September 29

Dear Squidge,
According to my extremely wonderful hour-maths, it's 6 past midday where you are. I worked that out by minusing two hours from the current time and then adding the opposite. It's 2 am here. I should be in bed.

I know I just spoke to you on the phone like, 12 hours ago. And it was good, it was great to hear what you've been up to, it was great to hear your voice. Your laugh. Your strange little phone silences, when you panic about what to say next. You're getting better at it, and I wonder if you still talk-walk, pacing around because you're nervous, because you're distracted. I love watching you talk-walk, because I don't think you realise what you do. Did you know that once, while on the phone for 20 minutes, you took a pair of socks from your drawer, unfolded them, folded them, refolded them, and then put them back?

But then I can't talk. Because I speak to you every day and still there are so many things I have to tell you. Stupid little things that I can never find the words.
Like how at night I curl up in a little ball and press the other pillows against my back, and pretend it's your weight. That I like to sleep in your bed because it smells like you. That I wear your scarves around for the same reason. Also it's cold.
That even the cat has become mopey and winsome. That I'm ok during the day, but at night I miss you the most out of ever. That I wonder how the hell I'm going to survive another three weeks. That I listen to your music, that I watch your movies, that I read your books.

I feel so spoilt. Because I talk to you often and more than anyone else and it's still not enough, not enough. Your family probably miss you because you're spending all your time and all your cash on the phone to me. Talk-walking your way across Manhattan.
I miss telling you stupid shit as it occurs to me. Fleeting little thoughts that mean nothing, stupid questions, strange anecdotes. Things you don't say when you're minutes are 60 cents each.

And I'm scared that when you get back, the distance will still be there. That after six weeks of only saying important things, of oceans in the way, that we'll be out of practice.

I have a memory I keep replaying in my head. I came home from my last day at work, and you were lying in your bed reading. It was really cold, and getting dark, and I climbed into your bed. You held me and I lay my head on your chest. Out the window, the neighbour's roofs. TV antennas against a rapidly darkening sky and your chin on my forehead. I thought then that I would remember that moment. And I do.

--K.

September 26

Dear Kay,
It's hard to talk about all the shit that's gone down lately. Here's a quick run down.

- For the last couple of months the only thing really getting me through work and the daily grind and horror is the fact that in September, I'm going away with Squidge, to the states.
- We're supposed to go to LA, visit Squidge's sister in NH, then down to Boston and NY. Then I come home and Squidge goes to London to visit his mates. All up a month for me, six weeks for him.
- We got to LA, and I very rapidly deteriorated to the point that walking two blocks to the net cafe was horrifying.
- I had made arrangements to meet some hitrecorders but I had to stand them up. The tiny remaining part of me that still feels like me slips away.
- I came home.

For lots of reasons, but mostly because I was hating it and I couldn't leave the hotel room and I hated the person I was while so weak, so fearful, so completely not myself but just enough of myself to know that I can be this weak, shitful person. And not wanting to ruin Squidge's amazing holiday that he deserves.

- I got home, told everyone there had been a death in the family and really close friends the truth. In an act of Karma I discover that Sjon, a 39 year old guy I work with whom I absolutely adore and who is the most beautiful person in the world, has died suddenly at his home one week earlier.
- I go to his funeral. Everyone is very sweet to me believing it to be my second funeral in a week. It's not, but it could be because I'm mourning for Squidge and my courage and my amazing holiday. I cry a lot.
- This week the root canal I've been ignoring becomes inflamed and I have to go to the dentist because the pain is worse than my own fear. Up until now, shit is going down but I'm feeling like I can cope. I get to the dentist and he shoves this thing down my throat, while trying to x-ray the tooth, in such a way that I gag. I keep trying to tell him that my jaw is fucked and it won't open far enough but he keeps going. I feel like a complete fucking gutless-wonder, completely incapable of doing the simplist things like opening my mouth so I can have it x-rayed. I'm there by myself, Squidge is 20,000 kms away and mum is at work. I cry a lot when i get out of there, with a prescription for antibiotics. The pain is enormous, but the pain killers are ok and the antibiotics kick in over night so that I'm almost ok the next day.
- Except that I'm not, because the emotional toll has been so great, and my anxiety is fucked, and I'm having to live with knowing that eventually I'll have to get a root canal and i don't know how I'm ever going to manage it with my totally debilitating fear of dentistry, but if I don't it will only become worse. Am tempted to have the tooth removed and a fake one put in, because for that they might just knock me out.

What a fucking awesome fucking holiday! FUCK.

I just...I'm reluctant to ponder if these things come in threes, because it might just tempt the fates to send some other fuck up my way.
The time that Squidge and I were supposed to be apart has doubled from three weeks to six. It's been two weeks already and it's really fucking starting to hurt, now. I wore his leather cuff to the dentist and that alone made me cry. I've ordered a walrus toy which I'll put next to my pillow, and think about him snoring his head off (like a walrus in the sun, as I so helpfully put it one afternoon).
I talk to him every 12 hours on the phone, but it's expensive and lame. I can't tell him how much I miss him because I don't want to ruin it for him. At the moment he's in NY by himself and it must be really, really tough so he doesn't need me laying it on. He was so good with me about the dentist, even though it was the middle of the night, but i could tell he hated being so far away when I needed him.
I hated it too.

He as amazing with me in LA. Just, amazing. When I told him I wanted to go home, he was so good to me but cried because he was sad I'd be going. He had to be so brave and tough because I just lost my shit. Saying goodbye at LAX was so tough, so tough it's making me cry just thinking about it. Customs were REALLY nice to me, at least.

One night in LA, when it had all been arranged and I was just waiting for the day to leave to roll around, I told him he'd dodged a bullet because if I'd gone to NY with him, I would have proposed on top of the Empire State Building. He laughed nervously, and I poked him in the guts to let him know I was fucking around. He told me he doesn't want to get married yet, and I said I knew that, I just wanted to be engaged, not married. I wanted to make that promise to him, that we would be together forever, that we would start our lives together, that we were on the same team, that we were family...eventually. Plus it would have made a cool story... but it would have been a very long engagement. He said next time we're in NY maybe I can ask him then. I said ok.

I just keep hoping I'll dream about him.
I miss you.
--K.