Read It and Weep

And it just doesn't seem to go on long enough.  Like all really great things, it seems to end far too soon. But it's all good, believe me.

We enjoy each other's company. Conversation is effortless. We make each other laugh. He's quick and witty. He thinks I am a riot. We understand each other. We talk about everything, not just the typical get-to-know-you date stuff. We don't even feel like we have to be on our best behavior, necessarily. It is really kind of fun. Seems like we are good for each other.

And there are buying signs that I note. Plans for future things. An offer to help with my labor camp of a yard.  Talk of "next time."

And the next day there are cute texts. Flirty. Complimenting me. I flirt back. It would be hard not to. I can not stop smiling. It is so nice to have someone to think about.

But like the date, the weekend grinds to a halt and Monday rears its ugly little horned head, beyotch that she is. 

I work. I blog. I clean. I labor in the yard. I run all the errands I don't want to bother with when I have the kids with me. No need to intrude on their time with things like my hair cut or my eyebrow wax or the all important run to the hardware store by way of the beer distributor.

I touch base with a few old friends some of whom have begun to read my blog.  And as they contact me about some of the things that I've written that struck them, I find myself rereading some of my more raw and painful moments of agonizing heartache.

And I start to feel badly.

Badly about Scott having read them.

And since I should know well enough to never have a goblet of wine in one hand and the phone in another but do not, I text him.  I tell him that I have begun to feel badly about how he must feel having read all the harsh things I'd had to say about the weeks following his genie-in-a-bottle vanishing act.

And he writes back right away. "No worries, dear. We're fine. Have a good night."

What?