After a Year

A man at the allergist’s reminded me of you.
Not the man, exactly.
His shirt.

Small checks, in grayish blue with thin lines of black and white and red, thin lines so that the impression overall was of dark blue.

A button-down shirt, a pocket over each breast, dark buttons, worn with jeans and scuffed brown shoes.

At first glance, it seemed to be a long-sleeved shirt, with the sleeves rolled up just over his elbows. A long-sleeved shirt on a hot and muggy day. You never wore short sleeves – partly to protect your skin. Your pale, Irish redhead’s skin, paler and better protected than mine. But partly out of vanity. You didn’t like your arms, you said. You didn’t like your wrists. They were too thin, you said.

I thought they were just fine.

So. This man at the allergist's. And his shirt. This shirt like you might have worn, with long sleeves rolled up on a hot and muggy day.

That’s when the tears ran into my throat.

It is one year since you were last here.
One year since I last saw you.
It is time to truly let you go.

I’ve heard nothing since March. Not a word. If he is still reading here, I can’t decipher his address in my stats. And besides, there are ways to read a blog without leaving any footprints.

If he does read here, he is finding me generally happy, at least on some fronts. I’m still employed if still broke. The cats are well though house and car need repairs and I am, as I said, broke, living from one paycheck to the next and trying not to think of how the only way I can afford retirement is to illegally rent out every bedroom in my house and move with the cats to a tent in the back yard.

Things with my Master are going well.

Things with my writing are going well.

I do wish I had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or at least someone to date. But every time I start the process, all the prospects quickly fail the test. I hold them up against the philosopher and the sadist and they don’t come even close to giving me what I need.

Intelligence.
Wit.
Dominance.

It’s a question of the right kind of approach.
Not too pesky.
Not too enthusiastic.
Interested.
Smart, clever,
poetic if possible,
holding back and
making me
want
to come
to him.
To her.

Everyone fails.
Inevitably,
one by one,
they fail.

So I do with what I’ve got.
I’m alone, and yet not.

I have a lot more now than I ever could have expected.
Not everything.
But something very special.

He’s good for me, my Master.

But.
I miss you, John.
I do.
I miss your imagination.
I miss your voice.
I miss your rituals.
I miss your love.
If it was indeed love.

I miss you.

I miss you in my life.
I miss the dream of sharing a life.

And if you came back?
If you were done with the dissertation and wanted to try again?

Your underwear is still in my drawer along with your chain.
And I never threw out the pinhole cameras.

(Damn, it’s awfully hard to type through tears…)

As for the man in the shirt,
the man at the allergist’s...
In the end, the shirt had short sleeves.
And you never wore short sleeves.

In the end, everything disappoints.