The Power of Love. Or Some Shit Like That.
I've spent years celebrating my independence. I love my motorcycles, my freedom, and the ability to disappear into my own head for a while. But when Dawna came home after being away for a couple of weeks, a friend at work asked why I was suddenly in such a good mood. Apparently, I'd been wearing my loneliness on my sleeve without even realizing it. Somewhere along the way, this woman became my new normal. And now I'm discovering there's a big fucking difference between being able to live alone and wanting to.
Luckily, I’m Not in Jail
All I wanted to do was get my wife's Dodge Challenger registered so she could leave on her road trip. Instead, I spent forty-five fucking minutes waiting for a bureaucrat to tell me one missing signature made the impossible impossible, drove across town to another MVD office that somehow figured it out, and then nearly got into a roadside fight with some douchebag in a white SUV who was riding my wife's ass. By the end of the day, Dawna was safely on the road, the car was legal, and I wasn't in handcuffs. I'm calling that a fucking win.
The Sound of Her Being Here
Eight months ago, I loved living alone. I loved making my own decisions, setting the thermostat wherever the fuck I wanted, and answering to nobody. Then Dawna moved in, and somewhere along the way, my house became our home. Now she's away visiting her mom, and for the first time in months, I'm sitting here alone, discovering that the silence I used to treasure is suddenly too fucking loud. Turns out, love isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes it's just the sound of someone you love being there.
Played Like a Fucking Fiddle
After twelve-hour workdays, all I want is to spend time with Dawna. Unfortunately, she's trying to squeeze two households into one, and apparently my constant presence isn't particularly conducive to concentration. So she came up with a brilliant solution: send my annoying ass on errands. One light bulb, a pack of cigarettes, several hours riding Nyx and Aurora, and an overcooked swordfish dinner later, I discovered on Facebook that my future wife had played me like a fucking fiddle. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.
The Fucking Cage
A car gets you from one place to another. A motorcycle puts you inside every fucking mile between them. The temperature, the wind, the smells, the landscape. You don't pass through the world. You enter it. Unfortunately, sometimes love and logistics mean climbing into the fucking cage anyway.