Just for today, I'm alone. Can't say as I care for the feeling.
Tomorrow and for the next few days, I will be amongst hundreds, even thousands of people. For the previous week, I've been around family. Something going on every day. In fact, at times it was nice to escape for a few minutes or a couple hours to be alone.
Most days when I travel, I talk with Donna-Lane by phone, but we didn't connect today. Only a brief email.
I went out for awhile - picked up my conference badge, had an ice cream sundae, rode the trolley, bought some essentials for the week.
It's when I'm in the room with nothing but the TV or Facebook for company that the sense of lonely creeps in. Or when dining alone: "Will that be a table for one and a book?"
Sometimes being alone is a choice. I love to play golf alone, especially with no one in front to hold me up and no one behind to push me. I can also be alone, mentally, in a crowd - hence my favorite tee-shirt: "I live in my own little world, but it's okay, they know me here."
There may come a day when D-L is not there to return to, to look forward with great anticipation to her greeting and embrace.
There may come a day when she's not at her desk in the other room, 10 feet away, as we work our separate projects, chat, eat together, watch a DVD.
I'll still write, eat, watch. But I won't like it anywhere near as much as I love life with her.
We've talked about getting a dog. And that may help some in such circumstances. But I watched a bit of a Keanu Reeves movie today in which he had lost his lover and still had a dog. The pain of the loss did not seem to be assuaged in the least by the presence of the pup.
I know there are lots of single people, and they survive. But survive is not the same as thrive.
I told D-L she cannot get sick while I am away from her. If she does, next trip I threatened take her with me. And that means Florida, a place she would hate to go to. So far as I know, not even a hint of a sniffle this week.
Well, time to interrupt this reverie and get some work done. I'll pretend it's the middle of the night, when I often write, and Donna-Lane is sleeping, which she often is. She may not be in the next room, and I can't go in and take the book from her hands and the glasses from her face. But her presence is with me all the same.