Alone in Mexico. All alone. Sadly, tragically and temporarily alone. Except for all the people and the 5 dogs I am hopelessly, existentially, maudlinly alone. Except for this beer swilling American on my left and that little guy reading The Bali Post to my right I am shipwrecked, abandoned, solo and sad. I used to love alone. I longed for alone. As soon as my parents/roommates/Malcolm left the house I turned on the turntable/CD player/MP3 player and broke out a bottle of something to dance the night away and sing out to any angelic order who would listen.

I lived alone in Washington Heights for 2 months one summer. It was serial killer hot and a saxman lived across the alley from my 5th floor walkup window. I lived on my Saturday night credit card and spent Sundays reading in The Park and walking through shabby chic fairs of the Upper West Side, frequently attending a Unitarian service or the Museum of Natural History. It was exquisite. Except for the attack cat and the roaches and the one time that one cab driver got a little too handy it was very safe and sound.

Being apart from Malcolm is about 99.9% crappy. One night for watching indie/foreign/classic films and working on my novel is divine but any longer than that and I am lonely. No one to laugh at my jokes, no one to cook for, no one with whom to look at the ocean. Turns out I am not the Steppenwolf; I am no longer the hero of my adolescent poem celebrating solitude and pretend self-reliance. I not only love spending every day of this life with Malcolm I also thoroughly love being married to him. It´s the thing for me. I can even do my dance when he´s around.