"How did you know that I would be up?" I bravely asked midway through the conversation. 

I've complained about your old early morning habit, but the truth is, I like to know that you're thinking of me, even if it's early.

Perhaps you know that I don't sleep well when she's away.  You assure me that she'll be fine at camp, but she broke her arm riding a scooter.  Anything is possible, isn't it? 

In forty minutes we catch up on what's vital:  politics, the Stock Market, work.   The personal stuff still seems to be slightly untrodden territory that needs to be rediscovered, but you ask me if I'm talking to anyone else, The Others as you refer to them.

None of The Others vaguely imitate the instantaneous attraction, the intellectual compatibility, or the off-the-wall humor of us when we were in sync.  I freely concede this point.

Of the women that you've met and the women that you'll meet, there will be those who are more beautiful, more sexy, more intelligent, and more humorous than I. 

However, I doubt that any of the proxies have those qualities in the proportions that I offer.

It's why you call me before the birds chirp, isn't it, even after all the arguments?

You hurt, and I bleed, too.

I listen to your voice and flinch at the unmasked pain.

I wish you'd let me care, but you've pushed me away.  You refused to accept my love.

That action made me bleed.

Our sorrow is equal in many ways, and both of us have well-hidden insecurities.

You've figured mine out, and once in a while when we fight, you'll mention one or three.

Don't worry, I throw in the kitchen sink and the kitchen counter for good measure.

My temper displeases you, but I've experienced your yell.

Unlike you I don't bottle grudges.  My anger spills forth, volcanoe-like.  I speak words meant only for a moment. 

You say little inflicting hurt through silence.

I'd prefer to be covered in ashes than endure stony silence.

 There are many was to have fun in Center City Philadelphia without spending a dime. 

Use your imagination!  Propose to your cohort that you'll select a guy walking down the street, smack him in the arm, and then offer the lame excuse of, "Oh, sorry, you remind me of my ex-husband."  There's also the option of choosing a well-heeled stranger and explaining how his wife is cheating on him with his brother, but that's only because she's already tired of her play dates with his sexy younger sister.  We never quite figured out how to explain to the random stranger that we know these things, but pretending to do such naughty acts can make you laugh for three blocks at least.

You can offer a complete stranger first dibs on your brownie dessert after you've threatened to steal one of his fries because you're eating broccoli and steamed chicken breast and he's got the better-tasting (read:  high-fat) meal.  You can also take pictures of your cleavage and send them as text messages to random people, but make sure your attractive waiter knows what you're doing so he can offer to give you his number.  You can also torment your potential financial advisor by bringing along a friend who will let him know in no uncertain terms that he sucks as a sales person.  "If you're too busy to drink water with me, you're too busy to manage my money." 

The best way to have fun in Center City is to do nothing at all and wait for the fun to come to you.

As in just sit in Suburban Station reading the last pages of The Memory Keeper's Daughter and mind your own business.   Then glance up and see a familiar face, smile, and say "Hi."  Then it's back to reading until you're engaged in more conversation.

 "If you don't mind me asking, where do you get off, if you know what I mean."  You feel your face flushing as he flashes a sexy smile.

For a brief second you think "he can't possibly be flrting with the likes of me." So instead of giving him a sexy response like, "I get off looking at those baby blues of yours," you just lamely respond with your train number and station stop.

As he boards the train you think to yourself, "Center City is fun without spending a dime."

Loneliness tastes like that chintzy metal spoon often found in diners.  You've been intimately acquainted with this type of spoon.  It's the type that you rub with the white paper napkin to see if it's dirty or just really that dull.

The aftertaste lingers long after the spoon has left your mouth; even the thought of the spoon can make the tinny taste return.  You go so far as to brush your tongue and rinse your mouth with industrial-strength mouthwash to rid yourself of the taste yet the metallic notes still resonate on the palate.

Loneliness is powerfully evocative, too. That feeling of isolation remains even after companionship has been achieved. 

Loneliness is often stealthy; it tip-toes into our souls unnannounced. Even in moments of great joy we glance it from the corner of our eye as it floats past.  Then it stings us--sharp, stabbing, needle-like pain delivered to our souls with surgical precision.  If we're lucky it moves on.  Finds another victim.  However, sometimes it's brash; loneliness stomps into our psyches and takes up residence like an uninvited house guest.  It even wants us to fluff the pillows and pay the rent.

I want to evict this feeling, but I don't know how.

Actually, that's a lie.  I do know how; I'm just powerless to do so.