Stressed

When I started this letter, I set out to write something darkly sexy. I still might write that, at some point. But, right now? I'm too tired. Don't worry, it's not because of you, or our situations, or any of that. It's work. I'm super stressed out about work. I'm lucky, in that my job is very rarely stressful. Which is good, because I do not thrive on stress. I can't stand it. Too many bad vibes. I work to live, not live to work. Fortunately, this current situation is unusual.

But it got me thinking.

Something I really, really would love to be able to do is just… talk to you about my day. And hear about yours. Share our triumphs and our follies with each other.

I'll give, too, but… right now? What I'd really like, more than anything, is when I finally finish this stupid thing, and I fall into bed, exhausted and tense… I want you to comfort me. Let me vent for a minute before you kiss me to silence. Rub the tension out of my shoulders. Sooth me with your own quiet breathing as you drift off to sleep in my arms.

Sadly, not tonight… but one day.

Now… back to work…