She was quiet coming to me–unassuming–no love at first sight but more in the manner of a slow burn.  She wasn’t even beautiful in the conventional manner of speaking although some described her as tawny.  Alarms didn’t go off.  They should have.

Despite her appearance a modest wish to embrace her years ago turned quickly into a yearning.   Then, as time passed desire became an unquenchable thirst that I was unable to slake without her immediate presence.  Small wonder.

She, more than any other, was a calming influence when frayed nerves needed soothing.  No massage nor brain-numbing barbituate ever performed the way she could.  Whenever I required comforting all I had to do was reach for her.  She would be mine forever, I thought.

Even when she  became more demanding she remained my mistress.  There was nothing I would not do for her.  Friends would say, “Dump her.  She’s no good for you.”  Their words fell on deaf ears hindered by feelings of contentment.  Dump her?  Never.

Oh, but never say never.  I’m alone today.  My mistress is gone.  Not dead, mind you, but off somewhere concentrating her witchcraft on others with whom I shared her.  She was never mine alone, you see, but I didn’t care.  Still, she’s gone and she didn’t go willingly.  I made her go.

It still hurts and I think of her often–after a good meal, for example, during my morning coffee–after making love.  Her memory is indelibly etched into a conscious corner of my mind and I’m not at all certain if I’ll ever completely erase her from my memory.   She’s gone.

I’ve quit smoking.