Alone.

A love story.

To my fellow outlaws, outcasts and misfits,

Do you just read my free stories? Amazing. Are you a paid subscriber! You’re magically delicious! Do you share my writing with your family and friends? You’re also delicious but use a more sensible form of magic, like a guarded wizardry.

Now that we got that out of the way, let’s jump into the sandbox. A few weeks ago, I dropped “Last couple of the dance floor,” which got me thinking about love and all its forms and iterations; when I’ve felt it, when I’ve given it or equally important - when I’ve seen it.

PS - There’s a great song by Laura Marling called “Strange Girl” at the end. Don’t be afraid to hit play on the player, Player.

And away we go…

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Anniversaries were always a coin toss.

I spent the first nine years of our relationship upside down in a bottle of gin so our early anniversaries always started out wonderful then may or may not have ended up with cruise ship security scouring the decks, worried I fell overboard, only to find me drunk under a deck chair at four o’clock in morning screaming at the top of my lungs, “Jim Morrison was a blowjob hack. Who wore leather pants!”

In other words, I was a catch.

I loved my wife. Theoretically I knew she loved me, but couldn’t imagine how or why?

How do you love somebody?

Why?

Is it physical? Sexual? Intellectual? Spiritual? Emotional?

All, some, one, none?

I thought love should feel like a fifth of Jameson wedged between your legs and a Marlboro red dangling from your lips while a police officer shined a light in your grinning face and asked, “Where’d you get this car, Son?” and you reply, “Your mother’s house.” Love should feel like the space between those words leaving your mouth and the cop’s leather gloved fist cracking your jaw.

Since my first memory, I felt like a spy, dropped into a strange land, with strange people, with strange rituals.

By our tenth anniversary, I’d been sober for a few years and was making a little coin so we splurged and went to a beautiful all-inclusive resort in Mexico. There was a gym, daily yoga classes, dance classes, and circus classes, but we dedicated all our time and energy to the lazy river that snaked through the resort and the all you can eat buffet.

I constantly pointed people out to my wife and asked, “What do you think their story is? What do you think they do? What do they love? What do you think they have dedicated their lives to? Look at that tall pale man’s ridiculous hat.”

On and on and on until I realized all my wife wanted to do was read her book and lay in the sun, whereas I wanted to solve the metaphorical issues that plagued man’s soul.

She was having a better time than me.

By the end of our first day, I created fictional worlds and realities for every guest at the resort. All except one.