september smells like samba

September 20, 2016 - Daily Notes, From the Editor

I am wearing the same dress today, the gray one that hugs my body and drapes to my ankles, the one I shimmied into at 9 o'clock last night after a fast shower and a speed-race with the curling iron.

He shows up with two ice cream sandwiches at 9:09 p.m., carrying an ever-so-faint scent of something nice; the kind you don't notice until you hug a person and bury your face in his neck.

"What kind of music would you like me to put on?" I ask, though my mind is racing through the questions I never asked during our earlier phone conversation; questions I am afraid to ask even though the answers are right here, in my living room, bringing ice cream after a very long work day.

"Samba," he smiles as if we listen to it all the time.

 "Is that like salsa," I query? Fumbling with the Pandora app, I find it.

"Sort of, but it has a different rhythm. Think Brazilian." He winks, and we put the ice cream in the freezer for later.

He starts to dance with me there in my kitchen, barefoot to the latin beat. I follow his seemingly sure steps, and let him lead me into turns. I pause for a moment to go find my black dance shoes because they have suede soles and I can spin better in them. We are laughing.

"Am I doing it right," I ask?

"I don't actually know the steps, but you sure look good," he admits and I melt.

There is a break in the songs and for a moment I feel nervous, fear returns demanding answers to exactly how the future with this man will unfold before taking one more step. Fear wants details, certainty, commitment beyond the limits of necessity and even reality. Fear wants to be safer than safe.

I place my forehead on the chest of a love I have known for ten years and whom I still barely know at all. The depths of another human being become more mysterious the further we go in the direction of intimacy. It can feel terrifying to realize you may never entirely know the one you love. Safety, after all, is only an illusion.

"Can I ask you a question," I whisper? He says yes. "For you, how many days go by before you start to think you really miss me and want to see me again?"

I expect him to say about a week, because with our busy lives--both of us working hard to build something solid (for me, Lucia; for him, a real estate business)--we rarely see each other more than once or twice in a seven day stretch.

He doesn't need to pause or reflect. He is looking me in the eyes and he simply replies, "One, really. I'd like it if I could see you every day."

The music starts again and I soften, and we laugh and say oh, that will sure be nice one day.

Today is Tuesday and I am wearing the same dress. It smells faintly of him, of samba, of ice cream sandwiches and of courage.


Laura Lowery is the founder, editor and publisher of Lucia. She does her best to lead a creative life. Whether triumphant or stumbling, Laura shares daily notes (that are often weekly) here on luciajournal, including stories, behind-the-scenes happenings, little doses of inspiration, and large quantities of curiosity and heart. She is pleased to meet you.