Then there was another woman there, called Sheryl (definitely with an S-). At first it was true that I hadn't known her before, but then when LLY showed up, and she knew her from way back, and she offered to introduce us, I said (cuz now it was true, and an understatement) "I believe we've met" and Sheryl said, "Yes, I only came to your place on a Friday night and stayed until I left Saturday with Meaty Man" (big wink-winks throughout). And that was apparently true, whoever Meaty Man was, but all I could think was how I wanted to tell LLY as soon as possible how minimal and mediocre the fooling around had been in my bed that night with this Sheryl. This imperative had something to do with LLY's knowing the woman from way back.
Sheryl disappeared and LLY & I started to look down a cocktail-menu sort of list of round-ish viney stylized logo-like medalliony things---at the time they reminded me of illustrations in that Jeannette Winterson book with the fairy tale element (whichever one that was), but they had more in common stylistically with those ornate letters that make the first letter of the first word of the first paragraph on a page in an old novel, if you know what I mean. The list was a list of these designations for, or commemorations of, the regulars at the bar---seven or eight of them, anyway. There were words spelled out all curly inside each design. Sheryl was one of the regulars so honored, apparently, and we knew this and were trying to pick hers out based on the nickname/words/notes. That may have been when I found out that the name of the bar, which was called (when speaking) "Anxiety," was spelled "Glinic" --- or "Clinic" with a fancy C, maybe. I was just starting to wonder about that name, anyway, when I woke up.
Main moral of the story I came up with this morning: virtual drinks with lovelikeyeast are better than none.
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Okay. Got home tonight and, in the pause of sitting in the driveway that I indulge in now and then, I realized I wanted to weep. The big ball of wanna-weep was welled up good, pushing on the surface. Dialated 9 cm. Something like that. Nice and imminent, or feeling potentially so. And so I tried to surrender to it. I gave in, as one does (or I do), sometimes---sort of formally/officially---made the space and set out to let go, see how it went. Then as soon as the first quiet leak caused the first moisture to touch my face, the whole business kinda smoothly, casually, retreated back down, and soon was not near accessible.
Don't you hate when that happens?
If I knew what-all the weeping impulse was about, would it be any better? Could I then torment myself with tailored thoughts of it until I couldn't take it any more and bawled like a baby? That doesn't sound so good either.