Lovelies,
An Evening out with you, my Sirens, is beyond a meal. It is a tribunal I attend willingly, every single time, because I have never once regretted being fully known by women who love me enough to ask the rude, penetrating questions first.
And yes, isn’t it interesting that penetrating, deep, pointed, revolving, all encompassing questions are the best parts of conversations. As is Sex, in case you are reading this hung over and miss my Joyful inuendo.
I arrived late — deliberately, I'll admit— because there is a particular pleasure in being the last one seated, in watching a table of faces turn toward the door at once. It confirms I'm the plotline they've been waiting all week for. I, of course had dressed in my new floral midi - chosen for a table full of women who miss nothing and applaud everything worthy. Their eyes applauded.
The wine arrived faster than my appetizer was chosen. This should tell you everything about how the evening intended to go and the ride it intended for us.
“You're glowing,” one of them said, the tone of a friendly accusation from my busy lawyer friend.
“I've been on a boat,” I said. “Among other things.”
“Tell us everything,” said another, and the table erupted, and I did not deny them, because for the first time in longer than I can admit, I knew sharing would be perfect. This journal has me realizing how absolutely masterful I am at telling the details of a tail. I mean tale.
I told them things. Not everything — a woman keeps some rooms locked even from her Tribe — but more than the asked or expected. The dock. The note, still unopened at that point, tucked in my bag like a secret I was rationing. The particular ache of remembering someone while standing in front of someone new.
The memory of my Paperback man, and his strong, sure hands on the small of my back rushed back as I detailed the joy of the two of us unwrapping each other again, after so long apart. I must confess – not with guilt but with the interest of one enjoying her own evolution- that my solid intention years ago was to leave his perfect chest, those hard, reaching arms and his artful tongue as a memory, under lock and key. But our night together proved that a recipe can be found, revised and even enhanced with just the right amount of spice.
My Sirens were enraptured by my story. They didn't judge. They refilled my glass instead, which is the official Girls Night Out way of absolving and applauding all things. I felt a gentle flush on my cheeks and the wine wet my lips as I relived my adventure. Wet was, as always, better.
That night, alone, I used my fountain pen as I wrote. It matched my flowing mood and exactly what I was wearing. I realized I have spent years protecting my stories, like they were secret scandals instead of gifts to be doled out in tiny, carefully wrapped bits. Sharing my moments is like sharing my favorite new lingerie (while wearing it, just to be clear Ladies. My closet is not open for business – only I am.) My stories will always matter most to me, but they will also matter to the people who love me best. Those who appreciate the artistry of my life.
There was one question I've been circling all night without naming.
“So,” she had leaned in with the particular menace of someone who loves you completely, “who was he? The one with the paperback. Don't you dare say 'nobody.'”
I opened my mouth.
I closed it again.
Some names, Mavens, are too dangerous even for a diary.
And she should have known better. I will always and forever take every dare given.
Your Weazelle
