There is a place I like to call the October Zone. With apologies to Drake, that’s not very original, but it fits.
It is a land of dreams, and I feel safe there. For as radiant as she is, she sprang from from the chill breezes of October. She was born there. I can see her there. Talk to her there. Be with her there.
But ironically, whenever we meet it is January again in the October Zone, and she is standing as close to me as before. The last time. Only this time, breathlessly, heart pounding, I reach over and gently touch her hand, and she touches back, each of us staring ahead, not daring eye contact. Cautiously, one finger wraps around another. Before you know it, holding hands.
The warmth of her touch is a wonderfully joyful contrast to such a bitter winter day.
This is the October Zone. The tenderness and genuiness of a moment like this, intimately shared with her.