So cf and Mystie supposedly took the plane out of here this morning...
After dinner last night and more wine, and cheese and chocolate pudding and coconut biscuits and tea and tabletalk, they sauntered off for their youth hostel and I looked around my empty appartment, the roommates gone and a lightbulb freshly burned out in the kitchen and I folded some clothes into a closet, hand-washed some more underwear, and sat down with a choose-your-own-adventure style "Fighting Fantasy" book that soon had many cheating fingers inserted as placeholders.
I remember loneliness.
David called, and we spoke for hours, all the way through the muted hour-long advertisement show, and halfway into the Sunday evening porn...
We talked about stress and music, sex and loneliness, and we talked about how it was entirely possible that he'd leave town... Either to Boston for work or to Ottawa to be more influential in his children's lives.
Either way, I still haven't really convinced myself that I've lost him, not by the tone of our e-mails, and though I haven't crossed the "I love you" taboo, I've certainly made it clear.
If he leaves Montreal, I'll never see him again.
I don't think he should go to Boston.
But how could I possibly interfere with him moving closer to his daughters...
But it's alright, my heart is numb to it all right now. The tears in my eyes are poor ventilation, I assure you...
And Montmartre on Saturday was beautiful. The violinist playing ancient love songs, the crooked streets, the view of the pretty parts of the city below us.
The rose gardens of the Rodin museum even more achingly romantic than the heights of the artists quarter of the city.
And through it all, the greatest comfort to my heart was that I was the only one alone.
cf, and Mystie, believe it or not but every guilty cuddle of yours reminded me that that sort of thing still exists.
Somehow, I'd been forgetting.