Archive for June, 2016

Sex and the Shaman, Part 1

June 28, 2016

He was in uniform: jeans, seersucker shirt over a black tee shirt, and Buff covering his head, except that he was also wearing a sports jacket. The sports jacket took it to some new place, and I liked that place. I had actually suggested he bring a jacket, though I wasn’t thinking a sports jacket at the time. I thought he might need it if we went out to the gazebo after dinner. He texted that he was hoping I would keep him warm in that event but agreed to bring a jacket.

We had originally settled on 7:00 p.m., but when he offered to come at 6:00, knowing I had been up since 3:30 a.m., I took that as a pleasant level of eagerness, which was confirmed by a text saying, “Okay, cool. I get to see you an hour earlier then!”

We had the caviar and cheese with prosecco at the kitchen chopping block. He’d never had Greek caviar and liked it. When we moved to the dining room and sat down, he immediately moved the large candle I had in the center of the table, saying it blocked his view, and he wanted to be able to see me fully as we ate and talked.

I wondered if he practiced saying all the right things or if it just came naturally and reminded myself that he had already confessed to being unfiltered. What was in his head came out of his mouth. That trait gave him a rather charming demeanor of innocence. It was likely to be an interesting evening.

It was a very interesting evening in many ways, but innocence–his and mine–was forgotten with the first kiss. Derek was considerably taller than me, but there was a step down from the living room to the dining room, and that step made all the difference in physical contact. I had used pretty much every step in the house over the years with my husband, so the idea of finding a little elevation when embracing was natural to me. He found it amusing and appealing.

What I found appealing, alluring, tempting, engaging, and endlessly fascinating were his ability and our compatibility when it came to kissing. It was the stuff of which legends are made. It would have been knee-buckling, but we were so well matched and I was so present to the experience that instead of being knee-buckling, it was like stepping into the role of archetypal goddess engaging and engaged with the archetypal god.

And as is often the case when things take on mythical overtones, time seemed to slip sideways. He might have been the archetypal god wooing the archetypal goddess for minutes or hours or days. Maybe even lifetimes.

We punctuated gently devouring one another with more eating and conversation. As with our lunch date, the conversation swung from one topic to another in no particular order and often without segue. Derek was bright, funny, and multifaceted, making him the perfect dinner companion.

But we kept returning to that step and the activity that made us feel like teenagers who had just discovered how to kiss and couldn’t get enough of it. One of the most compelling elements of that experience was Derek’s personal scent. I had long understood that the right man just smelled right. I knew I was not alone in this because I had talked with many women about it, and we usually agreed that the man you could fall in love with had a personal scent that was intoxicating. It was more than mere pheromones. It had something to do with chemical resonance, and it was an important part of what made for great chemistry between a man and a woman.

I couldn’t think of anywhere I would rather be or anyone I would rather be with. I couldn’t think of anything else worth doing at all, as if nothing else in my life had ever been quite as important, compelling, or fulfilling as being in this man’s embrace. In fact, I couldn’t think at all. I just experienced.

And if an Earth-destroying meteor had hit Colorado during those moments, I would have died believing that the last moments of my life alone had made for a life well lived.

I was in deep, and it was only our second meeting.


Note: The name Derek is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall


The Plan to Penetrate Derek’s Body . . . with Food

June 24, 2016

I had invited Derek to dinner, and I reminded myself that food has traditionally been one way a woman can not only penetrate the body of a man, but do so in a perfectly innocent and acceptable manner. I wondered what instinct had pulled up paella when, on the spur of the moment, I agreed to the dinner at my house a mere twenty-four hours away. I had no chorizo. I had no crab. And strangely, I had no reservations about pulling it off. I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.

The crab was easy enough to secure at King Soopers, but neither they nor Sprouts had link chorizo, and ground would not do. I wasn’t usually in the grocery store at 5:oo p.m. or later and found myself surprised by the number of men alone there at that time. I realized that it made sense because most of them looked like they had just gotten off work. But none of them seemed to be paying attention to anyone around them, even though many of them were not sporting wedding rings. In my thirties, I had seen the grocery store as a viable place to meet men. But it seemed that the men who had once been on the lookout for a good woman at the grocery store were now conducting their searches on dating sites and weren’t even aware of the women around them in the market. I made a note of it as I tore off to a nearby butcher shop.

