Shrinkage

For five months our love-connection has been nurtured and cultivated by daily phone calls across a couple of states, a rendezvous in Idaho, frustratingly short visits spaced four to six weeks apart, and much anticipation.

Last month when she spent twelve days in south Florida, we were separated by 2650 miles. And I felt those extra 1900 miles. In some ways it was sort of romantic, envisioning us on opposite ends of the continent, but the time difference made phone call coordination difficult.

Now the distance has shrunk from 2650 miles to 766 miles and soon to mere inches. Instead of counting the weeks or days, I'm counting the hours until she's here for good with a truck full of instruments and clothes and kitchen supplies, my decadent request for Red Iguana Mole Poblano fulfilled, a sexy (and sedated for the roadtrip) black cat in tow.

I am giddy with the prospect of holding hands and burying my face in her neck and laughing together and feeling her breath in my hair and watching her sleep and seeing her eyes gazing at me when I awake.

The phone sex has been fun, and has probably kept me from plummeting into a celibacy-induced psychosis, but getting off is so much better in person. Juggling a cell phone and saying "what?" when one of us starts mumbling somehow bleeds the eroticism from the experience. But soon the phone sex will be reserved for those public masturbatory adventures when I may need a little prompting and my grrl is on the other side of town, instead of far far away in MormoniaZionia.

Here, kitty, kitty!

. . .