on second thought. . .

I gave Match.com one week. . . I've deleted my profile, though I never paid the $16/month to subscribe, so all I ever saw was that 24 women had sent me emails ("Subscribe today to find out who is interested in you!").  I imagine the messages:  Saw your profile.  Want to get a drink sometime?  Yikes.  I can't do it.  I don't want to do it.  Every day that I checked my email, I caught myself hoping SHE would "wink" at me, send me an email, mark me as her day's "favorite".  What if that was in my profile?  "36-year-old woman seeks deceased lover".  That's the truth.

The rest of the truth:  no woman will ever make me laugh as much, no woman will ever make me think as much, no woman will ever make me want to embrace the world as much as A__ did.  On the other hand, no woman will ever take me on such an emotional roller coaster, or simultaneously change my life for the better and the worse.  The loss of a woman will never plunge me to such depths again.

But.

I don't just want coffee, or a walk somewhere, or a kiss.

I want A___.

And because that's impossible, I bought myself a set of cross-country skis.  Ten years ago, A___ taught me how to cross-country ski in the rose-hued evening light on the frozen glacial lake in Juneau.  She teased me that I skied so slowly, wondering aloud if I stopped to journal along the way.  I remember her distant form in the moonlight, her curly hair silhouetted against the snow, her skiing stride graceful, easy.  The snow sparkled as I struggled along, somewhat frustrated that I couldn't master the skill, but mostly just glad to be out in the night, in love with the wintery world and with A___.  Always, A___ waited for me somewhere down the trail.  Her cheek and her neck and her collarbone were salty where I kissed her, and the woods were silent.  Perfect.

I didn't have those memories in mind when I bought the skis last week.  I've had the same 1970s skis and shoes for a decade, and I wanted to make nordic skiing my winter exercise since I can't afford to downhill ski here.  So I bought the skis, took an intermediate lesson, drove to Breckenridge, left my daughter with my aunt and skied out into the woods alone.

And. . . A___ was there.  Just ahead of me on the snowy trail, just after the moment she grinned at me and glided away.  I slid silently through the forest, fast now with good gear and instruction, and still could not catch her.  Each curve, I craned my neck to see her, I tried to hear the slice of her skis on the snow, but I was still too slow.

Sunlight shimmered and scattered through the tree branches, and the mountains were purple against the azure blue sky.  I dug my poles into the snow and pushed hard so I skimmed down a hill, the wind against my face.  And then I found myself in a meadow, in full sunshine, and for just a moment I felt her in me, breathing my breath, hammering my heart.

Then I was alone again.

I don't want the ordinary.  I don't want the drink that leads to dinner that leads to something else.  Not right now.  I still dwell in an in-between world, and sometimes -- ah! -- I see her there.

Sorry, ccny678 and lovincolorado, Wink44 and T4123.  I'm still taken.