Alchemies's Xanga

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 02:07:03 GMT

10 of 30
10 November - things go along the way, in good streams, seems

"When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be."
~ Lao Tzu

I have lost 8 pounds in 10 days.

4 days to go on this iteration of the program. It's 11 days on the regimen, then 3 days of eating what I want. I expect to shed a couple more over these last four days of this cycle. I anticipate that I will be precisely where I want to be by mid-December at this pace. Toughest part of this 14-day regimen is the "all vegetable" day. I like veggies, raw and cooked, and when I had the alotted meals, I was satisfied. However, the body burns natural-food carbs much quicker so inbetween meals was a bit tough. Fought through it (cheated with a piece of fruit in the evening) and am on track. Secret to this approach? Calorie shifting. It works. I'm a convert.

Only really difficult thing for me to actually do/apply is drinking 10 glasses of water every day. That is harder said than done, especially when I've never been a big water drinker to start with. But I'm persevering. [It actually helps at mealtime - you don't eat as much.]

I am, 10 days in, 1/3 completed to goal. Go me.

***************

I swear to the heavens above my company has lots its ever lovin' collective mind. Every day it's something else and looks like it isn't going to let up as we barrel down to the end of the year. Makes me wonder what the organization is going to look like a year from now. And I wonder if I'll be standing in the same vantage point, too. Nothing is certain anymore; that's the only certainty.

***************

I found a really nifty little website that has on offer a really nifty little self-publishing software program. BookSmart. Already found and put to use by thousands of would be laureates, storytellers, photogs and various sundry other creatives. I downloaded the software last year and have been playing about with the program, compiling my more erotic writes into a thematic presentation. Wish I had a trusty photographer-friend on hand, to snap up (or down) some pics to go along for publish with the text. I have a visual idea in my head of what those pics would entail and how they'd be presented with the text. Even have a book title.

I think I'll goof about with it more seriously and put to print one copy for myself, to see how it turns out. If I like it, then I might turn it public for sale on the site.

***************

Speaking of which, check this thing out:

I find this thing most intriguing. Have the day off tomorrow... I might have to go shopping. Baha.

***************

For all the noise at work, there are silent halls in my personal life... not a whole lot going on. Time of the year, I suppose. I miss the outdoor activities of the summertime. Think I might buy some snowshoes for the winter. No, seriously. I think I might.

***************

And Lest We Forget, tomorrow Let Us Remember...

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 01:31:28 GMT

9 of 30
9 November - a day of advancements and congenial relations

"Each betrayal begins with trust."
~ Phish

So. What to talk about. The coffee date-turned-counseling session? The neighbourhood gossip? The work house-cleaning that commenced today, starting at the top (at least 8 VPs and SVPs gone or moved)? The upcoming roadtrip? The awesome day of union-management relations that delivered small but mighty breakthroughs? The success of the food intake program?

Nah. Is all just mundane fodder of little interest, that...

...

Just heard Willie Nelson singing, Always On My Mind, and it got me all choked up. WTF? Why am I all teary-eyed over that? Feeling a tad lonesome, I guess. Stupid song. [Great song, really... I just feel stupid for reacting to it like I did.]

I guess the news that got floated to me in innocent passing today, like I already knew - over the wires, as it were - has really knocked the stuffing out of me. I suspected, given the wall of silence to my queries, but I did not know. Now I do. I have a deep sense of betrayal overtaking me since hearing it. Rightly or wrongly. It's there.

...

I have written four separate paragraphs out over the last hour and deleted them all. If it wasn't outright space-filling noise, it was too vulnerable to share. I'm a bit bruised. So. Highlight and delete.

...

250 words of meaningful jotting is near-impossible today, seems. C'est la vie...

Sunday, November 08, 2009

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:24:28 GMT

8 of 30
8 November - blue skies, balmy breeze, lazy afternoon

voyeur: (n.) - 1. a person who derives sexual gratification from observing the naked bodies or sexual acts of others, especially from a secret vantage point; 2. an obsessive observer of sordid or sensational subjects

How many of us are voyeurs in life? I don't mean only in the sense of watching others for sensual satisfactions; I mean in watching from afar, separate, those things and people we long to know and experience in whatever sense, to whatever degree, even if only in passing - and observing from afar, sometimes from a 'secret' vantage point. I think we are all of us voyeurs to varying degrees. The 'Net certainly allows to be such, as deep and often as we wish... all through the click of a mouse, the bookmarking of a website.

