Loneliness seems to be the topic of the week.

Before we begin, allow me to apologize. This entry follows no logical chronological order, in short, because there are several moments that tie into it, but only one possible ending. And hell, it's my blog. I can do what I want.

I'm feeling loneliness keenly these days, working at home all day and knowing no one yet to call on at night for some after-hours fun time. Robby left yesterday, two days earlier than usual, and I face a long stretch without him. I came home last night without him and felt his absence more keenly than I have since my ex and I first separated. Then, coming home alone to the sight of his toys still scattered on the floor conjured up a heartache so great I sometimes thought it would split me in two.

My son is my buddy, and I realize that's dangerous in a way. In our new world, as both of us struggle to meet people, we're becoming increasingly reliant on one another for our social fixes. Long term, this just won't do.

The boy he met the first week we were here has seemingly disappeared, and though we see other boys walking the complex as we drive through in our car, these mysterious figures live in buildings far removed from ours. We met a group of about five of them once, while walking to the upper pool. Two were straddling bikes, one was clutching a basketball. They said they "just hung out" all day and that Robby was welcome to hang out, too. So, lest I sound cruel and unrealistic in the following graphs, realize these are not complete strangers with which I'm asking him to attempt friendships.

This week, I found what I hope is an ingenious way to be sure Robby makes new friends. It's called bribery. I offered him a weekly allowance: $1 for doing his small list of chores (cleaning the cat box, feeding the dog, making his bed), and $5 if he makes two rounds of the complex daily on his bike - searching for friends. If the search is fruitless, fine. But if he finds some, he must stop, talk and make an effort.

For a moment, Robby actually balked at the idea, ready to accept the meager dollar rather than talk to strangers. Quickly, I sweetened the pot, our soured it, depending on your point of view. "OK, $1, your chores, no TV, no games. $5, your chores, friends, games, TV. Which is it?"

Still he pondered it with great seriousness. But finally, he bit. In his one day here this week, he had no luck. I even demanded proof of his forays, evidence that he's not just cruised the streets but gotten off his bike and searched for them in likely places. "Bring me a cookie from the clubhouse," I told him.

He returned 15 minutes later with a broken cookie, offering it to me from the sweaty palm in which it had been clenched. "Awesome!" I said, then, "But I don't want the cookie." He looked baffled, then ate it himself.

My son is an initially shy child, often too quiet for my comfort. He has a busy, questioning brain and I know thoughts run wild inside him. I am always trying to figure out how to tap into this part of him. Sometimes he opens up to my inquiries, often he shrugs or ignores me. Monday, I threw out a random question. "Do you ever think about what it will be like to be grown up?"

"I think it will be lonely," he said.

I reminded him that college would likely not be a lonely experience, but he shook his head. "Not then. After. When I'm on my own."

I told him about all the different ways people can share lives; as roommates, friends and family members. I threw in a cautionary reminder that he should never marry because he's lonely, maybe more for myself than him. I told him that as an only child, he had an advantage over other children who never know what it's like to be alone until they reach adulthood. He acknowledged that sometimes, he actually likes to be alone.

"Do you think I'm lonely when you're not here?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I think it must be boring."

At this point in my life, he's more on the mark than I'd like. But thinking back over the years, I know this is an anomaly, that I have rarely felt completely alone or bored.

There are times, however, that he'll never know about, when it seems overwhelming. Moments, particularly in the dead of night, when I wake thinking, "I'm 39 ... 40 ... 41 ... 42 ... and I'm unmarried, uncommitted, essentially alone. How soon before no one wants me? How soon before time runs out? How soon before it's too late and I'm alone for good?"

That's when I get up, have a shot or two or hard liquor, and render myself unconscious. Even if I can still hear the voices, their speech is now slurred and what the hell they're saying I don't know.

In the light of day, it never seems so bad - unless I'm hungover.

It is not the 1960s, where a single woman at 40 was doomed to spinsterhood. (Besides, I'm divorced. I can't be a spinster.) People divorce and remarry at any age, and marriage is no longer the only acceptable lifestyle choice. Even old ladies can date someone forever or simply live with them sans commitment and not be blackballed by their families and compadres. Besides which, as marriages go and divorces come, the prospect pool is always changing and never ending.

I question, too, how much greener the grass is over there. I've heard more than one shocking, unsolicited confession from married women who seem nonplussed at the idea that I'd like to remarry someday. "Really? If something happened to him, I wouldn't marry again. No way."

Typically, this is some soccer mom who knows she'll never see me again after the season. Typically, too, her wished-for-dead ex is standing five feet away making guttural man sounds as he urges his son on to bloodshed.

We all, it seems, make tradeoffs for the lifestyles we choose. I pondered it while Ally and I explored one of Denver's biggest parks tonight, a city park so big I got lost in it. OK, maybe not so big; I get lost with extraordinary ease, particularly when I'm gaping at muscular soccer players, roller bladers, cyclists, joggers, fellow walkers, other dogs and beautifully twisted gnarled trees.