Chorizo in hand, I went home and attempted to relax. There would be plenty of time the next day to cook, neaten the house, and get myself together. I hoped. I’d held many a dinner party over the years. Why was I suddenly nervous about this one? Then I brought up the image of that startling hair, those brown eyes, and that energy field that pulled me into it. He was the first man in many a year I found captivating. No wonder I was nervous.

The next morning I girded my loins by working every muscle group in the weight room over the course of two hours, followed that up with a half hour on the treadmill, and finished with my usual stretching and plank position. Then I went home and began the flurry of activity to create a great meal.

Forget what anyone has ever said about paella being a simple and easy dish to make. It is simple enough, but getting it right can be tricky. And the way I make it requires a lot of prep work. I always shell my shellfish instead of serving the dish with the shells intact. It just makes it easier to eat. Fortunately, I didn’t usually make the dish with mussels because Derek didn’t like mussels. It would be king crab and shrimp for shellfish. There would also be chicken and chorizo, which  are common ingredients for paella. Green peppers, onions, and garlic were, of course, in the mix. The rice had to be short grain, and while I usually used brown short grain rice in dishes, I could not risk undercooked rice, so I settled for white. The liquids would be fish stock (I had some homemade) and white wine, along with a little chicken stock.

And paella would not be paella without saffron and paprika. Fortunately, some anonymous person had sent me saffron around the time of my birthday. I still did not know who the donor was, but because saffron is about as expensive as cocaine, I was thankful for the gift. Cocaine had never been on my shopping list and never would be, but when you need saffron, you need saffron.

I planned to have Greek caviar and brie with prosecco as starters and follow that with a mixed green salad with shrimp and a vinaigrette dressing. I’d bought some good focaccia because Derek liked bread, and I had homemade almond cake and some organic strawberries for dessert. This meal was going to have epic levels of sexy food, some it historically considered to be aphrodisiacs.

But what I had in mind for the evening wasn’t sex, it was penetrating Derek’s body with good food, penetrating his mind with good conversation, and maybe penetrating some invisible barrier beyond which there might be possibilities.

I set to work. And it was the most joyful food preparation in a long time.


Note: The name Derek is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall

Meeting the Man Who Got My Attention

June 21, 2016

We met for lunch two days after we connected on the dating site. After trading a few messages on the site, we switched to e-mail and texts. Derek suggested we meet for lunch the next day, a Wednesday, or alternatively, on Friday. But I had a date to meet another man Tuesday evening, and I could not imagine such a quick turnaround for dates with different men. I suggested Friday.

The following day, he hinted at meeting for coffee at the end of his workday. I wondered if he was so eager to meet me because he liked the connection thus far, which was how it felt, or if he just wanted to verify that he should tick me off the list of potential women. I had an appointment and could not meet him, and when I told him that, he said he was just trying to figure out if I was more of a planner or a spur of the moment person.

“I’m both,” I texted back.

“That’s cheating,” he replied.

He wanted me to use getting a cup of coffee as the context, so I texted back saying that if I could break away from my work and didn’t have another obligation, then I would certainly be willing to have a spontaneous meeting.

He liked that answer and suggested we move up our lunch date to the next day, Thursday. And that made me wonder if there was someone else he considered more promising he wanted to meet on Friday. I put that thought aside because there was no way for me to assess his motivation. Besides, I wanted to meet him sooner instead of later. I agreed to meet the following day.

That appointment preventing the coffee date was with my hair stylist. And now that I was meeting Derek for lunch the day after that appointment, the importance of my haircut got ramped up a couple of notches. I didn’t want the usual half inch cut off because I knew it took a couple of days after such a cut for my hair to look good. And I wanted it to look good for that lunch. Until then, no date had made me nervous. This one was activating the little man who sits in my solar plexus and jumps up and down when something good is about to happen. I was feeling positive anticipation, but it was also nervous anticipation.

Only a handful of people knew I was dating, but I added Donna Cristobal, my stylist, to the list. We had known one another for several years and were good friends, not just client and stylist. I owed her the respect of explaining what was going on. Once filled in, she rose up and not only gave me a great cut, she also built a little sexy energy into it. And I knew Donna’s energetic abilities well enough to know that she was capable of little bursts of magic like that.

