A week of Tuesdays… potentially. Though I would be surprised if I hear from him again this week. (Insert most interesting man voice here) I don’t always say stupid things, but when I do I make sure they are painfully stupid.

You know what always surprises me? How much it hurts – seeing him, talking with him. Like a mother fucker. I feel so stupid, and worthless – it is the most appalling feeling, to love someone, think the world of them – love the good, the bad and the mystery, who thinks you’re… meh.   It’s like getting to be 14 everyday and standing against the wall, watching the pretty girls get to dance and trying so hard to keep smiling. 

And so I endure. Because what are the choices? I fake it until I make it, or I am so fucking numb I can’t feel a thing – fake and feelingless like a botox injected forehead. 

My sister and I were sitting in her white adirondack chairs last weekend soaking up the sun, sounds of the sea, and Sunday summertime neighbourhood noises.

I was staring across at the glittering water and sail boats when I said, “I hate that even now he comes to me, in my mind. Whether it’s something that I think is funny and want to share with him, or if it’s something I’d love to hear his thoughts on. Or maybe, like now, I wonder how still he would be, what he looks like in this light, in the sun. How I really love the sound when he laughs hard. I hate that Jill.”

“I know. It’s balls.”, she said, both of us not looking at each other, but the water, the birds, the mountains.

“I will be lonely for a very long time. Until I get used to it, and then it will just be who I am.” I say it not feeling sorry for myself but feeling it in the pit of my belly. A terrible truth where there is nothing for it, but just getting on with it.

We sip our Robson Street Hefweizen (with lemon), and I think, this is my summer drink this year.

“There are worse things than lonely. Living a lie. Being with someone who doesn’t make your heart sing. Sharks. (with fricken lazer beams) I don’t ever want to not be true to myself. This isn’t about filling the hole that he left. When I had that massage on my birthday – have you had one?” I ask.

“No. Never.” JB answered.

“Seriously amazing. Anyway, I’m on this bed, mood lighting, relaxing music, I’m in my panties with a warm blanket over my bum and my legs, my face through that silly pillow thing. It was lovely – just the right amount of pressure on my shoulders and upper back, but when she reached my lower back, and down around my waist? I started to cry – I couldn’t help myself. The intimacy of that touch… Thank god the woman didn’t hear me, but I told her later – ‘It was my first massage and it was really wonderful – so much so that I cried – thank you.’ – I think the masseuse thought I was nuts”, and as I’m telling Jill this, all I can see is him. What is face looks like from lying on his chest. All the women who have seen that view, as he held them each close, kissed their heads an told them “Shhh, sleepy time.” I remind myself for the millionth time, what I was to him wasn’t anything note worthy. A drop in the ocean. An old drop, for that matter. Who needs to run more.

We’re quite for a long time. And it’s a good quiet. A quiet you sink into like a hot bath or a comfy chair. 

“I love you.” I tell my sister, still looking at the water, the warm sun feeling so damn good. 

“I love you too.”  she says back, and I can hear the soft smile in her voice.