I have finally begun to realize that I am getting rather tired of being single. It’s not so much that I am for sure ready to date and look for a love and partner. It’s more these isolated moments in my days and nights when I realize I am missing something.
Sometimes I lounge on my couch watching TV, and I realize I am missing the weight and warmth of a body—not just beside me, but with me, snuggled close.
Some evenings I read in bed, and I realize that I would rather be—get your mind out of the gutter, Gentle Reader—reading to somebody else. My favorite book to read aloud is, by the way, Neil Gaiman’s Coraline. Yes, I can be cajoled into doing voices.
Sometimes I walk down the street and I realize I want to hold somebody’s hand.
Some nights I roll over in bed and wish I were rolling over to put my arm around somebody, to bury my face in warmth and skin.
Some mornings I wish I had somebody for whom I could make breakfast. For one thing, it would be a good excuse to find out if I can flip four eggs without a spatula, not just two.
Sometimes, I miss having somebody I can call to say, “Come over. I miss you, and so do my hands.”
I wonder how long I will be okay with missing these things. It’s obviously not going to last.