Reminiscing

Today, with my brain on stand-by, Michel Foucault and the birth of queer theory proved too much for me; so I lolled about in my pyjamas, talked to the cat, daydreamed, reminisced.
Last year at this time, I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my girlfriend. It would have been five more days to go, and counting. Yes, I am the type who counts hours; I lay the line at minutes.
I don’t really know if she was my girlfriend yet, we’d only shared a drunken kiss at that point. But there was no doubt in our minds that girlfriendom was looming large, though.
Well, it was exciting. I am reminiscing with little nostalgia, since bigger and better things have happened since then, bigger than just waiting for a plane to land, even though our relationship has so far been relying on planes to do just that. Land. My own mythology is full of travelling and arriving, of the build-up to seeing my lover’s face in the crowd of anonymous passengers.
I think I was nervous, I must have been. I flew out of work, danced onto the first bus home, attended to last minute details. I pretended to myself I was just throwing on any old clothes. I left for the airport far too early and, on the tube, grinned at fellow passengers. I wanted to whisk her off in my own car, but I do not own a car.
The look on her face when she, finally! walked out of the terminal : eyes downcast, find me! I took her home, nervous and intent. I waited in the living room while she was bathing, pretending to listen to music; she emerged in a red tshirt. My bedroom is white and close, a setting for things to come. Who kissed whom first, I don’t remember, but all took off that evening. All seemed to make sense.
It isn’t really nostalgia; I am just missing her, that’s all. It’s time that this relationship was made of something other than a succession of airport moments, arriving, leaving, especially leaving; I’ve had enough of all the leaving, it doesn’t get any easier. This segmenting of living can only last so long, really. Counting weeks is exhausting.