Sex outside had been Miranda’s idea too. She’d jokingly suggested they take it to the balcony one night, thinking sex outside would be really cool. Henry had smiled and it had become an inside joke between the two of them for the rest of the summer. When the fall came, the night started to fall earlier by the hour, by 9 pm it was already as dark as it was going to be. They had been cuddling on the couch watching The Boondocks. Henry was running his fingertips over Miranda’s arms before dropping little kisses on her bare shoulder, his lips forging a pilgrimage up the slope of her neck then slowly back down again. Miranda swung her legs over Henrys lap and they’d started kissing. Softly, teasingly, urgently.
She’d asked if they should go upstairs. Henry had hesitated a mere moment before saying so softly that Miranda had to ask him to say it again, ‘How about outside?’ Her eyebrows had flexed and she’d asked, ‘Really’ and he’d looked at her gently, running his hands down the length of her torso. She didn’t know how to feel or what she felt at all. “The front or the back?” she’d wondered, referring to the wrap around style of the houses top floor balcony. “I don’t know” he’d answered “whatever you want. I could go get some blankets while you look and decide?” She’d untangled herself from Henry lap and got herself standing. While Henry disappeared upstairs, Miranda unlocked the front balcony door and stepped outside. The air was warm for a late October night, with a cool breeze blowing occasionally. The front balcony looked over the street, where amber light from the streetlights poked in to all the notches and flaws of the wood under her feet. Across the street and through the bare tree branches she could see a man in his apartment eating something from a bowl as he watched TV, his eyes fixed carefully on the source of the blue light cutting shapes in his face and the spoon quivered its way from food to mouth. Miranda shut the front balcony door and went to check out the back. The balcony here swung over top a back lane and starred directly in to the back of the apartments that shared the lane. The back balcony seemed far more open and exposed than the front, which had the advantage of trees and corners. Though the thought of that man across the street possibly getting up for more food alarmed her. Miranda could imagine reading the words in the mans spaghettio’s – and if she could see him that clearly, he could certainly see her and all the details of her imminent rendezvous. Henry returned from upstairs, behind an armload of quilts. He peeked over the top and asked, “So, what do you think?” “I don’t know” she’s answered, “the back I guess.” Henry turned off all the lights as he made his way to the back door. As each rooms furniture collapsed into the dark, Miranda remembered an old movie she had watched as a kid, where instead of turning off lights, people were described as ‘closing’ the lights, and how much more she liked the sound of that. She stood in the kitchen doorway as Henry lay a blanket out on the deck, peeling off her stockings as she waited, imagining it’d be too hard in the dark to slide them off gracefully, and how such a strain might ruin the moment. He’d brought down her favorite blanket, a thick black one whose immense size in comparison to any other blanket she’d ever wrapped herself in made her feel tiny and small. She dove between the two covers as Henry closed the door behind her, and she wondered whether or not to make a joke about making sure it wasn’t locked. Henry shimmied in beside her and they began kissing again. The bones and ridges of Miranda’s back poked in to the wood beneath the blanket as she moved. She couldn’t imagine which position would be most comfortable on such a surface. They couldn’t rock too much, and they both figured this out pretty quickly. Henry climbed himself on top and slowly, trying to stay beneath the teepee of the blanket, they removed their clothes. Miranda tried not to think that there could be people watching from their windows. Maybe one of the neighbors across the alley had gotten up during a commercial to get a glass of water. They’d picked a glass from the cupboard and were fumbling with the water temperature when they’d happened to look up and spot the weird mound of jostling blanket across the street. They’d shut off the water, or maybe closed it?, put down the glass and leaned closer to the window for a better look. There they’d squinted and moved their faces as close to the glass as possible without pressing in to it and squinted tighter. They started to wonder if what they were looking at was what they hoped they were looking at, when a precarious limb wandered out from beneath the protective covering and the moonlight had slid over it like light on a snowy slope. Then they’d yelped for their partner, still taking in the commercial, to come quickly and look at this! Then they’d stood there, they were still there, watching Henry and Miranda’s heads juggle a dark blanket in a dark night.
