When we meet, we agreed, it's unreasonable to expect us to speak to each other.
With the pressure of six months' worth of anticipation finally lifted, it would be as much as we could do not to float away into oblivion, like balloons.
(I have been ill in the past. Not life-threatening conditions, but run-of-the-mill virii and ailments. Every time, when I am beginning to feel better, I am stronger and more able than when I have been completely well for a long period of time.
The removal of the virus is such a release that, for a couple of days, I am liberated from unhappiness and uncertainty in a way that no artillery of pills has ever accomplished. No matter how pleasing this enhanced self is, though, the experience of being light-headed and light-limbed is so strange that it takes time to become accustomed to it. By the time I am thus accustomed, it has gone, until the next bout of cold or influenza.)
Similarly, the ballast of time and hope which had been all Bluefish and I had ever known would no longer continue to weigh us down, and the attendant sensation of vertigo would be enough to occupy our thoughts. So, in respect of this fact, she and I planned not to speak for a while on the day she flew in.
Instead, we would sit and look at each other, and if we needed to communicate, we should do so with text messages, or instant messenger running off a couple of laptops, or with a series of cards on which we could write, as well as others which had been pre-prepared:
HELLO!
HI.
I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD FLIGHT.
YES, THANKS. AS GOOD AS COULD BE EXPECTED.
:)
For months, we genuinely believed this is how it would work, and it caused much amusement as well as demonstrating beyond all doubt the unusual nature of our love. Not speaking but writing, in respect of our own peculiar circumstances and deficits.
