Monday . . .

I get an early morning email from my condo building’s biggest gossip, reminding me that I have to deal with this air conditioning issue.  Frankly, it sounds serious and the stress of what I have ahead of me is beginning to make me glitch a little.

BV and I are asleep in bed.  As usual, we swap places regularly and this morning, I am on what is typically his side, but sometimes mine.

I’ve still not been home, but BV remembered he has a charger that works with my phone, so I have a fully charged phone.  I am sick about the home issue and the stress and tension of knowing that the Bon Vivant is on the cusp of leaving is sinking in, too.

I luxuriate in the freezing cold comfort of his bed, and the nearness of this man, who I love.  We have had an amazing three straight nights together, which is so unexpected.

Among the things that precipitated our breakup fight was my suggestion I spend a second night with him in January.  He had mentioned the chick he didn’t want to date because she was clingy.

And yet, here I am, with him, for the third straight night, waking up on the fourth day in a row I’ve seen him.  After we had taken our trip and spent the night together the weekend before.

We have had a little mini-vacation together, which we needed ahead of him leaving for an entire month.  We have brunched daily and I have cooked for him every night.  It’s been really, really lovely and entirely unexpected.

I have had no other clothes with me, so I wear well, nothing to sleep in, but a tshirt and boxers of his when we’re home and then the blue dress when we’re out.  I haven’t showered since Saturday, nor has he, nor has he shaven.  We are looking, on Monday now, a little worse for the wear.

When we finally get up and moving, he looks at me and asks his daily question . . . how do you look so good and get out of bed so happily when I look like hell and am completely hungover?

Dunno, but he’s right.

He’s completely hungover and he’s beginning to freak out.  He leaves Tuesday for a month.

He’s slowly panicking.

I . . . relax him.  I help him pack, think through his wardrobe, remember he needs golf shirts and his putter, remind him about cufflinks, to pack his books rather than carry them on, to charge his ipad and kindle.  All of these things he’d likely remember on his own, but having someone talk it through with him makes it easier.

It takes about an hour.  I button his shirts on the hangars so they’ll wrinkle less, help him think through how much casual clothing, how many times will he get dry cleaning, etc.  He loves that I am there and he is so grateful.

He finally decides to shave and shower.  Even after shaving, he is not clean-shaven, which I find completely hot.

We talk through whether he should do his prep now, later at the pool, or, we decide, on the plane tomorrow.  We are both aware the hour is growing near for me to finally head home, but we decide to get dressed.  I, of course, have to throw back on the same blue dress.  We end up skipping the lobby, so I didn’t have to walk through again in my ridiculous shoes and dress, by stopping at the garage first and then exiting through the staircase.

Because I am now entirely self-conscious about day three in the blue dress . . . I suggest we grab food at the fast asian place across the street.  He just wants soup, so I order a large ahi tuna salad and then insist he also eat some of that.  We sit outside on the patio and we have a really intense conversation about our lives and our careers.   I am more specific with him about my finances, I explain to him the BP situation, and I tell him what I have done for a job.  He’s . . . impressed, I think.

We talk about what we want to accomplish by the time he gets back.  We’re both taking this as an opportunity to work on our own things — he’s intentionally staying away from party drugs, we are both looking for new jobs.

I tell him again that he inspired me and I am excited.  He is looking forward to getting my resume, despite the fact I told  him he’ll be pissed at me when he does.  Because he will.  I am quite accomplished; I should not be poor.

We decide to start thinking through assignment and I tell him how he is going to kill everything when he’s gone.  I am helping him regain some confidence because I know he’s terrified and overwhelmed and insecure.

I tell him he is the badass I have always known he was.

I ask him if he wants me to check in with him while he’s gone, or if he’ll view this as bootcamp.  He wants me to check in.  We talk about whether he’ll fly back on the weekends, as it’s logistically challenging.  I tell him it makes sense only if he’s interviewing.

I have him calendar a date for when he’s back . . . a foodie party on a Monday afternoon, with famous chefs cooking for each other.  And us.

We sit here for a couple of hours, until we decide it’s enough time and we head off to find a cab for me.

We don’t find one right away.  He decides he wants to hit the sushi place to study and invites me in, saying, well, if we see a cab, you can just go outside and hail it.  Which would never ever happen.

He’s just not ready for this to be over yet either.

We start actually working on his assignment, role-playing it, and we’re having a blast and getting things done.  We’re also drinking excellent martinis.

A neighbor of his walks in and BV greets him by name.  They both graduated from the same school far far away and they have a connection as a result.  The guy joins us and it’s fun.  We’re trying so hard not to go home.

They talk golf, make plans, and we order some food.

At one point, the neighbor asks, so are you dating.  BV fumbles his answer: “nah, man, we’re not dating . . . it’s bigger than dating.”  What the neighbor hears is “we’re not dating.”  So he hits on me a few times.

There is some party-related stuff happening and ultimately, we decide to go back to the upscale sports bar.

We have the same bartender we had on Friday night.  She has greeted us warmly and I said something about how we’d been in on Friday.  She said, and yesterday.  BV and I looked at each other mystified.  We weren’t here yesterday, we protest.  She said, yeah, it was post-beer pong, you had beer and you ordered him a shot.


No memory of that at all.

But we knew she was right.

I am not drinking here, though BV has another beer.  His whole: “I am not drinking today” went right out the window at the first place.  We were now on stop 3.

BV has an errand he’s helping his neighbor with, so our time together ends here.  We wrap up after a single round, bid our bartender goodbye, and head back toward his building alone.

He hugs me tightly and I tell him that I will miss him, as he tells me he will miss me too. He says he can’t do sad goodbyes. We express that we love each other, and then he turns and walks into his building.

I finally make it home, to a broiling apartment, around 7 pm.


I have no idea what the future holds.  I expect that the man who returns at the end of June will bear little resemblance to the man I know.  He’s going to be focused, he’s going to be working, he’s going to be awesome.

I am excited for him, and excited for me, and anxious for us.