It seems almost ridiculous to be counting the days so meticulous until Amanda�s return. I feel as silly as a child with an advent calendar counting off the days until Christmas: numbering, savoring the taste of only 22 days left like I would savor the chocolate melting on my tongue.
Today is the halfway point from when she left and when she�ll return. In the silence between us, I reminisce�walking to and from the train station in a daze, really, getting loss in thought at the copier, unaware of what music plays on the radio�my body remembers everything almost better than my mind.
I went to the Arboretum last night for a picnic by myself and to read a collection of essays written by the astonishing June Jordan, and I went to our spot in the conifer section of the park as I promised her I would before she left. I sat there into twilight shielded in a nest of trees from any passersby.
She seduced me the day we first went there, and I wasn�t even aware she was doing it until we were finished and she turned to me under the blanket, smiling, and said, �This was a beautiful place for my first time, don�t you think?� I conceded, but then I turned to her, as I folded first her blanket (the one we covered ourselves completely with) and then my blanket (the one we spread beneath us) and exclaimed, �You had this planned since you called me this afternoon, didn�t you?�
She laughed and umm-ummed and started singing to herself as she always does (I miss so much�the constant sound of her singing and humming to herself. I didn�t realize how soothing and constant it was until silence surrounded me after she left). I laughed, too, and I teased her about her wanting to go slowly.
�Oh,� she said, �we�re still going slow�there are dozens of things we haven�t done yet.