I went to see my dear.
For three nights, my body slept soundly in the warmth between my dear’s arms. We kissed foreheads. We laughed. We entangled our naked bodies and talked deeply about our affections.
I am not in love with my dear. I do believe that he is reluctantly, helplessly in love with me.
He once stunned me with his work in labor unions and spoke of his idol Rep. John Lewis not with starry-eyed whimsy but with determination to live a life that would make him proud. Now he only fantasized about promotions and luxury high rises.
During this visit, my dear earnestly called me a revolutionary. Smiling, he confessed his selfish desire to be close to someone whom he believes will change the nation. I used to feel similarly towards my dear. I would tell him, when you finally run for office, I’d be honored to serve your campaign. This time, I simply smiled back.
Yet another man who novelized my ambition to compensate for his lack.
At the risk of sounding like a pretentious yuppie, I was listening to an NPR special with Branford Marsalis, a jazz musician, on my walk home from work when I became intensely agitated with my dear. I remembered finding that hole in the wall blues bar in Chicago and sharing in the pain and joy of the live band together. I thought about his continuous complaints about DC’s lack of beer gardens during my visit.
I care about my dear. I enjoy time spent with him. We revel in rapturous sex together.
I am not in love with my dear.
I deserve a man who introduces me to jazz quartets. Then perhaps I will be in love.