I should be used to this by now. After all it’s been two years. And yet saying goodbye at the airport is still as fresh as a new wound. Last night, amidst aimless chatter and throbbing music, the hands on my watch hit 11 and then there was a curious rush in my stomach, as if fueled by something powerful. Is it possible that I took off at the same time his plane left the runway? Extremely.
There are disconnections and reconnections all around me, my nerves are loosely knotted, eyes and stomach bright as if I swallowed too much sun. Engine. And fire. I feel exposed, even with too much space to hide.
So now what do I do; there’s a broken record playing in my head and I can’t keep still because eventually, as always, I’ll sober up from this drink I’m nursing, a pale pink lemonade with a hint of gin, while watching flashes of October lightning over the beach; all my sentiments in a chilled glass of damp tropicalia, but goddamit, it’s nice to spend time with someone you love, isn’t it?
So now I wrestle with my Unreasonables. People say being a superwoman is being able to stand squarely on two feet, to be whole without another, to be strong without question. Do I fit the description? I’m not sure, because I can understand how the idea of holding hands while crossing streets can be as important as a pilgrimage to Mecca. It’s my fault.
More later, when my downy clowny feeling subsides. As for the lengthy title, it’s a question and questions generate (or rather, are supposed to generate) answers. I wanted to answer the question, honestly I did. But I must confess that I don’t know how.