I didn't think i cared about having a man.
I just hadn't seen the right one yet.
Red John freed him up for me.
Don't be shocked.
Do you think a dazzling, brilliant, world class beauty was going to wash up on my shores any other way?
And a widower. So, single, age-appropriate, not divorced, loyal and fertile. Also, no having to ingratiate myself with someone else's kids.
Sign me up.
My mother always said i was the practical sort.
i'm much more a woman out of Jane Austen, toting up the benefits, social (by this i mean sex) and financial of a man.
I've never been an Emily Bronte-type woman. All stormy declarations and romantic passions.
That's not me. In fact, fuck that.
While every time I see him, my body and my ears start to buzz, he's a pragmatic choice.
Possessed of a slamming gene pool, endlessly entertaining, supremely capable, a big earner and something else…
My chance to shake off my origins.
His powers of observation served him well.
He raised himself way above his carny roots.
Opaquely packaged himself for unlimited upward mobility.
I could learn and climb out of deep dish Chicago.
The battered shoes. The Citroen. All signals of some dog whistle aesthetic I don't yet but intend to understand.
Look at the monogram on his wrinkled custom shirt.
I mean, look at where his shirt is monogrammed.
I looked that up last night.
Not on the cuff or pocket like some junior exec who wants you to know his initials,
But tiny and mid-grey floating on the front of his pale grey shirt right above the belt line.
Only there so the royal laundress can keep straight which prince's shirt she's washing.
All the ins and outs of a world way above cop paygrades and cop mentalities.
He'll coach me so I'll never seem like an arriviste.
But first things first.
Right now and perhaps for a limited time only, he's needy
I am going to bind him to me for the foreseeable future.
But first, I'm going to sample him.