Hell, there's whole industries built up around that fact - to the tune of billions of dollars in exchange.

I guess the queston remains - are we a voyeur if those whom we are watching in on know that we are there, channeling in through our glowing screens and internet connections? Watching the intimate details of their lives in action even though we've never met them, don't interact with them in real life - or is this just another layer of real life, albeit through high-tech cabling? Where is the line drawn?

I watch in on the lives of others as they post their follies and feats through Bloglines. Some are outre adventurers (such liberty of expression fascinates me), others are soul-baring in heartache and challenge, and others still just living life and sharing it as it goes along the way. They know I'm dropping in on them electronically; they invited me to observe, in a sense, by posting loud and long to an unfettered public domain available for the consumption of the entire industrialized world. I have made my presence known through the occasional interaction in feedback and dialogue. Usually limited to soundbytes in 200 characters or less (this is not a good thing, from my perspective - we are losing our communicatory edge as a species).

I have voyeurs to this blogsite. They've bloglined me, get their RSS feed, and read from afar. I have no idea who these people are (and they're from all over the world) as they have never identified themselves to me. They just watch-read. I'm not sure what it is about my life/writing that so fascinates them. It would seem they've connected to something in my expressions and so they come back for more. That's cool by me; if I can move a soul through words then I have been able to share my view and take successfully.

It's the voyeurs in real life that I'm not so sure about - the ones who don't announce their presence, who one has no idea even exist, who leech visually from afar. How many of those are there in our lives? And to how many people are we to them? Think about it - betcha we all have one or two folks in our life we observe from afar, unbeknownst to them... for innocent or debaucherous motives alike. I wonder -- is this act of watching secretly a tool for learning, a manner of honing survival skills, an outlet for imagination? These are the things I'm pondering at the moment.

I have no idea why I'm writing about this today. It was just a thought occurrence looking to ask some questions, so I wrote 'em down.

'Tis a nice day. I need to take myself away from my electro-voyeur surfing and get out into the sunshine. You should, too...

Sunday, November 08, 2009

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 03:57:07 GMT

7 of 30
7 November - The Troubadour was awesome

"I always thought he sounded just like Yogi Bear."
~ Mick Ronson (on Bob Dylan)

Bad news: I didn't win the $50 million Lotto Max draw last night
Good news: I got to listen to the Poet Laureate of Rock'n'Roll tonight, in person.

Good news: I picked up a new outfit for the concert: a 'boyfriend' jacket, a corset-style bodice top, pallazo pants, and some righteous 5" stilettos
Bad news: 5" stilettos are not the shoe of choice when one has floor seats for a Dylan concert and everyone else who has floor seats decides they need to stand for the entire concert

Bad news: One has to stand along with everyone else if she wants to see The Singer sing
Good news: One can kick off her shoes and bop along barefoot

Good news: The restaurant for dinner beforehand and drinks after concert is awesomeness on a stick
Bad news: It's not awesome to be on a strict food intake program and nothing on the menu matches the day's caloric outline

Bad news: One has to cheat the diet to eat
Good news: Spinach salad with candied pecans works in a pinch, is light, and tastes damn fine

Good news: It was a nice night out, high energy, good company, great entertainment
Bad news: The latte had at dinner isn't gonna let me sleep anytime soon

Bad news: I'm tired
Good news: I can sleep in tomorrow

It was a fantastic concert; fastest two hours ever. Bob and band played 2 1/4 hours solid-straight. Lots of tunes from Modern Times (yay!) and closed out with the trio Like A Rolling Stone / Jolene / All Along The Watchtower. All of which sound better live in concert. [He didn't sound like Yogi Bear, though he did mumble through some of the songs, hehe.] Band was tight and smooth. They slipped under the audience skin with such ease, we didn't realize we were transported until the last note played down. Watching a veteran of the road do what he loves to do most, and best, is a pretty cool experience. On either side of me were folks who are following Bob as he travels across North America on tour. The guy to the left had just seen him two weeks ago and the young couple to the right saw him a few weeks ago in Wisconsin (I think that's what she said).

