On desire

The temperature has dropped a little. The wind is almost chilly. There are clouds in the sky, not grey heavy ones but wisps of white that have descended over the city slowly teasing me.  Autumn seems to finally be one leaf away from falling gingerly into my lap. I drink hot tea in the evening while Diego purrs sweet nothings into an empty room. The radio is playing the same song over and over again.

This is the beginning of my season.

While the rest of Greece mourns the near end of summer, I scowl at the light before breaking into a happy whistle because it is almost over; the sun won’t be a constant for much longer. I suffer summer. I survive it. But now the wind is almost chilly. And the clouds are almost grey. And I am drinking hot tea.

I am writing, but mostly looking out the window, while Diego purrs sweet nothings into an empty room. I try to make space for his presence to fill me. It works for awhile. But then the radio plays the same song over and over again. Diego stops purring. And the silence, the silence pulsates into me, through me, out of me. This is my season. The rain, the chill, the clouds, the song, even the tea.

But an object for my pent up desire is missing.

I don’t do summer flings so I scowl at the light and I wait patiently for my season to arrive.

It’s been a long summer and I am restless.

When I am restless, when I am filled with undirected desire, when raindrops glimmer with mirages of romance, I am mercilessly tempted to do something I really shouldn’t do.