The Sound Of The Wind Thru Trees

We have hit one or two little wobbles (of a sort), the last six or seven weeks now into our …em…companionship? Don’t know what to call it.  The word ‘boyfriend’ at 47 sounds inadequate. But close enough.

Anywho,  so either he’s pushed away, or I have.  Although, more like pushing away from the table to get a bit more room to breath. Tip the chair back, and relish the food with a satisfying burp, or a hearty fart. And yet like nectar of the gods, you are wary, and wonder at the sensations it tickles up your spine.

He is soft and kind, with a sorrow sometimes I see behind those grey/blue eyes; much like my own. His sorrow though lies deeper, a too many childhood burdens sort of hurt. The kind that either stabs you in the back sort of pain, or you turn around to face the demon before it does more damage to those things you still cherish. He could be called, I guess, a life long learner.

Yesterday, lost in thoughts of him. Lost in how to explain this attraction, this dance, this walk together. I can plainly see that ol’Beauty and the Beast aspect that I am so keen on. Oh, he has that beast in him. I was thinking yesterday though that that beast is symbolic more of the demons we hide away inside, or the demons that isolate us. To find another that sees through the mist of sorrow that shrouds the dark corners, well, what can I say.

When he touches me its soft, tentative, like a child intrigued by some new treasure. He makes me feel that way, when we’re alone together. Like a butterfly, wings spread in the sunshine, drawing up the tender rays, warmth emanating from within. As a soft, erotic pulse beats between each jagged breath.

Delicious.  Yet, like all secret pleasures, one learns to measure out these delights, in order to savour them at ones leisure.

Sitting on my stoop yesterday eve, beautiful night, sky turning a dark and luminous clear blue. He had just returned to The Village after spotting a friend cut down a tree, for another friend.

Interesting the contrast of how we each spent our days…me walking the wilds of this fair city, in awe of the Entish beauty of London’s forested pathways. Yet, he, cutting them down to allow more sunlight for a garden. Dangerous he say they were, overhanging the houses roof, and threatening dire consequences if not cut down. Perhaps. Perhaps.

I told him of Irish and I’s 2 & a 1/2 hour walk among this Forest City, and he asks me…”did you take pictures“? I said…of course. “Where did you go“? To Soho I said. Along the river, where Richmond meets the Soho Loop, and along the river going east. Then under and across Wellington, and on into Chelsea Green Park .

He’s travelled along the way on his bike, he said.

Ah, but it is different to walk along the riverbank, to stroll the pathways, and take ones time. Each detail vivid, each flower, each canopied forest, or flowered meadow, savoured at one’s leisure. One can hear the rustling sound of the wind thru the trees shiny new leaves.

He says he wants to come with me, one day. We will see. So far my luring him off his two wheels has come to naught, as I’ve told him of my secret cache of Apple Wood, laying about that abandoned orchard at The Coves. Just the perfect type to feed that cooker of his. Would taste beautiful with a nice slow cooked anything you would care to fix. Yet, never feels like walking.

It’s my secret place, that lovely Cove. He has been told how to get there before, by another of his friends who lives near. But twas futile. He says he can never find it. So I suppose tis my duty to lead him towards that which he needs to fuel his fire, no? Yes.

However, gotta always be a “however”, I know eh? Damn it all. However, he’s not ‘keen’ on the whole dog thang. He likes Irish, I can see that, but much like another grey/blue eyed man I know well, he doesn’t care particularly for ‘pets’ of any sort. More to do with the responsibility they foist on you when you take one on. I understand. I do. That’s why I had cats for 25 years. Heck, I had the same cats for most of those years – Gizmo & Shoe.

Cats are like self-sufficient adults in little fur coats. Dogs, yes Dogs are like perpetual three year olds – ugh. Pulling you here, and pulling you there. Getting themselves everywhere. Not listening. I have nightmares about Irish not listening to me. She has a mind of her own that one. She can be soooo incredibly obedient, good company, wonderful calm nature. Love people. I mean L O V E loves every single one, ‘cept for maybe 3 or 4, but the rest? She loves and just has to tell them so with a big, ol’hump on their leg. Damn dog. Embarrassing.

How did I get golden-x humping female dog? Really?

She has to say hi, just doesn’t take no for an answer. Much like Shoe the cat. He was insistent that you love him. Almost took it as an affront when you banish him away. He always looked crushed.

Irish on the other hand doesn’t mind if you push her away. She giddily bounces away with a goofy grin on her face, she’ll be back. She’ll have another strategy though.

So she CAN be annoying. Certainly. But I love her. I suppose we can all be annoying at some point.

The arrangement works. We seem to be working. I enjoy his company, we try to be honest, I try to not to be rageful and give into my menopause mood monsters and leave angry messages, and when he’s moody he comes back afterwards and offers an olive branch…its a work in progress, as are we all.

I don’t WANT to live with, I was very clear with him. I want us to share, and be companions, and do things together, but no live together. Maybe not for now, or maybe for ever. Who knows. We live around the corner from one another right now, and that works just fine. His place is the kitchen, mine the boudoir, the secret garden beyond yonder hedge, the lounge in chat space. At his our surroundings are loony-toons, and Disney characters, and all the miniaturized denizens of childhood. Thrown in for good measure are antique tins that contained this, or that. A model radio operated airplane sits atop his microwave.

The roof leaks, and after the death of his mother he returned to decaying ceilings dripping black mold, due to a cheap landlord. He has two beautiful pieces he’s crafted from wood in his barn, but can’t bring them into the kitchen till the roofs repaired. So he lives in what I would classify as squalor, or close to. Yet from that wood burner outside he cooks up the tenderest fair, to make my tummy grow.

Ahem. AND, grow so much that a buddy from work asked me ‘when was I due’. Dear god no. I thought I’d rid myself of that. Yet, no, to be fair, I was hunched over and good knows I ain’t. But, course, this lad I’ve fixed myself up with keeps mentioning how much he loves my renaissance body. I told him to stop saying that. But he won’t. He says I’m being silly, and he just keeps saying it.

Dang, he’s good.

We’ll see if I can lure him into the woods, and down the path to the secret Coves.


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