There were all ages at this one -- from a 10 yr old kid sitting several seats down from me to an a gentleman well into his 70s walking out of the venue in front of me, to every age inbetween. I chuckled when I caught whiff of a doobie sparked up when we first walked into the arena (I had seats on the floor). The smell of weed wafted over us most of the concert... along with sandalwood incense (?!). Some things never change.

All in all, very glad I had the opportunity to go. I enjoyed it, start to stop.

Friday, November 06, 2009

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 23:17:09 GMT

6 of 30
6 November - old boys club alive and kicking, and I don't care

"People only see what they are prepared to see."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am focused, discerning, articulate. I share what I know, from the heart, to inspire others to discover their own authenticity and freedom. Spiritually, intellectually, emotionally. I do so through written and spoken word. I am a soul provocateur, agitator to positive change, new perspectives, discomfiting comforter. Catalyst to new things and new ways. I am a seeker, sought after. I share words that shatter the old and release the new. I write down the bone to the right.

It has a wall of windows, west-facing. Overlooking crystalline lake waters, with rising embankments of limestone covered in coniferous and deciduous green life rolling into the distance along the far shore's edge. It has a fireplace with a large hearth, for stoke on the cold winter nights. It is situated on a large lot that invites perennial gardens around the perimeter of the property; the property itself is nestled deep inside natural landscapes, away from roads and collected communities of houses and stores. It is on its own, but not so far on its own to be isolated. It is large and inviting, with a good deal of room for occasional company. The kitchen is practical and elegant, and large, with full amenities. The living room is leather appointed, comfortable. The den is floor to ceiling bookshelves, loaded with reading materials. All four walls. And with leather tub seating. The master bedroom is large, light, inviting, a hideaway with its own bath. Which has a clawfoot soaker tub, raised on marble pedestal in front of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the treed landscapes beyond. The decor throughout is clean, straight lines, dark wood, light walls, lots of natural light. There is outdoor living space for the warm summer evenings; a fire pit, furniture, patio lighting. It is a writer's respite and cocoon of nurture. And there are fields distant, allowing the big eastern skies to be viewed. It is home. Land and water key ingredients to locale, a home resting on the edge of serenity. It is my home.

I am without worry; I have paid my way, earned my keep. I am beholden to no man. I am comfortable and without want. I have enough to share beyond me, my kin, our needs. And I do, abundantly.

He is over 6' tall, a man of substance, husky but fit. He is of sharp mind and wit, curious, a fellow seeker, one not afraid to try new things, explore. He holds integrity and is honest, with others and himself. He is without rancor. He is self-secure, not afraid to express feelings, not overly emotive either. He is self-made, has learned to navigate life without regret. He is sensual, sensuous. But not to exclusion of good judgment. He retains a sliver of bad-boy charm and wiles. He is sometimes unpredictable and surprising. He loves banter. He is passionate about those who are loved ones. He is passionate about goodwill and grace - he understands the phrase "to look after the widows and the orphans." He has a sense of greater responsibility. He has focus and determination; he finds the higher road, the better way. He does not give up. He does not sell out. He is mature; he is playful. He loves to laugh. He loves sex. He is a man, not a boy. He is a partner, lover, friend, confidant - an equal in all things. A protector and defender of me, and I of him. He is loyal and noble and true. He is raunchy good fun in close quarters. He is quiet and determined; he is not afraid to speak his mind. He is wise and fair.

I am planning and devising, defining and designing. I am creating, improving on what is already present and accounted. I am strategist, strategic. I am preminatory, pulse-catching, intuitive, crest-setting. I am taking what is there and making it better.

These are the things that are hallmark to my ideal life, ideal living. It is these things I want to manifest fully in my life, that I am aligning myself and ways to inviting into my world of being - to become my reality as the future unfolds. These are the things I want to enact and embrace. It is these things I should like to come alive in my life. And in due time and due season, they indeed shall be as I envision them...

Friday, November 06, 2009

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 02:34:36 GMT

5 of 30
5 November - snow fell today - it's not staying, thankfully...

