to rest gives me an extra boost of energy so I can stay up and read a book. Too bad I finished this one before ten.
As I place the book on the nightstand, my eyes fall on the family photo in the red frame - my dad, my mom and me after I just played a fairy in a school play. Happy days.
I pick up the frame and put it on my lap.
I miss them. Growing up, I knew that I would lose them at a young age since they were already old when they had me. My mom was thirty-seven, my father forty-two. They knew it, too, so they did their best to prepare me, to make sure I could stand on my own two feet when it happened. I could. I did. But I wasn't ready.
I wish they were still around. I wish I could hear my dad's laughter again even though I'll never forget the sound of it. He loved to make jokes and was always the first to laugh at them. I wish I could have more of my mother's cooking. She loved to make pastry - pies, pasta, dumplings. She would bring them to my room whenever I had to stay up late studying or when she knew I'd had a bad day. More than anything, I just wish they were still here so I could talk to them, so that I could tell them all about work and hear their words of advice and encouragement, or just talk to them about anything and not feel so alone like I do on nights like this.
I know I'm alone, and most of the time, I'm fine. But there's something about the silence and the shadows of the night that turns my solitude into a sharp knife that stabs me in the gut.
I put the frame back on the nightstand with a lump in my throat. Then I see the leather-bound journal. My journal.
I've kept one since I was a kid. I don't write in it every day, usually just when I have ideas I want to reflect on, experiences I want to remember, thoughts I need to process or emotions I just need to get into words so I can make sense of them and take control of them. Like now.
I pick up the journal, slide the strap off and find a blank page. Then I take the pen from my drawer and start to write.
Nights like this, it's hard to breathe through the air of loneliness that fills my dark room. It's almost like fog or smoke.
Nights like this, I wish I was anywhere else but my apartment. Maybe in a Greek seaside town, or Paris, or a charming Scottish village.
Nights like this, I wish I had someone. Someone to wrap their arms around me and tell me everything will be alright.
I wish I had someone I could call my own. A child. A son or a daughter to carry in my arms and press against my heart, whose forehead I can kiss, whose tiny fingers I can wrap around one of mine. I'm not sure I'll make a good mother, but I know I'm going to love the little person who comes out of my body like I've never loved before. Together, we'll conquer the world.
And maybe a man of my own, too. A lover to keep me company in my bed. A good man who will keep the shadows at bay until morning, who will touch me in all the magical ways a woman wants to be touched. He'll pin my hands above my head and demand my surrender with his mouth, claiming my lips and worshiping my breasts. With his fingers, he will make me melt, pressing the secret button that transforms my excitement into ecstasy.
I stop writing as heat flows from my fingertips to my toes, turning into an ache as it fills my breasts and then an inch as it settles between my legs. I can't ignore it.
I put my pen and my journal down. Then I close my eyes and lie back.
I lift the hem of my oversize shirt all the way to my armpits. I trap it between my teeth before pushing the waistband of my underwear down to my knees.
I raise my knees and slip my hand between my legs. My fingers search for my nub and find it in seconds. As I stroke it, I touch my breast with my other hand. I pinch the nipple