Back on the balcony, things were getting hot. Seriously hot. Miranda felt sweat starting to perk up along her hairline, and didn’t care much for how hot the air was becoming to breathe. She stretched an arm over her head and lifted the top of the massive blanket a few inches. The cool outside air rushed Miranda’s shoulders, reminding her of how sand from the beach always felt on her feet. She lifted her arm a little higher and the air swept over her body, each inch of her skin seeming to leap up towards it. Henry groaned quietly, obviously grateful for the refreshment too. He breathed deeply and started pushing more thoughtfully in to Miranda, who couldn’t suppress a little chuckle at the thought of Henry being turned on by air. “What’s so funny?” Henry asked, smiling. “Nothing,” Miranda had answered, before rolling in to louder gasps of laughter. “Hey, Henry” she’d whispered loudly, “were doing it on the balcony!” “Shhhh” he’d whispered back, smiling.
The next day the small of Miranda’s back ached. She called Henry from work to tell him about it, and he’d confessed that his knees were also killing him, “They’re dead”, he’d said. Miranda had smiled at their shared injuries from a night of as gentle-under-the-circumstances-sex as possible. “So maybe next time we’ll get a couple pillows.” Henry had suggested, “Yeah,” Miranda agreed, “And some knee pads.”
By the time Miranda came home late from work that night, she could already hear Henry breathing heavy sleep breaths from the bedroom. As she moved cautiously towards the kitchen, her eyes found a big basket by the back balcony door, complete with two sets of elbow and knee pads, a few new throw pillows for cushioning, and a rolled up yoga mat, all tied together with a ribbon. And on the door itself, a sign announcing “The Honeymoon Suite”.

The Sex, Love, and Romance expo had been Miranda’s idea.
She and Henry were driving home from breakfast one Saturday morning, the radio playing between them. And while Miranda had been jerking closed the zipper on her purse, a short commercial for the event came on air, promising everything you’d ever want or not want to know about sex, love, and romance in a space no bigger than the local racing grounds. Finally closing her bag, Miranda exclaimed “we should totally do that.” And Henry had been intrigued, but nervous, his response mixed with both interest and apprehension. “What it is exactly?” He’d asked. “I don’t really know too much about it” Miranda had replied. She was trying to be more open minded, more out there, to let Henry know that if he was feelingadventurous, they could be adventurous.
“What if we see people there that we know?”
“So what?” Miranda smiled.
“Would we dive behind a table or something?”
“No!” she’d answered. “We’d say, ‘Hey! You guys have sex too?!’” Henry laughed. “You’re not going to see anyone there that you know.” Miranda finished.
“How do you know?” he’d asked, “What if I run in to someone from work there?”
“You won’t” she’d said. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, I just thought it might be fun.”