"Just because you like my stuff doesn't mean I owe you anything."
~ Bob Dylan

Okay, then. Tonight might be a bit of a challenge in coming up with 250 words that aren't a complete waste of space or driveling filler. I've had one of those weeks - and the train I'm riding just keeps getting faster and faster. Expectations of me are through the roof at the moment; I need to slow this pony down. Is it just my workplace, or is the corporate world losing its ever-loving mind at the moment? I need to take some of my remaining holidays. I'd like to go to Cuba. One of the guys in the dining group is from Cuba and his mother is still there. She has set up a Bed&Breakfast for - get this - $25/night. It's a lovely home, well appointed. In Havana, a few mere blocks from the water. It is so very tempting and I know I could round up a girlfriend or two in a heartbeat to make the trek.

**********

Started a funky 14-day cycle food intake program designed to support fat burning. Dudes, it works. I'm just finishing up Day 6, have dropped 5 pounds. I'm going to go two cycles with it and see where it has me by month's end. Will let you know. [Toughest part of this is the water intake (as it is with any diet/daily living) - I never seem to get enough {10 glasses per day? are they serious?}...]

**********

I'm going to see the venerable Mr. Dylan on Saturday night. Very much looking forward to this concert. I've never seen him perform live and he's dropping by the neighbourhood this weekend... figured I should take this opportunity to remedy my Dylan-less living and go see the man play. He's a legend, after all. Even if he's now an ancient one. Another ancient legend I'd like to see in concert is Leonard Cohen. Just to hear him sing Hallelujah. And, really and truly, what's with me and the old poet kick these days? Those old boys move me.

**********

Speaking of kick, the itch to move house is really starting to kick into high gear. Not sure where or when, only that I will be pulling up roots from this place I am in and trekking to new horizons.

**********

I still don't know what to do with the cheque on my desk. I think I might send it back with a note...

**********

Did you know that fresh fruit, diced up, mixed with Cool Whip is absolutely divine? It is.

(Okay, so there's going to be the odd clunker of a blogpost this month. I'ma just keeping it real, homies...)

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 00:07:08 GMT

4 of 30
4 November - erotic musings

"Sensuality without love is a sin; love without sensuality is worse than a sin."
~ Jose Bergamin

I must confess, I am a sinner. I cannot say anyone made me do it. Because I loved doing it. Mmmm hmmm, all of it.

I can close my eyes and set a stage of delightful to and fro, intake and output, skin-to-skin slip, limbs tangled up in sheets or the twists of half-shed clothes. I can see - and sometimes even feel - the slide of fingers over bodyscape from tip to toe. With all the delicious stop points inbetween. Especially the stop points inbetween. Especially when fingers linger, dipping and diving and driving to a slow beat unheard, except inside the ribcage by the thump-thrum of the heart pumping the blood, it beginning its race to netherregions and stockpiling up in baited wait to break loose and flood the trails in ecstatic celebration.

I can conjure up the tingles with the vivid wishes of fantasy aflame; that rising tide of nerves dancing from core outwards, dancing to the edge of pleasure expounded, skating the precipice of the crest to crash, not wanting to boil over and drop just yet. I can pull the body to a stand-still while the mind realigns and reconfigures, giving the flesh a chance to catch breath and pull back. But not too far back. I see a lover's frame, sense the electric rub of my skin against another's. With a layer of warm condensation making us glisten. And I am, we are, it is, slick with want.

I can imagine well - and feel the rumble of - being plunged and plundered, in rythmic pounding, shallow and deep and deep and shallow and deep and deep and deep. I arch to receive it, in mind and body. All of it, all the way all of it. Crest to crash to catching breath to confession.

While I have no such reality in play in my life, I can dream it. Fantasise it. Wait for its reality to once again strike me. I'm certain my sinner's ways and days are not finished. Especially, I hope, since I'm at my peak sensual awareness. And hunger. Yes, I am hungry to taste again and see that it is good.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 01:37:41 GMT

3 of 30
3 November - morning light and evening dark makes for calmer Caz

Men of genius are meteors destined to burn themselves out in lighting up their age.
~Napoleon Bonaparte

Anna wanted to go and see 'This Is It' so I took her. I should have known better. It's not that the movie was bad (on the contrary), but it was the fact that she and her friend are 12 and they only know Michael Jackson from passing hype at his death, the internet virals, and the Thriller video. Oh, and Billie Jean. They know that song, so well they can sing along.

