In this suspended place, this wheel-spinning place where the words can’t wait to get to the weekend, I have received a delightful call.

The upcoming chapter has called me for a date. Nice.

“Let’s spend some time together,” it says.  “Let’s shut the door against everything and everybody,” it says. “Let’s have it be just us.”

I can do that.

This anticipation: There’s something rather breathless and wonderful in it. I love diving into a new chapter; love sitting across the table from it and looking deeply into its eyes.  There are hands to be held. Faces to be touched. Souls to be shared. Chemistry to work its magic. And who knows where the evening will lead?

Lensing-down from the book’s big picture into the narrow focus of the chapter…just the prospect of it leaves me smiling. This is the place where the book’s atmosphere—its needs—are all around, but the need-to-see is more limited, more of the moment. Here, the tasks are finite; the chapter answers to itself first. This part is what it is. It doesn’t need to be anything else.

What the next 48 hours will bring—the date-night raiments that may or may not fit, the emergence of the cold that’s been hovering to torment me for days, the possibility of an off-day, the constant lurking of that alter-ego restlessness—the future is still a mystery. But for now, put the bubbly on ice and let date-night commence. I’m ready for this.

Most folks, I expect, head into the weekend hoping for something to look forward to. Maybe, in my unreal little world, I am lucker: My delight comes to me.

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