When they arrived home, they checked out the event’s internet site, and clicked on the media caption. A montage of short video clips followed; a birds eye view of a space swelling with people, sauntering slowly along narrow aisles between stalls and tables configured with unidentifiable contents of vibrant colors. Interspersed between these different angled shots were ones of women in slips and lingerie, crawling around the tops of pool tables in poorly lit bars and basements it seemed, for in one particular shot Miranda could see the tail end of a water heater sneak into the corner of the screen as if screaming, ‘this isn’t what it looks like! This isn’t what it seems! This is a basement!' The add didn’t offer much more information than the radio one had. Just instead of words floating through space from a far away speaker, online they cursively flaunted themselves across the screen, the ends of of most curling in to vines split with blossoming animated flowers that would leap as if shrugged from their perch and scatter pedals beneath them: “Sex…”,”Love…”,”Romance…”. Henrys interest lay more naturally with the pool table broads. “Oh yeah!” he said slowly, smiling. Miranda watched the women, clad in mostly rich colors, deep purples and pink, interrupted only by the occasional and obligatory patch of lace or a fallen strap. They sat, reclining on their elbows on the tabletops, starring in to the camera, almost challengingly, stretching one stiletto covered foot in the air after the other, before vanishing in the sites switch to the next birds eyes view. One girl, a purple covered one with dark hair and dark skin knelt on the surface on a pool table, and slowly slid her tongue along her top lip while carefully lengthening her body into a prone position. The girls breasts, Miranda figured, were likely supposed to be heaving, but had ended up squashed beneath her, probably flattened but safely concealed by the hair flowing over her shoulders and gathering in little auburn puddles at her elbows. When the final shot of a girl came on, she was in blue, sitting with her back to the camera, her chin meeting the notch of her shoulder as she glanced behind her, then looked away as the index finger from her right hand thread itself through her strands and slid the hair away from her back and over a shoulder, exposing the bare olive skin not covered by the flimsy nightgown. Miranda didn’t really get the pool table thing. Why would anyone want to do it on a pool table?, she wondered, imagining the way the pool tables green fibers would burn like wool rubbed against bare skin. She’d heard that some people were into pain during sex, but how could strict irritation be a turn on to anyone?, she wondered. She didn’t find the women particularly attractive either, the way they remained almost expressionless while sliding their tongues along their lips, or slipping their hair out of the way, or making sure not to break eye contact with the camera. Is that what guys think is sexy? The women’s empty eyes as they moved their limbs reminded Miranda of going through the motions of lifting weights at the gym, just to get from one side of the workout to the next. Miranda couldn’t imagine any of these women being turned on and ready for sex. Is that all it takes for a guy to think that a girl is in to it?
After Henry and Miranda agreed to check out the expo on Saturday night, Henry returned to his work on the computer, while Miranda cleaned up in the bathroom, watching herself drag the tip of her tongue across her upper lip as she pressed toothpaste on to her brush.

What she’s pretty sure she needs is a philosophy. Some kind of life mantra that will make her love her job, her friends, her relationship, her stomach, and everything that ultimately grows out of and away from it. Such a philosophy would rejuvenate her back account, refresh her lately lackluster work ethic, and make her the kind of passionate person that could tame even the most cynical of ancient curmudgeons.
A goal would help. She never understood this though, when anyone giving advice recommends having a goal. Miranda can’t think of a certain, particular goal. Does that mean she doesn’t have one? That her life doesn’t have purpose? Is she lazy, taking life for granted? Heading down the previously paved road of indifference? On her way to a death bed where she’ll suddenly be slammed with the thing that she’s always wanted, that thing that’s been resting in whatever part of a person the "core" actually is, when they talk about it as being connected to the soul and not the rectus abdominus. That thing that’s been pushing her in no determined direction, that she keeps trying to feed but can never seem to get to. Is it children? Should she be procreating? Is Miranda actually deeply craving family? Or is it an island in her kitchen? Should she be knee deep in renovations?
