A Surfeit of Moonlight

After the companionship of the weekend, I fully expected the week to sink quickly into the deep quiet to which I have become accustomed. It should not have come as a surprise that I was wrong. One of the dashing young men of fall came calling Monday night, hard on the heels of Ms. Webster's departure. It was well into the evening when I welcomed him in, took possession of the cranberries that were the purpose of his visit, and offered him a beer. We made conversation until the call began to get awkwardly long, and then- enterprising man that he is- he suggested a hike, which I readily took him up on. The moon is waxing, and the weather has continued to be blessedly mild. It was a crime to sit indoors.

Taking to the night, our tongues loosened again, tripping easily as we made our way up Champlain. When we reached the top- a broad hill with a view somewhat obscured by spruce- he made it clear that our ascent was not yet complete: "we have to climb the tree."

I made it clear that I am afraid of heights, but gamely made the climb nonetheless. So it was that late on a Monday night, I found myself up a spruce atop Champlain, gazing to Stonington in the North; Swan's, Frenchboro, and MDI to the East; and the Camden Hills to the West. We must have stood together in that tree for half an hour. The world gleamed in sleek blues and silvers. Finally, I confessed I only had so much natural insulation against the wind, and we began our descent. Before we left the top of the hill, he showed me a cranberry bog, so I would know at least one convenient place to get my own. Upon arriving back at my house, I dished up some soup, and we passed some more time in the intimacy of my kitchen. Just past midnight, he headed out to his truck, warm with thanks, but not kisses. In the course of our conversation it came out that he is indeed a scorpio- this very seductive November personified.

Tonight I headed out myself, just in a modest loop- to visit the field, to walk down a private dock suspended above a gentle high tide, to lay in the grass edging the thoroughfare. I brought my cocoa. And my pride. The former keeps a body toasty, but the latter...

I came home to a message on my answering machine- an apologetic uptown man, who thought I might already be in bed, so he said he would write me a note. The written message was alerting me to an event this Sunday, at the selfsame restaurant he had taken me to; crazy people were taking it over and turning it into a speakeasy- dressing up would not be deemed inappropriate. The password would be "swordfish."

All of this is a pretty distraction. In the morning I will need to rub the visions from my eyes, and remember the fact that I need to prepare for a future that will be more akin to a moonless night. All play and no work makes Jill a regretful girl. Kisses and speaking glances put neither money in the bank, nor credentials on the curriculum vitae. Time to pull together my inner Yankee.