Walk of Shame

It is 1:15 on a Tuesday morning, and I have just pulled in to my garage.  The man whose apartment I left has probably already fallen back to sleep, after seeing me safely to my car.  I am clear-headed and wide awake, and starving. I stop at the convenient store down the street.  The two clerks barely notice me -- one plugged in to his music player, the other talking pointedly to someone in a country where it is a more hospitable hour. 

Outside, a police officer is getting out of his car.  He greets me --"Good morning!" -- and I smile and wave.  No, officer, I am neither drunk nor in need of assistance.  Merely late/early home after making the choice to sleep comfortably in my own bed, at least for part of the night.  

I am considering unconventionality, and the freedom it affords me.  Freedom to enjoy another person's body and also enjoy my solitude.  To have my cake and eat it, even when I get that cake in the restocking hours at a 24-hour convenient store.  

But still. I yearn for the comfort of falling deeply asleep next to someone whose habit is to make room for me.  I want the absolute security of knowing that no matter what unpleasant, unconscious noises my body emits, someone will be there in the morning, laughing or gently scolding me for my unfortunate jalapeño habit.  

I am not ashamed to be walking out of someone's arms and into my door at this hour, I just wish I could be walking into someone's arms.  Imperfect, sometimes chafing, but mine to walk into, nonetheless.  Patience looks like a deserted street at 1:15 on a Tuesday morning.