Mute Point

M3, who has allegedly recommitted to increasing his workday productivity while decreasing his workday relationship-oriented dilly-dallying, daydreaming, emailing and other such wasteful yet thoroughly joyous activities, has checked my blog four times already today.

Actually, he has good reason to expect that I'd eventually get around to posting something. Because I had a total meltdown last night. And, really, what's more fun to write about (not!) then Smrtygrl's inability to express her emotions to a boy who deserves nothing less than for Smrtygrl to express her emotions to him?

We were in bed when I started getting mopey. Started getting that empty, hollow feeling in the deepest part of my chest. That dull ache which is so stubbornly resilient, its almost as if the more you try to overcome it, to exorcise it, or worse yet - to pretend its not there - the stronger it gets.

And the stronger it got.

It was Sunday night. 10pm-ish. And I'd just looked at the clock. Now hyperaware of the passage of time for the first occasion in two days. Because somehow in the midst of shopping for groceries and home furnishings and cooking breakfast while he washed dishes and making the bed together and eating Thai food and sushi and napping for three hours on my couch and walking with my arm looped in his, I'd completely allowed myself to forget that I only get M3 for two day stretches at a time. And then I have to give him back.

Unfortunately, the emotional resolve and clock-avoidance I'd exercised earlier in the weekend totally wavered once night fell, the darkness of M3's bedroom punctuated only by slivers of streetlights through the blinds and the red glare from his digital clock that was casting a thoroughly unavoidable light seemingly upon all four walls, the ceiling and every available flat, reflective surface.

I must have looked at the clock a hundred times last night.

With t-minus eight hours until I'd be leaving M3's side and embarking on yet another five day journey of solitude, I'd conveniently forgotten all about the conversation we'd had the day before. The conversation where we both acknowledged how, on Monday mornings when we're standing either in his doorway or mine, arms entwined, stealing just a few more kisses, reluctant to reach that very one which feels so entirely different from those that preceeded it because of its unyielding brevity, the weeklong stretch of time standing between that singular moment and when we'd next see one another always seemed interminable, infinite, and really potentially fucking horrible. Yet, we've both admitted that our separations aren't nearly as torturous in the end as they promise to be as we stand in either his doorway or mine on Monday mornings. Friday is upon us in almost an instant. Sort of.

Whether we experience this phenomenon yet again at the end of this week remains to be seen, but when you've just spent a whole glorious weekend with a boy who sure acts a lot like he thinks he's your boyfriend and who likes to make comments with loosely veiled subtext about how great his mid-sized city is and who has a sense of humor just as infantile as your own and who makes you feel like if you could choose to be with anyone anywhere at any given time...it'd be him right wherever you are at that very moment and for absolutely as long as possible (instead of the obvious alternative, that being Roger Taylor from Duran Duran on that yacht from the Rio video circa 1987)...the notion of spending five days apart is excruciating.

In last Friday's post, I predicted that this past weekend would almost undoubtedly feature a "I want this every day but can't have it woe is me" moment. When it was finally and entirely not surprisingly upon me last night, I cloaked my tear-stained idiocy fairly well, or so I like to believe, until a big sniffle proved impossible to contain and elicited an inquiry from M3 about my well-being. Instead of telling him how much I didn't want to say goodbye to him in eight hours and how much I loved putting away his groceries and how if this past weekend even remotely approximated how real life with him would be, I'd like to complete an application immediately please, I offered a one word response.

"Yup."

I guess sometimes you're just not ready to hear yourself say certain things out loud.

Last Friday, I made another prediction. One I actually hoped might come true.

I'd end the weekend liking M3 even more than I did at its beginning.

Yup.