Dracula drama or something like it
It’s 10:57 pm and I can’t sleep, so I’m writing this post instead as the last summer crickets are chirping. Bastards.
Maybe it will be gone tomorrow.
I just moved into Mr. B’s mom’s house and she couldn’t be more gracious. But obviously, my day-to-day life has changed drastically and I am feeling a little weird and vulnerable at the moment. I will feel less so when I buy a six-pack of Nutella at the Russian store.
Before I married Mr. B, I vowed never to let a man make me feel whole or to tell people he was my second half. But now, after two years, as I turn and don’t see his face on his pillow (and mine, jerk,) my heart gives off a little bit of an ache, because he is my life, even in spite of his love of early 90s rap.
Because you know how pessimistic and hypochondriac I am, this separation is not made easier by the fact that, like all superstitious Russians, I am positive that a separation in action means that something I am too superstitious to write will happen to him (God forbid) or that something horrible will happen to me (God forbid and Nutella disallow) and we will never meet again (or we will meet next Saturday like normal Americans who don’t have any Eastern European Dracula emotional baggage.) It’s not like either of us are in Afghanistan or even Camden, but it is scary being far away from someone who is embedded so deep in your ecosystem and that, even if you are a die-hard Independent Woman, your world still wobbles on its axisi in his absence.
11:13. Time for bed. Because another Russian saying, an actually useful one, is “the morning is wiser than the evening.” And so will I be.