of curiosity, I Zillowed the apartment I speak of below. The going rent is $4,500. The listing had pictures of the apartment and my chest got tight and I felt a longing for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Not so much the man as the place and who I was when I was in that apartment. The light from the bedroom window, diffused by a sheer curtain. The bed that I slept on so soundly. And, well, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the really top notch sex.

And now, a silly interlude of who I was a year ago:

My next book is going to be a character study on the woman I am with the men I love. Every chapter is a different woman. For example:

• Yesterday I was the older fun woman who helped a traditional and brilliant younger man have fun in a museum.

• This morning I was the sexy, deep woman who talked to a sultry lover…until he FaceTimed me and I reverted to a child when he acted like a man.

• This evening I am the smart ass geek trying to one up the smartest guy I ever loved with brilliant conversation and a smirk.

And yeah, there are days where I talk to easily four men I have dated. Juggling it all is my burden.


Is it more difficult to meet someone new or say goodbye to someone you love? I would argue they are different types of difficulty. The first involves chance and persistence. The second involves wrenching emotion and burning nostalgia.

Every day I meet him we are new people. And every day we say goodbye we are old lovers once again.


A legal question: can I acquire squatter’s rights by sleeping at his apartment and laying all day in his bed in a T-shirt and chonies, using his WiFi and air conditioning? He knows I’m here. He’s in the next room. I perform duties like getting him cold water every couple of hours.

I just want to acquire the rights to sleep over at will, be close to the pier and the comfortable bed. Plus this neighborhood is chill AF.



Stuff to remember:

•He keeps pumice soap in the shower for his hands since he’s a mechanic.

•He keeps a microfiber cloth in his pocket at all times so he can clean his glasses. And then he cleans mine. That never stops being surprising.

•He expects me to be a grown up. He doesn’t let me get away my my spoiled brat act.

•He always has a positive attitude and he’s logical and rational. He doesn’t always get things right, but when he’s wrong he acknowledges it.

•He says the word “smooches” which would normally make me barf but it’s sweet coming from him.

•He doesn’t care about music. He doesn’t dress well. He’s so skinny I want to have a telethon for him.

•He taught me about Ayrton Senna.

•He only drinks Oreo milkshakes.

•He made Eagle Scout. And it’s something he’s really proud of.

•He never bar mitzvahed the way that I didn’t want to get confirmed.

•He makes my toes curl whenever his skin comes in contact with mine.


•Meeting up at a Taiwanese restaurant, he eats the shrimp I order even though he’s slightly allergic.

•Speaking in a French accent and he tells me to go on a blind date and pretend it’s how I actually speak.

•Walking to a play in Greenpoint while holding hands except when passing a dead rat being devoured by ants.

•Having fun without feeling insecure.

•Drinking milkshakes while playing Mario Kart.

•Making the best of a wait for an Uber by making out in a doorway for ten minutes.

•Denying his advances in the back of the car and then forcing him to wait til we’re in bed.

•Sleeping the night through while touching at all times.

•Waking up to the possibility that this might never happen again.


I live and I write. I write and I live. Fortunately they are both very steamy.


I’m a woman of simple desires. All I want is to have a huge apartment in NYC, a best selling book, an option on my screenplay rights, a nice CEO boyfriend for weekdays and a rocker in leather for fun.

But I’ll settle for someone who writes me flirty texts when I get back to Tucson.


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