The original vagabond, the wandering minstrel with quills so pokey, even I’m weary of, just came into town.

In my basement, which is the locker of all of my secrets, lie a number of clean white envelopes, each containing a printed email with the date written on the flap. Exchanges between a twenty three year old and a gentleman in his late thirties, stories about far off places and conversations between strangers on planes, the burning man festival and love, with the underlying theme being about solitude crowded with silence.

My palms are sweaty as I drive to the hotel. This one I’ve always been incredibly guarded with, due to my natural resistance to bad boys and men who want to read my mind …but damn, was he hot! That he is now living with someone and is the father of three, makes me less nervous. ‘At least someone has had a happy ending’, I think, as I overtake the swift in front of me.

There he is at porch, standing tall, with a rolled cigarette in his hand. I wait to meet his partner, again but like all of my relationships, his to, I’m told, has gone kaput. Very rarely do I feel as old as I am but meeting his three little munchkins, is surreal, makes me realize what I’m missing. As they roll around in the grass, screaming, I watch him beaming, proudly. Maybe, we commitment phobes can never really ride off into the sunset with someone but we can still have our happy endings!