GROWING 05.17.2013

7:38 pm.  Where is he?

I’m sitting here.  I’ve got my routine down.  6:45 pm I turn off the lights.  I get my tea from the dank little kitchen in my 8th story three room apartment.  I sit on my bed facing the window that faces his window across the street.  I’ve got my camera, my notepad, my pen, my binoculars.  Binoculars are the newest addition to my arsenal.  I had to.  His apartment is long, deep.  The kitchen at the back.  I can’t see his subtle movements that far back.  Every egg crack, every dish scrubbed.  I had to see.  He needs me to see.  To be here for him

7:39 pm. I get anxious.  Different from the anxious I get when 7:28 comes.  When I know he’ll be home in two minutes.  That is a sickening, wanting anxious.  This anxious is more of a break-in-pattern, fear of losing him anxious.

He moved in two months ago.  It was fateful chance that I noticed his new residency.  I was sitting here, on my bed.  I was watching the birds above, the people scampering like ants at task below. Between the glances down to up I saw him with boxes.  I saw her leave him there with a final hug.  I saw him crumple to the ground and cry.  That’s how I knew he needed me.  He needs me.  

7:40 pm.  Where IS he?

I look down below.  I don’t see him.  I stand up.  I start to pace.  I start to scratch my forearm.  I feel a tear trickle down my cheek.  The contact of the warm fluid to my cool flesh and I break.  I never bend. 

I can’t wait. WHERE is he?  I hurl my mug of tea across the room leaving shattered clay pieces sprinkled over the furniture. WHERE is HE?!  I take the length of my arm and swipe the stacks of photos and notes from my ritual watchings off my drafting table.  Some sheets fly and float like feathers and some plummet to the floor with severe haste.  WHERE IS HE?!  I run to the kitchen to grab more things to hurt least I turn on my self.  Then I’d be no good to him.  I smash a plate into the sink.  

Another. 

Another. 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! WHERE IS HE?!  

7:41pm.  In my fit I catch the glint of a lamp flick on across the way.  He’s home.  I slide my finger under the top tissue in my kleenex box and pull up on it.  Gently, I wipe my face dry.  As the tissue comes down over my face a content smile replaces the panicked twisted lipped grimace.

I sit on my bed.  I grin wicked.  I collect my binoculars.

He came home. He came back to me.  I love him so much.  I love him to death.  And what’s best about our love?  It’s growing more everyday.