A series of Dana's writing.
There he stood.
In the doorway.
I gasped. At age 40, he was ruggedly attractive with faintly almond-shaped eyes, pea-green, and accented with dark brown eyebrows.
After rocking back and forth on his heels, he stepped forward and said, "So!" This was his way of saying "Here I am. What's happening here?"
The subliminal message was "I've been gone all day. Surely you've had time to redecorate the living room and buy a new gadget for the kitchen. Maybe you've gone gallery-hopping and put a deposit on a small watercolor. We'll take a look at it together this weekend and decide whether or not to buy it."
Of course, I had not done any of the above, but he had an appetite for constant change. He loved to make endless travel plans. This aspect of pleasing him was perfect for me. It generated enough activity in the planning stages alone to placate him. And I loved seeing new places.
Otherwise, daily routines were not kick enough to challenge him. So it was my role to be the entertainer and provider of amusement.
His homecoming every night was thrill enough for me because his physical presence was sexually provocative. I loved the intimate challenge of living with a stranger. Present, but not completely knowable.
Here he was in the doorway again.
Only two weeks after his premature death.
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