The small bistro sits proudly in Greensboro’s historic district. The exterior is brick-clad, and the interior is bathed in candle light. My dinner is magnificent: Triggerfish in a delicate tomato sauce, complimented by a fine Rose.
My journal is my dinner companion. Normally, I’d delight in her company, but not tonight. I am lonely. I am longing for “the one”.
I laugh. I am eating Triggerfish, and I’m triggered. The old fears return. Will I always be alone? At fifty-six, am I too old for a long-term relationship or worse, am I too flawed? I take a deep breath. I am sad.
Sadness isn’t so bad, I tell myself. Sadness often inspires inspiration. Some of my best paintings, writing, and business plans have been birthed out of sadness, but not tonight. Tonight, the muse’s breasts are dry.
I hear my therapist’s voice telling me to welcome sadness; offer her the empty chair. I think why bother; she’s already taken a seat.