I smile even as tears fill my eyes. There’s nothing dignified about loss, nothing dignified about the realization that I’m now just another woman on the beach to Kai, another flavor. Women come and go, and he won’t have any problem meeting a beautiful new woman to divert his attention. I’m the one who will find it hard to replace Kai. Hundreds of women looking for a good time go to Waikiki. Not many sexy surfers hang out in Madison Park or downtown Seattle.

There’s no one I can talk to about the hurt, either, not unless I pay a counselor or therapist. My friends never approved of the relationship and are glad it’s over. Daniel wanted the relationship to fail, finding the idea of me with someone young and sexy and noncorporate laughable. Laughable. But the hurt isn’t laughable; neither is the ending of my whatever it was with Kai.

Maybe that’s what makes this ending so hard. If only those visits with Kai had felt more like a fling. If only I’d been more in control of my feelings. You know, been lighter, calmer, more confident and able to enjoy the very hot, sexy sex as just… well, hot, sexy sex. But no, I couldn’t do that, had to make the sex emotional, ladening it with nuances and meaning, subtleties I’m certain no man intends. After all, men are men, and women are women, and most men don’t cherish us the way we want to be cherished.

I wanted to be cherished.

For a blip in time, Kai made me feel cherished, too. He made me feel like the most amazing woman in the world. And I wanted that. Still want it. The only problem is, I didn’t want it just on holiday, on some tropical island. I want it here at home, too. I want it every day with a man who is interested in long term, not just five days of island fun.

I’m still struggling with the jet lag nearly three weeks later, finding it hard to wake up in the morning and exhausted in the middle of the day.

I’m crabby, crampy, and I feel extremely PMS-y. That’s the one thing I’ve noticed most since turning forty—I have a lot more cramps and backaches than I used to in my thirties. “Menopause,” I grunt to myself, popping Motrin as I get close to my period, hoping it’ll help with the aches and sensitive boobs. But day one of my period comes and goes and nothing. Day two the same. Day three and still nothing.

I’m usually disgustingly regular, and I’m alarmed.

It’s my age, I tell myself. Stress. Stress can throw things off, and since the divorce I’ve been late. A day late.

Not three.