The weekend’s whirlwind has slowed to a gentle spring breeze. I slept nearly eleven hours Saturday night after the Poet returned to her far-away life. We’ve been e-mailing. Never having had an affair -- if by affair we mean with someone married to someone else (I know, I’m pretty boring) -- I think the excitement and energy I felt this weekend must be similar. Minus the guilt. She sent me a picture today that blows her initial picture (and the one I found on the web) out of the water. She insists she doesn’t photograph well. I insist the same about myself. I suppose we’re both wrong. I thought perhaps I might feel melancholy about it all, but I haven’t.
Who knows what the future will bring? Gamblers claim to, but we really only know the past, and that poorly and contentiously. For me, the weekend was very much about the present, the now, the moment. Am I turning into a Buddhist?