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.
