Where does the universe keep its store of amazing wonderfulness?

And how can I get a regular supply?

A few days ago, I had a fantastic experience.  I was, through circumstance and helpfulness, in the company of a marvelous woman for a few hours.  Just me and her.  And we talked.  Talked in ways that are shockingly boring and uneventful to you, the reader. 

Public policy.

Comparative religious views on sin and the nature of humanity.

The essential core of modern people's desire for life, liberty and happiness.

You may or may not find this itemized repetition to contain topics you yourself are interested in exploring.  All I can tell you is that I was having the conversational equivalent of having a luxurious bath -- the kind you see in movies with scented candles floating in it and lots of petals strew around, inexplicably.  It was so ... comfortable.

And it wasn't just me talking.  I was being engaged -- challenged, even! -- by my compliment.  She was determined not to be outdone by my tendency towards proclamation and rhetoric.  A worthy partner.  I learned and she learned and we had a fantastic time.

Then it was over.

Almost as quickly as I found myself in this situation, the time was past.  My metaphorical appointment was over.  She went back to whatever it was she did for the first three years I knew her while never having words like those that had just past between us.

And I went home.

And I cried.

Not very much, mind: I've cried more at sappy winter soup commercials.  But it was enough, and it was from the heart.  I felt the loss.  The loss of the stuff I've been questing for my entire adult life -- and before.  It always seems to come in little drabs: a nice dinner here, a good coffee break there.  A dessert discussion that goes on long after the check has come, gone, and returned.  A drive across the miles with a willing companion in the other seat.  The feeling that the woman across the table from me wants to have the discussion -- the interaction -- with me.  Not with the other guys or the chatty group -- just me.

Upon my return, it was just too quiet.  Too still, too monocular.  Too undifferentiated.  Too internal monologue.  Too much "nostalgia for the good-old 45 minutes ago".

Too much alonely.

So why can't I find the stockpile?  Why can't I find the store that sells it?  Even were it in tiny quantities, I'd save up to make the special purchase.  I know it's worth it.  I appreciate how precious it is.  I won't spoil my dinner.

Because it's not polite to give me glass by handing me sand that sieves through my fingers. 

I know what I want.  Occasionally, I even know where to get it.  But it just doesn't last.  For the length of a dream, the flash of an imagination, or the clink of silverware on china, everything's wonderful.  Then the minute hand advances and all that's left is a bunch of garden squash and a sepia-tinged recollection.

And Richard Stolzman is performing some Debussy in the background.  Hmm.  At least he plays pleasingly.