One day this year circumstance will finally allow me to indulge one of my guests in an attempt at a proper, cream-free, only eggs and parmesan and smoked backbacon, spaghetti carbonara.
Yesterday's evening did not involve such a circumstance, my stomach turning such violent backflips that for the first time since his perfect touch graced my skin could I not even envision the urge to have him inside me.
The jaunt to the grocery store was a swimming dizzinness, choosing between this jambon de Bayonne and that Jambon de Dinde for tonight's too-many-people raclette was an excercise in torturous confusion.
Later, watching him heat pre-made bolognaise from a jar my heart turned somersaults from the smell as well as the horrible tearing sound at being in the same room and yet utterly unable to participate in so simple an activity as dinner, nor to rejoice in so great a pleasure as cooking for loved ones. Old fashioned a sentiment? Perhaps, but then, to me skirts and powders were never l'histoire de la femininity.
The night was sleepless, his arms perfect but my body in angry rebellion, this morning the gastro-acrotbatics as angry and dark as the storm injecting my psyche with shards of lightning at the prospect of losing him again tomorrow.
Today, there is work to be done slowly and passionlessly, and tonight there will be guests milling about and laughing and hopefully utterly oblivious to the tears just behind my eyes.
Even fighting with him until my heart is torn into sharp red strips of misunderstanding, and worrying about the future and families and strengths and weaknesses and my own inability to not want even the most mundane movement to be an adventure, is better than losing the heat of his skin to the ocean miles.
(How unprofessionnal.)
I would rather be sick in his arms than thriving without them, and I wonder sometimes that this isn't indication enough to for once follow my heart rather than succumb to the terrors in my head.
In my heart right now is the urge to lay stories of ideal countries and lifestyles aside, (give up hoping that somehow we will all end up here, him his girls, and that slippery joy of completeness or the selfish urge to try to have it all because I deserve it), and tell my boss to bite it, my bank to work out a way for me to pay off that loan from overseas, and to leave furniture and rollerblading clubs aside and answer one of those job offers in my inbox and continue my adventures in Ottawa.
In my brain are indignant exclamations about tucking my tail between my legs, the warning that I am prone to regret when I have not pushed hard enough, and that all good things only mature and strengthen if (obliged to be) taken more slowly.
In my brain are a million other terrors, but in my roiling gut t I know that they are the ghosts of how important this is, and not true doubts at all.
The only truth right now is the sharp pains behind the tears that have already begun, PMS in tow.