I’ve slept better than I have in months. I make more time for the things I love like writing and moving my body and cooking. I pleasure myself and, for the first time in a while, release those animal-like gasps and moans that only come with non-performative release. I move the coffee table aside and sit on the rug, littering it with an array of cups and books and art supplies. I find extra joy in the little trinkets scattered around my living room, the lights I put on dimmers, the soft and comforting glow of my own space at night.
I bake the same dessert multiple times a week and deliver slices to my friends. A cherry pie crumble from Alison Roman. I prep the crust a day before, smooshing hard knobs of butter coated in flour between my fingers until my forearms hurt. I wrap the ball of dough in plastic wrap before rolling it out, satisfied by the way it bursts into the edges of the plastic, making it airtight. The filling is not too sweet. I use Montgomery tart cherries, cover them in lime zest and juice, and lace them with a little less brown sugar than called for. I play around with different variations of the crumbly, nutty topping, my favorite being a mix of pistachios and walnuts.
There are small griefs that come with living alone, and there are days when I am desperate to live with my friends again. I miss the sound of the kettle heating up without having pressed the button myself; the smell of their breakfast wafting into my room on the days they wake up before me; the days I get up before them and eventually hear the crack of their door as they emerge with groggy eyes; the hours lost to idling on the couch together, reading or filling in the crossword or fucking around on our phones. Daily trips to the co-op, brainstorming dinner, sharing recipes, splitting grocery bills.
What I miss most is the spontaneity of living with other people–coming home to band practice or people playing chess or plopping down at the kitchen table after a long day while someone else finishes up their meal. I miss seeing someone else buzz around the house as they get ready to leave, and before they do, turning around to ask if you want to tag along. I miss the unplanned collision of lives, the way they sometimes overlap and sometimes differ. The way you eventually figure out each other’s wake up times–you can almost hear them stirring before it happens–so you can strategically stagger and slip into the bathroom before them.
There are some extra steps you have to take when living alone, especially when it comes to spending time with people. Extra communication and planning. And then there are steps you don’t have to take, those little luxuries: waiting to do the dishes, throwing all your shit on the floor when you get home and only needing to worry about it getting in your own way, inviting people over without asking, bringing a lover back home and having sex wherever you want, taking liberties with them on the couch or the kitchen counter or in the shower or in your bedroom with the door wide open.
I am lucky to live alone, to wake up to the sounds of my own rustling and stretch my half naked body as I putz around the apartment, but I can’t lie when I say there’s a pang that comes and goes, bouts of loneliness. I am learning to provide my own security, to revel in what I want when I want it, and I can’t wait until the day when I take what I’ve practiced into shared living, to thoroughly enjoy my own company in the mosaic of other people.
Gorgeous.