So, 12 year olds that really aren't sage enough for documentary-style movies makes for distractions. They were up and down to the bathroom/lobby several times. I couldn't do much about it since they weren't even sitting with me. "Mom, we're going to go sit over there, okay? If we have any issues, we'll quietly come back over here." Dumped in the theatre, I was. Heh.

When the movie showed clips of the dress rehearsals, they were awed and sat still, taking the scenes all in. Anything else in the film and they were chittering quietly to each other or taking off for the lobby. I decided not to worry about it.

The film was good. It wasn't earth-shattering but there were definitely poignant moments, surreal clips that suspended the reality that the man is now dead. I noticed something while watching it. Michael was thin but incredibly virile for a 50-year old man. He could still move like none other. Amazing stuff. That's not what I noticed, though. I noticed his hands. They were huge. I expect that was likely because he was so thin, but he almost looked like a caricature at times. And I noticed there was a definitive sadness about him. Even when he smiled (which was rarely), the sadness was his cloak. Not surprisingly, of course. But it was... striking.

While I wasn't clamoring to see the film, and went at Anna's urging, I'm glad I saw it. I got to hear again some of the rarely-heard tracks of his that I love. The man was a musical and theatrical genius. And wildly unique; there won't be another of his magnificent talent, I don't expect - he was one of a kind (even in his dance moves... many mimic him, none come close, though).

I tell you what. Had he lived to give that final series of encore concerts at the O2 it would have been, without question, his magnum opus. Capital M, capital O.

And... yeah. What else to say? Fade to black...

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 00:46:13 GMT

2 of 30
2 November - thought full

"On the level of consciousness ... we will only achieve deep, overpowering experiences when we consciously limit ourselves and wholeheartedly declare our loyalty to a decision that we have made. In doing so, it becomes clear to us that the so-called "multiple-choice society" has greatly deceived itself into believing that the expectation of happiness can be fulfilled by leaving as many alternatives as possible open and continuing to hope that the best is still to come. The disappointment on the faces is not evidence that the "right" opportunities are lacking, but rather expression of a dissatisfied, half-hearted, and superficial life in which there is an absence of courage and willingness to clearly commit oneself. It is only when we can come to an uncompromising decision and stay with it that we can find the path to a deep and fulfilling experience."
~ unknown

Declarations of loyalty and dove's-eye focus. Coming to a place of driving singularity... making a choice and abiding such fully. Uncompromising, unwavering devotion to the primary election, choice, object of affection.

Soul Purge

I had an adoring lover, once. He burned hot like a shooting-star, he took me over when he ploughed me under. We were so fully focused upon one another, wrapped up in limbs and love. It was a fierce burn, that love. It was all-consuming. Like a shooting star, it flamed white-hot, streaking quickly across our hearts, before dissipating with nary a trace.

But in those moments stolen, taken, seized, it was earth-shaking. Storybook romance, married by the waterfalls. Life was heartachingly magnificent. We had each other through tragedy and triumph. We settled in, nestled down, in nook and nuzzle. Those moments were good. Very good. He burned his touch into my skin. And time marched forward and pressures took hold and his light got restless and grew dim - and he chose to find a new shooting star to wish upon. And then, that fierce burn, that love, it was earth-shattering. He left. And took his burning yearn with him. Mine, too.

I look back at it all now and I wonder if it wasn't simply lust run amok. I was fierce in feeling with him - felt it all, felt it deeply. He moved my body and my soul. I even compromised on my core values to keep that touch alive. I see now, it was not love. It was escape. It was a driving need to belong to someone, something, somehow.

I look at lust - and love - very differently now. Lessons learned in life, as lived.

I have fallen and been torn asunder again since that blazing flameout of what I thought was the rest of my life. Another burning touch, but not just of body... also of mind.   And because of that, the scartrails he's left on my heart have been burned a little deeper into me.   No explaining, no words to define what was - it was all inbetween, after all. Inbetween feelings, inbetween his life and mine, inbetween secrets and lies. Inbetween lust and love. Neither and both, none and all of it. No words, no pinning it down. At least, for me, it was these things. And for a Geminian heart to confess such things not of intellectual domain but of heart is monumental; I rarely tread such waters, and never do lightly.

