I swear, I’m not the type…
…not the type to fall for all that schmoopy, girly lovey-dovey horseshit that’s usually peddled toward women. A woman I may be, but I refuse to adhere to the “norm” as far as “femininity” goes. And even then, it’s not so much a refusal, just a natural state of being. I’m not a girly girl.
Having said that, I recently read The Bridges of Madison County. And I loved it. Shoot me if you must, but I fucking loved it. I imagine myself and the Bed Warmer in the same position as Francesca Johnson and Robert Kincaid, and I know that, if given only a four day window of connection in the course of an entire life, it would have been as equally life changing. An instant romantic frenzied passionate permanently-scarring crossing that would be constantly in-mind for both participants, for the rest of our lives.
Which makes me that much more appreciative of my dear Bed Warmer. I realize that my name for him here may seem somewhat dismissive, but I assure you, I feel quite the opposite. My internal/ingrained/I-must-be-a-total-fuck-up-no-matter-what-happens misgivings aside, I love the man and all the growth he has spawned in me in our time together.
And now, an excerpt.
“With her face buried in his neck and her skin against his, she could smell rivers and woodsmoke, could hear steaming trains chuffing out of winter stations in long-ago nighttimes, could see travelers in black robes moving steadily along frozen rivers and through summer meadows, beating their way toward the end of things. The leopard swept over her, again and again and yet again, like a long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin toward the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion.
“And she murmured, softly, breathlessly, ‘Oh, Robert…Robert…I am losing myself.’”
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