It was just over two years ago. We met online. Contrary to the norm, *I* (the woman) sent the first message. We chatted and I knew he had a good brain. He told me of plans to go to a club near my home. I invited him to pregame a drink at my place on his way.
FIVE HOURS. For five hours we talked. And talked, and talked. He learned baby sheep, and I learned he thinks (correctly) that children are psychopaths. I didn’t talk over him (which I tend to do), or if I did, he matched me stride for stride. We celebrate our date of first meeting as our “real” anniversary, because it started just like this. No promises at first, no expectations, but with this kind of ease and comfort, this feeling of fitting together without effort.
I’m still not all the way back to good. I don’t know that I’ll be ALL the way back until he’s home again. But I’m better than I was. A good weekend with friends. And a good mindset. I can get through this, I can get through ANYTHING, if I know he’s waiting for me on the other side. I’m a very lucky person. And if having something so wonderful means I don’t feel quite right whenever it’s missing (or, not missing, but changed by distance), then I’ll take the wonderful, the limbo, the misery, and the ho-hum that all goes together.
For me, it’s a package deal, and I take the package. Of course, my outlook is probably improved by knowing that I’m about to enter the third to last sleep before I snuggle with my love again. I’ve written about perspective, and knowing that the time between us ebbs again certainly affects perspective in a positive way.
I’m not overjoyed by the silence of my house tonight, or by sleeping again on the sofa alone (I can’t often bring myself to face our bed without him). I’m not in any sort of bliss. But as the days remember to march forward, as I remind myself of the blessings of friendship and love, I’m comfortable.