He was cooking dinner for her, expecting her. He didn’t know when she would arrive, and it was already late. Last Saturday, the week before, they were in bed, clothed, simply having a moment of quiet after a long hard week. He had finally had a successful week with the code he was working on, making salient contributions to his new team, and things were just starting to fall in place. He felt so good about everything; her, his job, his health, and how things were going in general. In the dark, she then sat up with intent, her hands on her knees, held his hands as he was laying down, and then informed him. He looked into her eyes as she was speaking. It was direct, yet easy, thoughtful and ever-so-hurtful yet as he loved her so dearly, and at this point that whatever she said, whatever she wanted, he would agree to, even if there was no glimmer of hope that he could ever hold her ever again in his arms. Immediately, as if a gut reaction in defense were taking place, internal legislations were going through his head as her words were spoken. However a stark reality too was coming forward and taking over, making this moment one of an immediate, un-ignorable truth: He probably would never be with her, and never be able to express himself or his love for ever again after these moments.
All his internal hopes and projections were immediately stripped away. She laid back down again and they were hugging and an unsteady stream of tears were flowing from his eyes when he whispered into her ear the things that he had hoped and wished for; He told her that he envisioned telling her mother that he’d care for, cherish, and be there for her daughter; He told her that he envisioned making a life with her, with her waking up beside him. He told her he wanted to fight with her, and then whispered he wanted to reconcile and then return back to love. He dreamed of seeing her in her underwear in the morning, her eye glasses on, hair a mess, and kissing her while standing in a disheveled apartment, in front of a window that was letting in the cool grey San Francisco sunlight; Yet in this very moment, all these desires to care for her, covet and cherish, were being stripped away with an unprecedented immediacy. He felt dead inside and could not move, yet his love for her ever torturously made him utter “It’s OK I understand. I love you and I understand”. And for him, however hurtful, however incongruous to his personal selfish wishes, however many tears he cried in this moment, those words were never truer. He rationalized that she had built a wonderful wall of protection, and this was possibly the closing block, cutting off the outside, and him completely.
The legislative thoughts were finally quiesced within his head: There was no legislation. She was gone. Carrying on in front of her, making a scene for the two of them; anger, all of it was completely out of the question. He was an adult, there was no fight, only volition and acceptance. The door closed behind her, and the only things that remained of her was her pervasive sweet smell of essential oils that she wore, the undying yet unrequited adoration of her, and his questions; questions of why, and what now. Thus begun his week of torturous desolation and The In Between. The in between moment when breath transitions from inhale to exhale and life changes. All he knew was that his love for her transcended this moment and the love would not die, and certainly not like this. This exhalation would be a week of internal torturous machinations, where thinking of her would be in a different light, and represent all that which he could not have, nor attain, nor aspire towards.