Into the Blinding Light of the Unknown

While making coffee this morning, my mind drifts to memories of firsts. I love hazelnut creamer in a very dark brew. I vividly remember the first time I drank a cup of coffee this way. I lived in the birthplace of Washington Irving, and worked in a biodynamic farming community. My first girlfriend fixed me the best cup of coffee I'd ever tasted. I thought it tasted like love. As it turns out, it would become one of the few warm memories I have of that little house. She was another first. My first "girlfriend." I met her at a small potluck dinner. She took my breath away. Her buzzcut juxtaposed with her doe eyes with long lashes and her pink, heart shaped lips. The combination of gender play was intoxicating. I'm a bit conflicted, admitting that I knew before the night was over that I was going to leave my husband and run away with her. She hadn't asked but I knew. Once in New York state, our relationship became brittle and unforgiving. Still, standing in our pj's in our little kitchen for the first time, learning each other's favorite tastes, is a very sweet memory. I'll be forever grateful for the opportunity to leap off the edge of the known, into the blinding light of the unknown.