I'd decided spur-of-the-moment to make the 20-minute drive to the park. There was no one to tell me not to. No one to scold me for staying alone there until dusk.

But there was also no one waiting for me when I opened the apartment door. And no one, I thought, to tell anyone where I was if something happened. No one could describe what I'd been wearing. No one would even know when I'd left or how long I'd been gone. No one was waiting with a warm hug, or a cold beer or to say, "I was worried about you."

The headlines would be depressing. I would be a Jane Doe until someone noticed the stink coming from my apartment. Not from me, mind you, but from my beloved George, who would die of starvation. Or until I missed the Monday Evercare conference call. Whichever came first.

But you can't change these situations overnight, and you certainly can't change them sitting at home on your lonely ass.

Perhaps it was Robby's and my discussion that lit a fire under me. Yesterday, after several days of wondering why I so loved my new home and my new jobs yet still felt so bereft (my word of the month), I got proactive. I searched the Net for business networking groups, found one, subscribed and marked their next event (bowling, blech!) in my Daytimer.

Feeling damn near saintly, I e-mailed the local DBSA chapter to volunteer my services and was shocked when they replied they were not in need of any facilitators. I would be kept on file. This scenario, I swear, had never occurred to me. I was momentarily stumped, and disappointed - to whom could I offer my philanthropic efforts now? I was even, one could say, a little bereft (ca-ching!) But then I got back to searching.

I decided to attend a Sunday afternoon workshop at the local library entitled, "My manuscript's done. Now what?" (So what if I don't have a manuscript? These are writers; I want to meet writers. I will think of something fabulous and intriguing between now and then).

I also forced myself to get up this morning, pack up my laptop and venture out to a coffee shop. I purused USA Today. I read an entire story about Lebanon and Hezbollah and felt I had climbed perhaps an inch out of the deep news hole in which I've allowed myself to fall post-journalism. A retired cop struck up a conversation with me about my iBook, then apologized for taking so much of my time. I resisted the thought of clutching his pant leg to keep him from leaving, much less telling him that making social contact was precisely the reason I was there.

I reviewed files, took notes and looked generally businesslike. The canned music, staff chatter and soft conversations of the people around comforted to a degree I hadn't anticipated. I'm optimistic again, about this working from home, thanks in large part to my son.

The night of our "growing up" discussion, Robby and I took our usual walk, cat and dog in tow, to the new and largely undeveloped strip mall behind the apartment complex. We've found a quiet corner on the side of the building where Ally and George can stalk rabbits, Robby can skateboard and I can practice yoga. Or rather, tipping over, since post-yoga classes, I seem to have lost the minimal balancing abilities it took me two years to gain.

"Let's talk about something," Robby said. "We always talk when we're here."

"What did we talk about last night?" I asked.

"Nintendo," he said.

"Really? I thought we talked about girls."

"We did. A little. Mostly, we talked about Nintendo."

So we chatted, about what I can't recall. Probably because it was Nintendo, which makes my mind go as blank as Robby's face when he plays the thing.

When we got home, Robby flopped on the living room carpet. He ignored the TV.

"Let's talk," he said.

"What about?"

"I don't know. Let's just talk."

I realized I had hit a vein with the grown-up question. My child, for these few hours, thought talking to me was the best thing in the world. I wondered how to preserve the moment. But all I knew I could do was relish it while it lasted.

So I laid on the carpet next to him and we talked. Maybe it was about getting George an ID tag. Maybe it was about the way the wind blew the blinds. Maybe it was about the new skateboard move he was learning. Again, I can't recall. I recall only laying there together, his blonde hair fanned out from his beautiful face as he smiled up at me.

I ended our conversation by announcing it was bed time. Our usual routine consisted of me washing my face, then coming into Robby's room and laying with him on his bed for a while, quietly unwinding before I slipped away to my own bed.

This time, when I opened the bathroom door, I sensed a presence in the room. Actually, I heard him release a very small fart.

"Can I sleep here? Please??" Robby already had wriggled under my comforter.

I feigned annoyance. Truthfully, it was a rare, and usually very special occasion on which I allowed him to sleep in my bed. The night before Christmas, his birthday, the day we washed the car, etc. He was growing up, and it was time to put those childhood things away.

"What's the reason?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I just want to."

But I knew the reason. We had talked much more today than usual, and were for the moment locked together in a contented connection.

"Alright," I said. "But just tonight. Don't ask me again."

He burrowed down further in the bed and released a contended grunt. Or so I heard it. I refused to believe it was another fart.

I crawled in on my side and turned off the bedside lamp.

The sheets rustled, and I felt the bottom of his small foot touch my calf. This was not atypical, but this time, he offered up an explanation.

"I just sleep better," he said, "when I'm touching someone."