I didn't want to return to the empty shell that Monica and I shared for the last few years. The good memories were clouded by the dismay that I felt after she got sick. All of our friends were somehow connected to my work. They were more acquaintances than anything else. Monica was my only true friend.I headed south towards Pensacola and the gulf. There were plenty of condos available to rent on a weekly basis, especially if you were not interested in being on the beach. I spent some time at the Naval Air Museum, but that was about it. I wasn't a sand man, so I didn't enjoy the beach or the water. The first week that I was there, I drove over to Alabama three times to enjoy the gumbo at Wolf's Bay Lodge. I used up the evenings trying to find a place to get oysters on the half shell that I felt comfortable with. No luck. The more time that I spent trying to entertain myself, the more depressed I seemed to become. The plus side was that I felt I had a lot of fodder for my next few. Friends helped with the disassembled workbench and cabinets, but I had boxed and taken almost all the magazines myself.Alone or with a partner, I had learned the value of self-control in increasing and savoring pleasure. I suspected—I hoped—that she would be in that stack I left for last. I could have checked at any time, but if my memory was faulty or for some reason that issue wasn’t there, I would have lost the pleasant anticipation of the past few months. If I had confirmed she was there, I could not have resisted becoming reacquainted immediately.My heart raced as the moment arrived. I had replayed that day in my head, trying to taste again that first taste, trying to reenter that naïve mindset, trying to unlearn the magnitudes and complexities of subsequent sexual experiences.I admit it. I squealed with joy when I recognized the cover as I riffled through the pile. I had worried about this moment; would the editing of decades of remembering make the original seem counterfeit?.
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