She stocks 50 vol, which is not fucking around. I never went above 40.
And when we were together, I never paid for haircuts. She did mine just as the boys and her own. A Nr. 6 was long for her.
So I sit with blond hair at a Nr. 6, which has been my standard since 1997 but fell by the wayside during Covid, sitting next to my ex-wife without talking as she watches a TV show and I peruse the internet.
It is a strange thing to graduate to that portion of your life where staying with friends means, for the most part, you self-entertain. Sure, meals, a bit of TV or games, but it's nothing like crashing somewhere in your 20s.
I have clean clothes, and this time I'll be headed back to Austin tomorrow wearing my own. Ahead of fighting possibly hourslong lines at HEB ahead of the deep freeze forecast for most of Texas starting Friday night.
I have a motel for the week already booked, so tomorrow will be rather busy. She's already paid for my Lyft back to the van, then I need to hit up HEB and hopefully can time things to be aligned for it not being frosty by the time I'm checking in.
I made dinner last night for the first time since 2023, cobbling together a red curry soup and mushroom tortelloni (with much garlic and pepper) into a very satisfying dinner. It felt really good to provide nourishment for someone else again.
A lot of "days since" signs have been reset to zero over the course of my visit, with some having previously resided in the four figures.
If I didn't know my own history, I'd be inclined to think this is a totally reasonable way to live. But we can't work right now. It's likely we'll never be able to.
This said, she told me off in 2004 on my first attempt at communication, we finally met via other accounts in 2009, got married in 2011 and divorced in 2016. If nothing else, this relationship scales in years. Not having resolution in a couple of months is not a concern.
She invites me up and into her bed, and then complains in the morning that she's been single for so long that it's difficult for her to sleep with someone else in bed ... even though when we met, sleeping alone was her hell.
I appreciate that she's restored my appearance to residual self-image. But we are back to "there's no fucking way this is over yet." I'm not going to repeat prior posts, but my gut has been telling me she's mine for more than 16 years.
There is a tattoo to that effect, in my handwriting, on her mons.
We make for an interesting couple. Pretty much the only thing we have in common is our last name.
Context may be useful here. When we first got together, that was one of our first habits in bed, saying "mine." She has more than a dozen tattoos representing me, of which this is only one. And, indeed, it was done atop a chile ristra that was already there because of me.