I still had that little man jumping up and down in my solar plexus the next day as I walked into the restaurant. Derek had gotten there ahead of me and was already seated. He not only stood up as the maître d brought me over to the booth, he came over to collect me from her and greet me. He looked stressed, but as soon as I smiled at him, he seemed to relax.

And from that moment on, things began to flow easily between us. Everything else in the restaurant fell into a distant background that might have been on another planet. Whoever was seated nearby was invisible. Rattling plates? I didn’t notice. There was only the gorgeous man seated across from me. His longish hair was combed straight back and was gray on the sides and in the middle of the top but darker in between the gray patches. It produced an almost striped effect that was unusual and to my eyes, adorable. Dark brown eyes, scruffy but deliberate two-day-old beard, trim body beneath jeans and seersucker shirt over a black tee shirt.

There was something at once intense and slightly goofy about him that suggested intelligence coupled with absorption. And in that moment, he seemed as absorbed with me as I was with him. It was a promising start.

As we left the restaurant after lunch, he offered to carry my rather large purse for me. My decline of the offer probably sounded a bit like a scoff, but I was actually almost incredulous. Rarely had a man made such an offer. He explained that he had often carried his late wife’s purse for her. I knew that the man who offered to carry a woman’s purse for her was a man who was confident about his masculinity, and that made him all the more appealing to me.

I politely declined again.

“Then I guess I’ll take your hand,” he said.

Date number two had also taken my hand as we left the same restaurant, but when Derek took my hand, the effect was completely different. My entire body seemed to relax into it, as if that simple intimacy between us was utterly natural.

Later, he sent me a text thanking me for the lovely, lively lunch. I texted him back, thanking him for the gift of time with him. When he paid for lunch, I told him I would have to make dinner for him in return, and I now reminded him of that offer. He texted back almost immediately saying that he was free the following night, and during our texts arranging it, he said he was glad we’d moved the lunch up to Thursday because we now had another date for Friday.

I pointed out that if he had wondered if I could be spontaneous, this was proof I could be because I was contemplating having him for dinner and making paella with little chance to plan.

“I like that you picked the earliest date,” he texted back. “That tells me that you might like me.”

Like him? Oh yes, I liked him. “I looked at my calendar and saw how complicated next week looks and didn’t want to wait until the following week,” I admitted. “You’re adorable. Easily one of a kind.”

Earlier, he had told me he was pretty unfiltered and that texting fed that tendency. I was beginning to see how that could work. My spontaneous admission was definitely unfiltered.

“You are interesting, deep, and very attractive to me,” he texted back. He also said that he had felt comfortable with me immediately, verifying what I had sensed, and said that he was looking forward to getting to know me better over a relaxing dinner.

Relaxing? I could only hope. In the meantime, I had to pull together a great meal and pull myself together or I might just babble incoherently over that dinner.


Note: The name Derek is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved. Donna Cristobal owns The Studio Hair Design in Broomfield, Colorado, with her husband, Steven Cristobal.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall

The Man Who Got My Attention

June 17, 2016

I looked at the photos, I looked at the profile, and then I looked at the photos again. This man with scruffy bad boy good looks seemed to be a nice guy. I hit the “save” button, not knowing that doing so would make him a “favorite,” a status to which he would be made aware.

He faved me back and sent a message. I replied. He sent me another. His name was Derek, and he was a sixty-year-old widower. While his paying job was in a high tech industry, he had also written a book about his and his late wife’s experience fighting cancer, and he had done original artwork for the book. Impressive. He had even created a small foundation in her name to raise money for cancer research. I figured that a man who had loved one woman that much could love another.

All of this mattered, but I was already falling for him. In fact, I had probably been free-falling from the moment I saw his photo and had a visceral reaction I recognized as awareness that I probably knew him from some other place and time, some other life. I wasn’t naïve about running into people I’d known in other lives, and I knew that the people I’d made agreements with to meet again in this life were often the most challenging people to know and be in relationship with. My late husband had been one; Antonio, the shaman to which I had been apprenticed, another. Several friends had been among them too. But Derek was like the force of gravity, and I knew he might be a very dangerous man for me.

Knowledge of potential danger is not a deterrent when the force of attraction is working like gravity on you.

