Messy

“Here we are again,” I said to my silly dog as I rolled out of bed yesterday morning at 7:05 a.m. My dog was asleep in the other room on my Castro Convertible.
“And I still can’t get ***** **** out of my head,” I thought.
I always expect to wake up, but at age-75 something might happen that puts out the lights.
My beloved wife died almost seven years ago, yet here I am overly concerned about another lady. It seemed she wanted that, and it also seems she wants me to continue, despite -a) all the horrible flubs I made, and -b) we thereby somewhat ruin a professional relationship.
I’m supposed to continue interest, but if I do I’ve overstepped.
Often her responses to texts, pictures, etc. are almost immediate. Other times nothing. Three times we walked our dogs in quick succession. Nothing since, and that was months ago.
Our last walk it seemed like she was waiting for me. That went to my head = stupidity from then on, although I’ve tried to cut back.
I expect messiness; I’m dealing with a broken heart. It sounds like her husband left. If so, that explains why she never pushed me off. Others have.
My grief-share talked about which was worse: estrangement or death-of-a-spouse. Estrangement (or divorce) prompts acrimony and hurt; death-of-a-spouse is final.
And I lost the BEST friend I ever had.
A couple days ago I began getting a cold. Gallons of dilute vitaminwater™ got consumed, fortified with Emergen-C®.
“I think I successfully fended off a cold,” I texted ****** ****.
BAM! Almost immediate. Six hand-clap emojis.
I almost hadn’t sent that.
A couple hours later “Did you do anything with that Gil card?”
I purchased a “get-well” card for a guy in our aquacise-class having knee surgery. His name is “Gil.” Those in our class would sign it.
Again, almost immediate. “I have it,” etc.
“It’s all in your head,” says my good friend ******, my advisor in male-female machinations.
“Probably,” I say; “but sometimes she responds awful quick.”
My guess is she’s had multiple suitors eager to cash in on her broken heart. But that’s not me, or at least who I mean to be.
If her heart is broken, she does a bang-up job of masquerading it.
At age-75 I doubt I can repair a broken heart. That has to be whoever broke it.
All I can be is a “friend” — who also experienced a similar tragedy. My heart was also broken, but I got over it.
Every night as I turn out the lights, I say to my dog “Here we are, you and me, in our strange little life.”
“What’s strange about it?” my bereavement-counselor asks.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hours per week — plus a third hour on my own. ****** **** is my class instructor.