What’s that, almost like Christmas ?

An Amazon box or plastic bag, doubled over, with stuff you could buy at Publix or Target or the thrift shop near the Food Lion arrives on my front porch. Stuff I know I am to receive arrives with the shine of Christmas on it, as if it were under the tree.

Caucasian heterosexual males have feelings too.

I don’t know whether I just joined The Club or whether I just renewed my membership and paid another year’s dues.

You know The Club, The Unrequited Love Club, wherein I give my heart to a woman old enough to be my daughter, maybe a granddaughter if my son were a breeder.

She’s intelligent, beautiful and loves dogs. She has sense enough to hold back not giving her heart to Gramps here. So I enjoy her openness as I wait to see what happens

She is in bed next to me. She is my wife. I bring her iced tea and soup and desserts.

Anything she wants.

Twenty five years ago we made love. I liked it. At least I had orgasms. She seemed excited. Did she have orgasms ? I don’t know.

Then we got married and we stopped making love. The silence and the sadness became like brick and mortar .

Maybe one day, I will find another lover.

Maybe…

I stayed up late to watch a train, headed to New York, the heart of Midtown.

I wished I were on it, headed to the Magic City, where people match money to talent, the world marvels at the sounds, the words, the pictures.

Can it happen in Richmond or Leesburg or Phillipsburg or Astor?

Maybe. But who looks there?