Teasing is equal parts humor and affection.

Do you remember that game you played with your dog? That one that began as a simple game of fetch, then morphed into “chase the one with the toy”, and ended in that fated game: Tug of War. You find yourself growling while you’re tugging on the toy. You’re no longer a person, but one in a pack of wild dogs, doing your absolute best to pull that “food” from the other dog’s mouth.

Calhoun and I share repartee: a verbal game of fetch, followed by chase the guy with the ball(s), finally the tug of war.

Verbal teasing, like tickling, plays on our honesty about our weaknesses.

Calhoun and I like our dog games. We slide easily into them. But like the dog pack, when it’s time to sleep together. At some point in our repartee we decide that we’ve tired of these games, and then offer up quiet questions or affirmations.

Teasing is intimacy.

Meeting men can happen millions of ways.

I discovered Calhoun across the internet recently. He sauntered over to me by lobbing a quiet “hello”.

“Hey,” I replied, “How’re you?”

“Great,” Calhoun said.

Seeing my photograph he said, “Handsome.”

“Really,” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes sir,” Calhoun confirmed.

“I’m Harlan btw,” I added.

“I’m Calhoun,” he replied.

And so it went, lob after lob after lob of Q & A’s; comments on what was said; terse responses to pointed responses.

Calhoun stands 5’10”, weighs in at 150 pounds, and has eyes the color of a fresh parsley; he has a chiseled face, a strong jaw, and an enchanting smile which looks as though it stretches from ear to ear. In a word, Calhoun is handsome.

We never know who or what or when we might stumble upon in life; but if I can intersect with men like Calhoun, my life will be better for it.

News, rather good or bad, shapes a relationship.

Vincent and I have been silent for the past week. We had been burning bright like a well ignited fireplace, and then someone doused us with water.

A week ago we sat in the back seat of a friends car and went to McFaddenville, NC to spy Christmas lights. We were affectionate, pancaking or waffling hands, placing my head in his lap.

And two days later, the affection waned, like a cold front moved through and dampened our heat wave. I assumed it was me: That I’d said something wrong or pushed to hard or was too affectionate or told him I loved him too soon or that I wanted to sleep together too often: something dramatically changed.

Vincent stopped calling; stopped texting; stopped dating. We were stopped like rush hour: bumper to bumper but no advancement; anger, rage, and frustration.

And then the reason came late last night by way of a telephone call: It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Vincent, it wasn’t someone else; it was a thing.

Readers, keep Vincent in your prayers today and every day.