Derek admitted to being into list-making, and he gave me a list of activities he was into. It included such things as kayaking, riding his Harley, and hiking with his dog. His hiking most often took place on a trail he had carved out himself. In one of my messages to him, I had referred to logging in many hours with an ax to eradicate tree roots. He responded that we had hours logged with an ax in common, saying that he had cut a trail from his home down five hundred feet to as close to the creek below as he could get. It took him five years. Among the tools he employed were an ax, a pick, a shovel, and a chainsaw. The trail was considerably more than five hundred feet because the grade made it necessary to switchback, and he had done his best to avoid taking out trees.

He considered the ongoing maintenance work on the trail Zen relaxation.

How could I not want to meet this man?

After telling him that I wasn’t into lists as much as him, I gave the matter some thought and realized that while I didn’t necessarily call them lists, I had quite a few of my own. When I told him I had reconsidered whether or not I was a list person and gave him some examples of my own lists, he reported back that he liked the fact that I was a thinker. Having scared off more than one man in my life because of my mind, I saw this as a promising sign.

A manly man who blazed trails and liked women who think? I was sinking deeper by the minute.

His next e-mail to me included a list he’d made outlining why he would make a great boyfriend for a woman. He had considered putting it on the dating site but changed his mind because he saw it as hokey and decided it was really meant to be shared with someone he saw as a kindred spirit. He wanted ten items on his so-called hokey list, but he had only completed seven items. He invited me to add the rest. The list included things like promising to stay in good shape for the woman in his life, being a good listener, laughing frequently, and having opinions on serious things that his woman would value. But it also included things like promising there would never be a paucity of touch, including a healthy dose of snuggling, appreciating a woman’s inherent toughness within the ladylike persona, and putting the potential kindred spirit on notice that she would catch him looking at her when she thought he wasn’t looking.

It was as if I had been hooked and was being reeled in. The last man who had done that was my late husband.

Pretty much off the top of my head, I gave him three more: I will be open to learning from you and not just expect you to learn from me; I will value and honor all parts of your fourfold nature (body, mind, spirit, and emotions); You will never doubt my integrity and will be able to count on my trustworthiness.

He professed to like my additions.

I wondered if he had left the last three blank just to see what was important to a woman. And I wondered if the first seven had actually come from his understanding of himself (as they seemed to) or had come from his understanding of what a woman wanted to hear.

I really needed to meet this man face to face. He had definitely gotten my attention.


Note: The name Derek is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall

Another Go at It

June 14, 2016

Undeterred by my first date in thirty years, I found another man who intrigued me. Preston had worked in a field that conjured up all the romance and debauchery of the seventies at their best, and he had also spent time as a big game hunter and guide. He had a lot of photos online, at least some of them appearing to be several years old, the most enticing being of him on horseback, fully decked out and sporting a wide grin. His profile was extensive and suggested that he had both breadth and depth. I was fascinated.

Less than ten days after I joined the site, he and I were trading e-mails and talking on the phone. A friend of mine observed that most of the men she had met through dating sites had talked on endlessly about themselves at their first meeting, seemingly uninterested in knowing about her. I had experienced a bit of that with Preston in our phone conversations, but I allowed that even a man with his seasoning and sophistication might be nervous during the initial verbal dosados.

When we met face to face, I found him engaging and charming, but my gut was also giving me a few red flags. For one thing, he seemed intent on making sure I knew he could still perform sexually. And he seemed a bit fixated on sexuality. He regaled me with the story of how a much older woman had personally schooled him on women when he was a young man. And when, under the auspices of being trained in reflexology, he asked to see my shoeless foot, he was quick to place it in his lap. He later told me I could leave it there or reclaim it, whichever I preferred, and his vote seemed in favor of my leaving it in his crotch. I gently removed it. I am a lusty woman who has been known to deliberately place a foot in that exact position, but it has always been with a man I knew quite a bit better than I knew Preston.

He also seemed to have a bit of an attitude about “women’s libbers,” which made me wonder who had hurt him and how.

Still, we had a great conversation, and I liked the fact that he was both manly and bright.

