Waiting Redux

Waiting sucks.  Waiting has always sucked.  It is the antithesis of a good time, even if you are anticipating one as an end to your queue.  Hatred for waiting is coursing through my veins as I write this, and surely it is coursing through your arteries as you read this, wondering where I will go with this response.

I thought I had placed the ball squarely in your court.  I thought your court had received and acknowledged and was working to get around the fact that others might not want our courts to get up and move around the county and/or world and would alert me once ready to hoist anchor.  There are a million could-haves and should-haves, but they all lead back to two heads not thinking as one, as odd as that seems for us, for me, after months and months of "Ditto!" and "Sounds Good!" and "Jinx!!! DOUBLE JINX!!! TEXAS!!!!"  We both know how to fix this, it's simpler than making delicious 4-step lemon bars when you've got a backyard full of lemon trees.  Let's turn that corner, please?

I can't say I blame you for not wanting to interrupt my typing, my computing time, and I especially understand you not asking me to stop swinging the hatchet.  I understand I can be very off-putting and seem very unforgiving or deep in angry thought.  But darling, I can't stress this enough, I'm simply filling the time.  Never deep in thought, but rather entirely interrupt-able and silently hoping you would, still hoping you will.  You are the one I will always give the benefit of the doubt to, always the one I will do my very darndest to do right by, to strive towards my best for.  "I" statements grow weary now, as did my patience grow this morning, and for that, I apologize.

This (and all the other) paragraphs should include a brilliant simile and possibly a few analogies, but I'm not a writer and have never had much talent for abstraction outside of pointing a camera away from the main subject.  Self-loathing aside, I thought I felt Something has shifted, and possibly still shifting and with my Midwestern upbringing, I automatically believe it's something in or about me.  Self-analysis (never completely) complete, let's turn that damned analytic and Germanic brain upstairs to outside sources of possible shift.  Because it's easier to stomach, easier on my pride, I suppose.  Easier to believe that I can see what is wrong, but I know I'm never seen by my own eye, and never will be seen.

What's different?  What could have happened to us?  What can we do now to crank that damned slow wheel faster than ever, but this time in reverse?  How can we go back to those long walks where much was said and more was felt, and a lot of the time, our eyes talked for us?  Back to the nights spent solely on becoming friends and not ever wasted, worrying about the future or current issues?  Even better, how do we forge ahead in this new year, this new day, to make each other laugh, and forget about the negatives, and ease each other's worries?

How can we end this chapter on this sad and wasted note, and start afresh, with clean, crisp font and blackest ribbon, to type ourselves into a new destiny rather than silencing ourselves on and on, deeper into our current one?  I'm not willing to accept "good enough" because I know we are naturally far better.  Our love is far more resilient and bold at it's core.  I've poured too much of myself into it for it to be so weak and broken by a house such as this, and I have seen, nay, felt your stubbornness too many times to doubt our strength in the face of adversaries such as these before us now.  We will succeed.  We will live another day to smile and break the wretched un-silence with our grins, to crescendo above in booming laughter above the din of the set.  Our warmth will not be drowned out by the closed shades and gloom of the deadly living room, where fish wait to die and photographs wait to be replaced.

I want you to push me to talk.  I want you to speak your mind.  I push you sometimes, you push me sometimes.  Help each other, as needed.  Simple as that.  I want you to get in my face or pull me aside or make me uncomfortable, because that's what I need sometimes to speak my mind, to share what's not easy for me to say.  I don't like these silent wars and I can't enjoy anything on these silent days (not even your treaty you were so kind to offer), and staying away never ever helps break them.  I'm not falling asleep until I know you've read this through, and I'm not going to sleep angry, and I'm physically incapable of letting little issues continue to bother me, because we both have earned much better than that in this "job" of being there for each other that we so readily signed for.

In so many cliched terms, I want to be there for you.  I am there for you.  I want to hear about your fucked up and ridiculous boss' antics, and I want to hear the shit your wretched coworkers that have nothing better to do but cause drama put you through.  I want to hear if you are worried about finances, if you are worried about losing your current job, how you are frustrated by interviews that don't go your way.  I want to hear about how you wish I had a job so we could get away, and I want to hear you say you know I'm better than this wretched funk that I've been in.  I believe in you, and I need to hear you say you believe in me too.  Not every day, and I'm not asking you to start doing it just for me.  I'm asking you to speak your mind, whatever it may be.  To ramble, to go down those tangents with me, to lead me down every damned random road your mind takes you down.  Because that's why I'm here.  With you.  For you.

Waiting today; A silent War.

It's a quiet war between you and I. The silence of fighting within ourselves. No laughing or smiles, no kisses or jests. I'd almost rather be yelling, but almost isn't quite there.
You'd kissed the top of my head as you'd left, not a word spoken, just the quick gesture as you'd walked off. The screen had closed, your bike had sounded.
"Looks like you've sent your love off to war," says the man behind me with a smile.
The heart is not in me to smile back, to give a witty response.
"Just about," I mutter as I turn back around to face computer screens and disconnected students. Headphones plugged in to laptops and notes scattered across their tables, they are tucked into their own little corners of the world, isolated with their paper coffee cups and distant dreams.
I don't know why we're angry. Because you waited, because I did. You'd said you were ready, I was, too. I read while I waited, played cards, sang, whistled, watched you type and finally, after you left to chop wood to vent your anger I sat in the car. Waiting, still, for time to pass. And when 20 minutes had, I waited more. Until I left a note that I would be waiting for you at Lestat's.
When you arrived, I waited more, but leaving wasn't the plan and neither was talking.
I threw my arms around you and kissed your crown, waiting for a response but nothing came. Disconnected, you were, I am now.
A silent war of stewing, leaving issues unsaid and not dealt with. As is our nature, to stew and wonder the things we let bother us, but don't discuss.
I'm ready when my shoes are on, you can drag me out the door. I encourage you. If you start to type, I will wait until you are finished. If you get on the computer, I will find a book to read. I'm waiting. Still waiting.
Now I'm waiting to discuss what we haven't discussed and it will be ignored until I have nearly forgotten. I don't want to push you to talk when I know I can't always. I need time sometimes and so I give you time. Mentally, physically, emotionally- I'll give you all the time you need because I know you do the same. I won't push you on it. I've tried.
And now I'm done with this self-pity.
Thanks for reading.