I keep looking at the clock and it isn’t going anywhere. It has been 2:57 for 14 minutes now. OH WAIT! 2:58. Victory!
At 6:55 my flight is supposed to be wheels up on the way to Atlanta before I catch another flight to Boston. I am supposed to land at precisely 11:59 which means that from this moment, I have 9 hours until I am there. I’m oddly satisfied that I am arriving only one minute away from midnight, and that Pete will be the first person that I see on Saturday, when the clock finally flips over.
I haven’t talked much about Pete lately, but only because I am violently resisting this blog turning into an outlet for me to whine and bitch, and if I started talking about him, that is all I would do. It has been almost exactly 2 months since I have seen him, since I had the luxury of an entire week with him. A week in which I could wake up next to him, in which I could eat breakfast with him, in which I could turn to him and vocalize all the trivial little thoughts that run through my head all day. Luxury seems like too weak of a word to describe it. It was lavish.
And I miss him. Terribly. There has always been that nagging difficulty of being in a long distance relationship. That constant little twinge that tells you something isn’t right. That something isn’t how it is supposed to be. But in the last month, it has grown from a little twinge into a dehibilitating aching pain. I pine for him. I’ve actually been a little bit of a wreck, lately.
I’ve taken to trying to quantify the distance to somehow cope with it a little better. I’ve plotted the route I would take if I drove up there. It is exactly 995 miles, which would probably take me 3 days because I hate to drive for long periods. I’ve counted the days we have actually spent with each other, which comes out to a shockingly paltry 21. And those aren’t even all whole days. Monday was seven months since I drove to Virginia to see if I was a crazy person for even thinking of getting in a relationship that I knew would be like this, and it is sobering to know that in all of those seven months, it has only been 21 short, brief days. Not surprisingly, none of those numbers make a difference in how I feel.
But I know that I will see him tonight. And that number of 21 will slowly climb ever higher, until one day I can actually say that we’ve spent a month with each other. If only that wretched clock would keep changing.
And you can damn well bet that I will be at that airport early.