He made a point of walking on the outside when we left the restaurant and taking my hand, gestures I appreciated. I wasn’t sure how much chemistry there was going to be between us, but there was at least some. He hugged me at my car and said he thought the two of us could get into some trouble together. It was a somewhat disconcerting statement, another sexual reference, but I couldn’t disagree with it. It did make me wonder, though, if what he was looking for was a quick hit. And I was not going to be that.

Later, the internal red flags found external expression. I now had his full name (all three parts), and I googled it. What I found was a court document related to an old lawsuit. Its contents gave me pause. Another thing also gave me pause. After our meeting, he had messaged me saying, among other things, that our conversation had been the deepest he’d had in years. I hadn’t found it that deep.

I didn’t hear from him after that for several days, despite the fact that he said he was looking forward to our next conversation. About a week later, I e-mailed him to see where he stood. He had been and was still out of state. He had decided that the elusive chemistry between us was not as strong as we might have anticipated.

As I travelled on, it occurred to me that I had probably dodged a bullet.

The next contact that seemed interesting was from a man who said he had grown up in the same part of Illinois I was from. We had gone to the same high school. Bill asked if I remembered his family. The last name sounded familiar, but nothing more, so I called my sister. She remembered the family well and thought them to be uniformly decent human beings.

I looked at his profile and his photo. The fact that he possessed a PhD, liked to hike, and was well traveled seemed promising. We traded messages, switched to e-mail, and made a plan to meet. I did not know until later that he had been equivocal about me because I am a shaman. Bill wondered if I could relate to an ordinary man, and it wasn’t until he had searched for information about my late husband online that he decided I might be a normal enough woman to appreciate a normal man.

I liked Bill a good deal and would have loved to develop a friendship with him, but there was no chemistry there for me. I told him that in an e-mail a couple of days later, as gently as I could. I was beginning to hate this part of dating. That was the last I heard from Bill.

On the same day Bill and I met, I had discovered another man on the site, one whose photo made me suck air when I first saw it. It wasn’t just that he was gorgeous, though he was. He had the kind of scruffy bad boy good looks I had been a sucker for in my youth. Apparently, I still was a sucker for them. It was more than that. I recognized him, even though I had never met him in this life.

Things were about to get a whole lot more interesting.


Note: The names Preston and Bill are fictitious and have been used out of respect for the men involved.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall

First Contact

June 7, 2016

When I began to sort through the glut of messages, flirts, and faves on the dating site, I felt overwhelmed at first. I wanted to reply to every message because it just seemed the decent thing to do. But there were messages from men young enough to be my sons, messages from men out of state, and messages from men I suspected had not read my profile.

The first man in his thirties who contacted me wanted me to text him. I didn’t bite. A friend of mine from the gym, a woman in her early thirties, had told me stories about men attaching photos of their dicks to texts once they had her cell number. We had compared notes on how we felt about that, and despite the age gulf between us, we agreed that any man who do this without being invited to was clearly clueless about what might turn on a woman. We also agreed that the dick we found adorable and enticing was the dick we loved, not just any schlong out there.

I was also aware that dating sites were full of scammers who were, in slang terms, catfishing–looking for women to take advantage of. I knew that catfishers quickly tried to convince their intended victims to leave the dating site and communicate via social media, e-mail, or text. The scammers who were weak in English were easy to spot, and I deleted pleas from them without responding. I also deleted messages from anyone whose first message suggested going to their Facebook page or texting them.

I quickly learned how to narrow the age parameters of who could see my profile. That eliminated the boys and the men well into their seventies. But what could I do about the men who appeared too old for me, either in appearance or profile details, who lived out of state, or who just appeared to be unsuitable?

I was actually stunned by the number of men around my age and even many years younger who looked old beyond their years. Had their lives been unusually hard? Had they abused their bodies? It was not until I began doing some online research to vet the men I was willing to talk to and meet that I discovered not everyone was telling the truth about his age.

I was also stunned by the number of men whose photos appeared younger than their stated age. That was easier to sort out. A lot of men were posting very old photos of themselves, as if showing the opposite sex what they once looked like would somehow make them more attractive to a woman than their current dissipated state would otherwise have.

To the men who lived out of state, I replied with a message thanking them for reaching out and pointing out that we were mutually geographically undesirable. But what about the men who were just unsuitable or unappealing? I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings any more than I wanted my feelings to be hurt unnecessarily. There might be numerous reasons for men and women to be on that site, but many of us, men and women alike, were looking for love and companionship. We all deserved respect.

