I usurp on this space as if I had words easily at my fingertips, as if by biting my lip, I could bleed life into words long silent.
But the longer I do not write, the more brittle my words become. Instead of flowing, they chip off like cheap two-week-old nail polish, and I am left to translate the jagged edges onto this screen.
Bruce has come and gone. A week long visit to Boston that felt like a small eternity, although not long enough. I achingly missed him. And I drank his presence greedily. A soul mate. A friend. A sexless lover come after two years absent. And as I knew he would, he fell in love with Boston--with the European qualities of the city--with the cosmopolitan texture of the air.
The small eternity of his visit was a cruel gift from my body, which has found the texture of the air much less gratifying. The winter in New England begins harshly. Cold and snow. Dry air followed by rain. Rain followed by wind. A week before Bruce's arrival, the common cold wreaked my body and refused to let go. Aches and coughing turned to more coughing. Mucus. Congestion. Wheezing. One week, two weeks, three weeks went by, and I could barely breathe. A doctor's visit to rule out pneumonia ruled in bronchitis, and now after a month, I am still coughing and wheezing as I reach for the albuterol the doctor gave me to inhale.
And in this month of wheezing, my lover and I have grown closer. Our first argument rose and shook our foundation, and we found, after the dust settled, that nothing more than the surface was truly disturbed. We have built our beginning with brave words and strong actions. We are building the present to last through the future. And we have found a home.
A home blocks away from the center of JP in an art deco building. Hardwood floors stretch forever. Woodwork shines against bright white paint and the sun reaches through our huge bedroom windows like peace. Three cats and a dog. Lauren. And the two of us.