(no subject)
I’m alone. My Goyo is catching sharks, and taking pictures, and generally being an amazing person. But he’s 543 miles away. Between you and me - I miss him. And it’s only been a day.
Tonks and I are spending the time bonding. We’ll take walks. We’ll have some girl talk. We’ll poop in the yard. Well, I won’t, but she will. Hopefully.
We have a life now - have I mentioned? A dog. A yard. A house. A real mailbox. It was official on Saturday, and we’re both amazed at the space we have. And a little scared. That much space can be intimidating. We’re used to our 600 square feet of closeness, and now there’s so much more space for us to get lost in. It seems twice as cavernous when he’s not there. Like a void.
The neighborhood is for empty nesters. We’re the youngest by 30 years. It’s lovely and quiet and totally fitting for two homebodies who don’t want kids for a few years.
We forget to close the garage door when we leave. Haven’t had one for so many years, it isn’t easy to remember. We forget to give the dog water when we leave her outside. I wish she could talk so she could tell us how disappointed she was. It would make me feel better. Instead, she wags her tail and licks my toes and can’t get enough of seeing us.
Our garage is filled with things. There’s a couch in there that I love. It’s dirty and has a noticeable rip in the headrest. But I bought it. With Megan. We drove 2 hours to Stillwater to put it in the back of her father’s truck and bring it back to my tiny 400 square foot apartment. It filled an entire wall of my living room, that little loveseat. It’s blue and white checkered fabric, like a cold picnic blanket. Except the white is sort of yellow. I spent an hour last night ruminating on where it could live in our house. The truth is - nowhere. We have lovely new couches, and the old loveseat is no longer welcome. Still, I try to find a place for it in my mind, because I just don’t know if I can let it go. It’s so cute. Cute. Like a scruffy puppy.
My Goyo is too far away to tell me that it’s okay to sell the couch. And hat it won’t be anything like selling the last two years he and I have been together. All the kissing we did on that couch. The movies we watched. The videogames we played. The meals we ate. The beginning of love. He would say, “It’s just a couch. Sell it; we can buy new Wii games with the money!”