I’ve found myself alone again. After a weekend of emotional upheaval, I am getting back to my go-to solo routine. Did that sound sexual? Truly, it’s been a very romantic weekend. I’ve turned my attention to finishing the book we started together. Then I watched Midnight in Paris, which was so completely lovely and escapist (but also a commentary on escapism too, I suppose). Also, and quite unintentionally, I’ve been eating the kinds of erotic foods one might read about in a tantric sex guide. I’ve practiced yoga every day. I’ve been embraced by friends and in-law-style family when I thought I wanted to be alone. Part of the time has felt out of my control, but also fun and whirlwind. For the other part, I’ve quietly kept my head in the clouds, thinking about love and lightness and weight. Longing for some tenderness. Longing to be tender with someone. My life has had a kind of precision and intensity and magic, like each interaction, each new person, is seeing me and talking to me in some sort of other dimension. It’s feels like the plot and progression of a movie. Maybe it will last.