She traveled. These days nearly as much in the physical, traditional sense, as in the one where she let her mind wander
Feeling almost ungrateful, she had to confess that she didn’t care too much for travels. More specific she did not care for the coming and going. Especially air transportation and airports. She had no care for those parts at all.
This last trip had not been all that different. She had packed, rushed, only hours before departure, had travelled, arrived, unpacked according to her systematic approach and assessment of perceived needs at this particular destination, participated in workshops, mingled, socialized at a sufficient level.
The highlights had been the very last of the New England foliage and the people around her; a few days full of intellectual banter and though up scenarios with her peers, a rare treat indeed.
Once more she had packed, travelled and once more she had arrived. This time in the city that never sleeps though that did not make too much of a difference.
This was where the lust arose amongst the wanderings.
Her needs had shifted this last year. She had started out with the misunderstood need of pure physical, sexual satisfaction and in-your-face dominance.
While the elements “physical”, “sexual” and “dominance” were still very much present in her subconscious musings, they now thrived and evolved in the middle of a supportive structure made up of traits belonging to a partly fictional gentleman.
She had needed him there, feeling a heavy weight around her neck, when she stood amidst beautiful metal with the best view known to man.
Just as she had needed him beside her, while lingering at a rack with a particular fine wool or tweed or while passing a sharply dressed man – or woman - in the street.
She had felt the void that the lack of this man created, while attentively listening to the difference between, and the characteristics and the merits of floggers made of elk, moose and bison.
He had been sadly absent during animated conversation and cocktails at her hotel.
While strolling the street on her way home from a wonderful dinner, his hand had not held hers, just as he had not ordered the glass of champagne that started off her evening.
He was not besides her, when she experienced four kinds of orgasms.
She had wanted to stay another night, though only if in his arms, in spite of never before having felt the need for cuddling.
Instead she had once more packed, and travelled.
While in transit – in the most appropriate city of them all – she had read Hemingway, and You were there, for the shortest while.
The small part of him, which is indeed a real person, but as swiftly as You appeared, You vanished, leaving her with the joy and satisfaction, the only a truly magnificent book can generate.
Once more she had arrived.