Romance In Two Centuries

    Looking back at my romances over the years, they can be assigned to categories. For the past couple decades the column heading "Significant Other" would have only one entry, None. In my early years in an 'Old South' Navy port and college town, I wrote sonnets and short stories to woo my heartthrob, a student. I won her away from an abusive Army lieutenant and we spoke of marriage. It was not to be.

    My writings, however, led her to share her thoughts that she saw me as possibly living in a garret in a small tower over-looking city streets much as Chaucer might have done. I am now living in the modern day equivalent of that garret. "Garret" is a much gentler description than "hovel". It's a second floor walk up in a traditionally all male rooming house with a shared bath. If I had running water in my space, I could call it a small studio. Emphasis on small. It's so small I have to go out in the hallway to change my mind. It's adequate. At least, I don't have to go to the well to draw my water. It's a short walk down the hall to an easily accessible tap.

    With some significant improvements in my personal freedom status about a year ago, I've added a few columns to my "Romance" record. The first one is "She Would Be So Nice To Come Home To". Entries in this column are made after several shared moments and pleasant conversations. Subsequent path crossings will determine whether there's enough mutuality to hint at or reveal a wish for more frequent togetherings. Unhappily, I've erased the several entries in that column and moved them to either, "Wishful Thinking/Impossible Dream" or "What Was I Thinking/Duh".

    Occasionally there is a move to the "Friend Zone" but that's with indelible ink and it's not a desirable outcome though it does beat being shunned for admitting a strong attraction. To be permanently relegated to the Friend Zone after hopeful thoughts of emotional ambrosia is like being sent to the dungeon with only bread and water. That sentence can be handed down by caring too much, too soon. Discerning the degree of mutuality is more often than not a labyrinthine enigma. If Goldilocks were around she might teach a course in how to avoid caring too much or caring to little and how to care just right.

       The last column is "She's The One". That column will have only one entry and it will be in bold-faced  font with indelible ink.

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