Its this very grey area of uncertainty, she realizes, that make those stupid publications geared to women so successful. Maybe you want some thing. Maybe you don’t know what it is. Maybe you sometimes wish you were somewhere else. Maybe sometimes you are brutally unsatisfied and unhappy for what you think is no apparent reason, but there must be a reason, feelings don’t just come out of nowhere. There is something silently alive in you, engraved in your pulse, that gives one meaning to everything you are suppose to do. It puts the lines in your fingerprints, the pattern in your footprint, the letters in your DNA, and all those sighs in your breath. Maybe you don’t know what it is. Maybe you only know that something is inherently missing. So you reach for pages assembled by clearly put together people who claim to have figured it out. You need a new kitchen. You need a paint job. A new driveway. A new man. You need pots and pans, electric toothbrushes, and George Foreman grills. You need lotion and creams, colors in your wardrobe, inches under your heels, and a slice off your thighs. You should create. Create your space. Create yourself. Create someone else. Let no one ever be left wondering what it is YOU stand for. You are, after all, an independent, strong, millennium inspired woman. Aren’t you? AREN’T you? Shiny pages of sparkling kitchens and dining rooms, perfectly placed and planned out. Interior decorating that exhausts Miranda just to look at, imagining how one learns what fits in to which corner, what color goes with which wall to bring out the tint in this drape the oughta compliment the pigment in her, wait, isn’t pigment part of your skin? Where does one start when trying to assemble themselves and their surroundings? To make sure one doesn’t end up on their death bed trying to salvage some meaning in to a life they thought they were living but evidently weren’t? How does one determine their own destiny? ‘Be the purveyor of your own destiny’, the pages insist over and over again. What the fuck, Miranda wonders, is a ‘purveyor’ anyways? Do they mean ‘curator’? Should she be buying art? Or just find meaning it? Should she be examining her own materialistic attachments? Or buying economic greeting cards at her local bookstore, crafted by local artists on paper recycled from trees with proceeds going to support the downtown women’s shelter and soup kitchen? Should she be volunteering? Nonchalantly searching for herself behind the guise of assisting others in need. Maybe they mean ‘conveyor’. Maybe she should be at the airport. Maybe she should be traveling the world and taking it all in, deciding for herself if you really do have to wander further than your own backyard in these modern times to see if the world actually is as small as they say. If the whole place is no more than a handful of villages, if we all really are connected. Or maybe she’s suppose to be buying art from India, or Africa, or somewhere foreign and exotic. That she can hang on her burnt orange walls and use as conversation starters whenever she’s entertaining people. Over perfectly sparkling wine goblets, someone might ask about where this or that interesting piece came from, and Miranda could again nonchalantly laugh and reply, "Oh, is there ever a story attached to that! Let me tell you! I was in a back alley in Zimbabwae when all of the sudden"…then pelt them over their middle class suburban heads with her not only wonderfully furnished condo, but tales of high jinx on the high seas. Miranda’s life, she’d show them, would not be with anything left over. Or small.

What she’d really like is for someone to describe her as quirky. Or wonderfully weird. Or unconventional. What she’d love is to know that Henry loves being with her because she makes everything more fun. Somehow. That she has some kind of take on life that is refreshing and maybe even whimsical. But she figures such people must bounce through life, excitedly pursuing its next adventure, following their hearts effortlessly, as they’ve learned to do. Such feats, she thinks, can’t be attained living nonchalantly. Miranda never wants to lose her chalants. What she’d like is for things to come together, to stop feeling like isn’t doing this painfully obvious thing that would turn her in to some kind of prodigy.
What she figures would help is a life philosophy. What she wants is an effervescent moment of insight, like ones from the movies, or that writers of weight loss articles in magazines have where on some far fetched day, either under certain spectacular circumstances or not, they saw something in particular differently than they had been doing all along and suddenly realized was wrong. Followed by an effortlessly summed up change of pattern, way of thinking, and living: ‘I simply attached my wagon to a different star. I finally put my eggs in to their proper basket. I attached myself to the right wagon. I changed courses. I changed direction. I started CBT. I sleep more. I eat better. Have increased energy during the day and prolonged endurance at night, and have noticed that nothing simply bothers me anymore. I stopped smoking. Switched to red wine – only one glass a day, even the queen does it – and uncluttered my seemingly hectic life. I ditched those that don’t truly inspire me and now only surround myself with positive, bright, enthusiastic people that I of course COULD live without, because I also sorted through my assorted dependency issues, but wouldn’t WANT to – and yet still manage to maintain a full time job in the company of people who only ever and always simplify my now uncluttered, enriched, evolving, nourishing, anti-aging, stress reducing, sexual drive increasing life.’
What she knows, is that she likes things to be quirky. She’s always found a poignancy in things that don’t appear to take themselves too seriously. She knows she wants something. She knows she sometimes feels like something still hasn’t happened yet. She knows there is a reason she finds comfort and inspiration in the idea that on any day, something might happen that has never happened before. But how does that translate in to a goal? How does she find out what it is? Because its there. And sometimes it’s screaming. What she doesn’t get, is how you can want something so badly, and not even know what it is?