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What: Smoking Loon (how apropos…) Cabernet

Listening to: More Dan Black

In less than three days, I’ll be on a bus to see Boston (the boy, not the city) for what will probably be the last time.

In the two and a half months since I last wrote, a lot has happened and, really, nothing has happened. I’m still crazy about him, communication is still infrequent, and I’m still frustrated, still grappling with the usual “Do I call him? Do I wait for him to call me? What’s he thinking? How does he feel about me?”

I’ve always liked a challenge, but I’ve had it with emotionally unavailable. A friend of mine always says things like, “Well, he’s a guy.” I’m sorry, but I don’t hold guys to special, more forgiving standards just because they’re guys. Not all guys are private, not all guys treat talking like a chore, not all guys have a built-in aversion to expressing emotion.

I’ve always been pretty spoiled when it came to the guys I chose for myself, the guys that chose me. They were mushy; they wrote love notes, said “I love you” often, missed me, and hated it when we were apart. Boston told me the other day, in stark contrast, “It doesn’t hurt me to be away from you.”

Ouch.

But the funny thing is it only stings when I repeat it. I can’t fault him for being honest. He said he misses me and he’s always excited to see me, just that it doesn’t particularly hurt him to be away from each other.

Which either means there is a great disparity in our feelings, or, simply, that he just can’t get that riled up about someone, no matter how much he likes them. Personally, I’m guessing it’s the former, because I think, when in love, all sensibility goes straight out the fucking window — robot physicist or not.

Sigh. So basically, I’m going to do the right thing for me, or as much of the “right thing” as I can muster being the emotional loon that I am — I’m going to go on the trip that I paid for weeks ago, try and shelf the more dramatic emotions, enjoy myself — as people like to suggest, “enjoy it for what it is” —  and then I’m going to come home and get on with my life.

In a way I’m lucky because I’ll know our last kiss is the last. I’ll keep the imprint of our last hug as long as I can, and I’ll take in my last big breath of his smell, the smell I always hope to take home on my clothes, but never lingers long enough. And I’m sure that last wave goodbye is going to shred my heart, but then I’ll be on my way home.

Hopefully there, here, I’ll meet someone who wants my love as much as I’m ready to give it.

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