I spent much of my time with Freya today. There is not much going on with her life right now—George took the news of Freya’s backing off very well. He was disappointed, of course, but they have been able to continue to meet as friends. Sometimes he will come over to spend the evening with her, just sharing a six-pack and watching television. I have watched him carefully, but he has put no pressure on her, which is a relief to her and to me, and she enjoys his company.
Today, though, she was on her own, and she decided to make a night of it. She came home and lit candles all around the house—being sure to put the cats outside first, as they have a tendency to singe their whiskers getting too close—dressed up in her favorite dress, and prepared a steak dinner for herself. She had jazz playing low and the heat up high. On the stairs waited a bag from one of her favorite shops, with new lotions and conditioner for her hair and something called a bath bomb, which I assume is not as explosive as it sounds.
I kept her company, because I could tell it was not being alone that she was celebrating. It was rather a way to reassure herself in her loneliness, a way to remind herself that she is desirable, that she is capable and deserving of love, and that she will find it soon. I assured her that all of this was true, and I was glad to see that it made her feel warmer inside. But the best way to prove my commitment to her will be to make it happen, and so I will.