Aquarian scars upon this heart of mine, all of them. They, these water-bearers painted electric blue, have been my elixir and my bane all my life. None so exhilerating or soul-churning and heart-stopping as they have moved me, melted me. And none have been so cruel in their aloof separations and indifferent despatches, as if I was something of use then no longer useful.

And still it goes... it is Aquarians nipping at my heels even now! I shoo them off; I am not interested; I have not recovered from my last dip into those crystalline waters of heady, hearty interactions. I cannot afford to be further marked on heart by such water-bearing wiles and ways.

I still scan the horizon for the airy independent who had me dance the outskirts of his mind, heart, life. He slayed me. And I refuse to say I love him. Or rather, loved him. I stop short, as it is a piece of me unwanted.   I have come to accept that. And love? What is that, really? Truly, what is it? It would seem that I do not know, have not learned, cannot say. I am not sure I have ever really experienced it, or understand it.   And I am torn asunder and left cast adrift.

I write my mind so as to exorcise it; I am not so vulnerable in the flesh. I am not so maudlin or morose as I go about my days.   My thoughts are as they fire, fiery. My heart has grown silent, or maybe numb. I stand thankful that most of me remains in stead in mind, intellect, thought. Is where I remain most comfortable and secure.

And life is.

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 13:06:27 GMT

1 of 30
1 November - NaBloPoMo '09 kickin' off...

So, here I am. I said something about a 250-word minimum output daily, that didn't blow, didn't I? Cor. Well. Okay, then. I'm going to write fiction and non-fiction and erotica and rants. I am not going to tell you which is which. Some of it might be my reality, most of it will be my imagination. Anyone wandering through this electronic room of mine will have to discern for themselves what it is. Most of it will be benign and mundane. Some of it will be rip-roarin' racy. In all of it, I'll just be me. Deal.

She can't believe she's doing this. Even as she parks her car on the third level of the port and climbs out and walks across the bitter-cold pavement to the arrivals deck. She feels as if she is in a bubble, floating through reality but not part of it. She feels herself move in determined stride. His flight is late, delayed. She looks around for somewhere to sit and wait.

She is nervous, anxious. She wonders if it always feels so right when it is so wrong. No one knows she is here; no one knows he is coming. It doesn't matter. He'll soon be here. The rose in her hand is a brilliant red bloom sitting atop a very long stem. As she twirls the flower, her finger catches a thorn. It draws blood. Unthinking, she puts her finger to her mouth and sucks the sting away. Her legs twitch; the wait is becoming interminable.

She recites her heart's words in her head, over and over. They have spent countless hours talking online, sharing photos one to the other, learning strengths and pecadillos, finding common grounds and strong attractions. She knows the moment they meet - finally, fully, in the flesh - will be a telltale one. He is coming across an ocean to meet her. She is coming across her lifetime to meet him. She figures she has travelled further, harder, longer.

The speakers boom his flight's arrival. She catches her breath and stands. Many of those waiting in the terminal crush forward to the gate doors, lining up and waiting to catch a glimpse of their loved ones. Even though she knows it will be yet some time before he crosses that threshhold, she moves in to claim a spot in line of sight. She waits, baited. The flower is almost forgotten in her had as she scans the closed security doors in front of her. Those doors open, and people begin to filter through, in twos, singles, small family groups around a stroller full of luggage. She does not spot him.

More come through, to delighted squeals and hugs from the patient body of receivers embracing them. Still no sign of him, of the one she knows but has not met.

And then... and then she stops breathing. She sees him, before he has found her. She notes his anxious expression, anticipating but uncertain. She does not flag herself, but simply watches - and waits for him to find her. When he does finally see her, he smiles broadly and moves more decisively in her direction, picking up his pace. He dodges the crowd in front of him, weaving his way slowly to her.

When he reaches her, he stops just short. She moves forward to give him a hug. He takes her in arm and pulls her close. As they loosen the embrace, her head moves slowly, slightly tilted; she leans in lightly and he moves to brush his lips against hers. In that second, she feels a jolt go through her body, like electricity. They kiss less tentatively, there in the middle of the terminal. She feels bliss. They release one another and say hello. She gently hands him the rose. He smiles.

And they know. They know they are only just starting.