You fall in love, preferably in a place where the light is kind, where you can't see the future with all its impossibly steep switchbacks that will leave you gasping for breath. There should be drinks that you gulp and food that you don't touch. You should be wearing something beautiful for the date and well, it doesn't really matter what he wears, he looks good in everything. You should not talk about your exes, not right away. Make no mistake -- they are in this story as well, hungry ghosts dying to make their presence known. When asked why you broke up, you might say, We were just such different people instead of he fucked my best friend and told me the night before my birthday when I had the flu. After all, this is your narrative now. At least you believe it is and that's all that matters.
Some culture leave food out for dead people at certain times of year. As a child I once knew a man who set a place for his dead wife and scooped a modest amount of food onto her plate every night (even in the afterlife he assumed she'd still be on a diet). And someone who bought her dead son gifts every Christmas, scores of them after he'd died in a car accident coming home for a visit. A little obsessed with death myself, I found these gestures touching and sad. And then I fell in love and understood. You leave the date and you know, you know that something will happen; your life will change. And you long for the old life and long for the new and you find yourself doing a post-mortem on the past, scanning it for clues, like old newspapers microfiche, one headline after another. You feel you're getting closer to something, to some sort of saving knowledge. And you stay for a very long time until you become a ghost, and you hope someone sets out some food and presents for you even if you aren't in any position to enjoy them.
Michelle's Spell of the Day"In love there are two things - bodies and words." Joyce Carol Oates
Grouchie's Afternoon Cocktail!
Benedictions and Maledictions