Which is a bit worrying. I mean, this is me. My luck in these matters is legendary (in the strictly literal sense). And so part of me is just waiting for this to detonate in some new unpredictable way.
But . . .
. . . she's actually willing to talk. And she's smart enough, and empathic enough, to understand where I'm coming from. And it doesn't feel like she's bending over backwards for me, or I'm bending over backwards for her. We both have limits, we both understand where they are, neither of us are running up against them.
She's sane (in the good way). That's nice.
But beyond all this, there's that Spark. She's interesting. She's got depth.
She actually, you know, has a steady skilled job. It's kind of sad to have to admit that that's unique in my history, but, when it all comes down to it, that's unique in my history.
And here's the part that I'm still just sort of poking at in curiosity (and it's going to sound bad, but bear with me) . . .
. . . I don't *need* her.
I *want* her, yes. She's awesome. But if she leaves tomorrow, I'll be depressed and annoyed for a bit, and then get over it, and, perhaps, find someone else. Which - ironically - will probably make this whole thing a lot more successful.
This feels different. It feels, as much as I hate to say it, more mature. I've grown up since way back when.
Any day now I'm going to get a porch and a rocking chair, and just sit there glaring at all the kids walking past. When I was a kid, we didn't *have* graphics acceleration. We had to do it in software! And we wrote directly to the screen buffer, dadgummit!
The important thing is that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time.
Zorba's small subset of the world, meet aaangyl.