These days I keep dreaming about a beach house. Seal-grey or frosty blue or avocado green or all three. Wooden and alone on a hill with windows opening their shutters, their arms to flowers and the ocean and a pier. Books piled high in every room. Blueberries for breakfast and lunch in town and languid dinners on the porch. I write a lot here. The fresh air is good for my hands; my fingers can breathe here.
I tell her that I know now, suddenly, why I don’t write: I refuse to accept excess isolation. Writing is a lonely bubble and I don’t need more lonely. I have it in the mornings when I wake up so far away from most of the people I love. I have it on Friday nights when I watch The Goonies in high heels. I have it when it’s a sunny Sunday and I want to go out for lunch but find my phonebook is too thin. I have it when I feel dizzy after donating blood and have no one to pick me up. I have it in the middle of the night when The Mean Reds cut through me and there’s no one to tell me to stop crying.
I tell her I don’t need more lonely. But I do need more writing.
I tell her I am the proverbial fig tree. That being twenty-seven makes me panic. That soon, the proverbial figs are going to starting plopping at my feet because I can’t pick one.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
One day soon, I will wear high heels out to parties and I will have a fat phonebook and plenty of company for lunch. My life will be full again soon. It has to be. But I will always be alone at the foot of the fig-tree. So I need to suck it up, climb it and pick a damn fig.