The answer came quickly from a man I flirted with. His message back to me thanked me for the contact and wished me luck in finding what I was looking for on the site. It was the nicest possible turndown. I adopted his words and used them in my own replies to the many men I found unsuitable.

Within the first week online, I had interacted with a man who, while not immediately attractive to me from his photo, looked pretty good on paper. We switched from dating site contact to e-mail after a few promising messages back and forth, then we agreed to meet for Sunday brunch.

He was a lovely, accomplished man in many ways. He and his brother co-owned a small high tech company. I had checked out the company and the man online. He and his company appeared to be doing important work. He was funny, articulate, interesting, and smart, but he was also physically broken. Multiple hip surgeries had left him with a serious limp, and in person, he looked quite a bit older than me, though he was several years younger. Life had been hard on him, and he did not have the robustness I needed in a man. Most importantly, there was also no chemistry between us. He was the kind of man I would welcome as a friend but would never welcome into my bed.

Once home again after a brunch than spanned several hours, I went back online. The next morning, I sent him an e-mail admitting that I did not think there was going to be chemistry between us, though I was delighted and relieved to know that good men like him were out there and would be happy to call him friend. He took it well and sent me a couple of poems we’d talked about that he had written.

I never heard from him again.

My travels with an open heart continued.


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall


Shaman Seeking Serious Relationship, Part 2

June 4, 2016

I was a dating site virgin. I had already decided that after too many years without a romantic relationship, I had regained my status as virgin from a sexual standpoint, but that actually seemed less problematic than being a dating site virgin. As a writer, putting together a profile should have been easy, but it was not. What was important to say about myself? What could wait until a man and I had gotten to know one another a bit? How does one collapse the complexity of a life into a few paragraphs?

The one thing I knew was that if I was going to do this, I was going to represent myself honestly. I stretched my neck to get the kinks out, sighed deeply, and began: I’m a writer, editor, and practitioner of shamanism who works out in the weight room, gardens, cooks, is into the arts, and otherwise lives a flagrantly robust life. My kind of guy is intelligent, funny, and kind.

It seemed a bit lame, even as a summary, but I was at a loss to summarize it in any better way. In my description of the kind of man I was looking for, I was very clear that health, robustness, and physical fitness are important to me. I also spoke of things like awareness, presence, intellectual horsepower, curiosity, and integrity. And after years of diverting men with whom I felt no chemistry, I ended that section by saying that there had to be chemistry between us.

In the section in which I could expand on whatever I wanted to say, I provided a bit more information about myself, including what I saw as the riskiest things to reveal: that I am a mystic with a shamanic worldview and that for me, everything is about energy.

I had only one photo I was willing to put up on the site, the same photo I used on my Facebook page. It was a few years old, but it at least looked like me. I would add more photos as I could.

The easiest parts of the submission process included personal information: what kind of relationship I was looking for, my occupation, my religious and political leanings, the color of my eyes and hair, my body type, whether I had children, and other details. There were also a few questions that addressed interests and personality.

It all felt artificial and I felt foolish participating in it, but I completed the profile and got offline. I didn’t even do a search of available men in my area. It was enough for one day, and signing up on this site was the oddest birthday present I had ever given myself.

I didn’t expect what happened next. When I went into my e-mail, I had numerous messages from the dating site saying that I had flirts, had been chosen as a favorite, and had messages from interested men. I went into the site and was overwhelmed by the amount of contact, so I texted two of my apprentices who had experience with dating sites. One of them texted me back joking that I was the most popular girl in school. The other reminded me that she had warned that online dating was a time-consuming thing, primarily because you have to weed through a lot of potential dates who aren’t right for you.

I was beginning to see what they both meant. I was the new girl in school, so for about thirty seconds, I was going to be very popular. In rather crude adult terms, we call that “fresh meat.” And now I understood why these sites can eat a lot of time: There is a lot of traffic on them.

There seemed to be an entire subculture comprised of people in my generation who were looking for love, or lust, or friendship . . . or something with the opposite sex, and they had been nowhere on my radar screen. Was I passing them with my cart in the grocery store? Were some of them at the gym? And had I just become one of them?


Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall