In my 20s, when my sexuality was emerging (I was late) and
dreams of romance insistent, I dreaded wet-haired couples.
They were ubiquitous on Sunday mornings, in all the
breakfast places, with their fat rolled up newspapers and their gooey afterglow;
with their wet hair, which told only one story: that they had just taken a
shower together, after having spent the night together, during which they had
slept little and loved much.
I ached for that love and it wasn’t until my mid-30s, when I
met F., that I found it. In my bliss, I didn’t care about the wet-heads anymore.
Sometimes, even F. and I were among them.
It’s been 20 years. F. and I are tight. We anticipate each
other’s needs and finish one another’s sentences. We cradle each other. We stir
the pot. We kvetch. We meet under the covers (or on top of them), and we are
home.
Long love can be wet-hair love, but most of the time, it isn’t.
It is warm and steady more than dewy and electrifying. It is good, but sometimes
its goodness pales in the glow of new, undiscovered love.
This defies reason. Good, solid, reliable, reciprocal love
is hard to find. Wet-hair is illusory.
Still, when I see it, although I am in-love and well-loved, envy
and longing take me by surprise.
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