Alive

I sent him a text message saying something about the last text of the year, the last time I'd be bugging him, whatever. Then my phone died, but it was crappy and old and the charger was falling apart so I peed and did some other stuff before I was able to check my messages. I was really just checking with a bit of hope in my heart, I had no real expectation that I'd hear back from him. It had been months since the last time he pushed me away. I was happily surprised to find a message. My heart sunk when I saw that it began, "This is Tom for Patrick . . ." My phone screen died, and after a few minutes of frantically trying to repair the screen, I picked up the house phone and called him. He answered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We chatted for awhile, then he dropped him bombshell. He had been screwing around with his guitar at an open mic somewhere and members of a band had approached him and asked him to play a riff from one of their songs. He played it and fell in love, he said it just felt right. The feeling was mutual, and the band asked him to join them. In CA. He had agreed. Trying to feign happiness and hide the fear and pain in my voice, I asked if I could come see him before he left. He released an anxious sigh hiding behind his voice, and said yes.

Of course I went over. The second he saw me, he grabbed both my hands and looked at me in his way, a way I know well, a way that causes as much joy as pain. When I was once again unable to be angry with him, he relaxed visibly, and started telling me all about the new life waiting for him on the other side of the country. Some of his new bandmates were there, answering questions, and helping him get ready to move across the country. Of course they were female. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and vomit because he was still holding both my hands.

I politely asked some questions regarding how many gigs the band played and whether or not he'd be able to afford to live. They played a promo video for me. I bit back my concern about the claim that they played "100% of NASCAR races in our area." Uh, aren"t those races usually only held in a location once, maybe twice a year? His new bandmate saw my concern and assured me Patrick would be paid well and have plenty of time to enjoy his new life.

As I was hovering between despair over losing him, worry that he would be OK, and happiness for his new chance at life, he looked me in the eyes and kissed me. I sighed, and landed on "happy for him". He could tell. Right in the middle of the room, he started taking off his shirt to show me what, in his words, "might be the most shocking thing of all", three large tattoos. The largest was a cartoon version of an anatomically correct heart, enlarged and covering his chest. Another covered his forearm, something with a lot of black and gray, the third was blades of grass below his waist line. As he was explaining them to me, he was raising my shirt and lowering me to the floor. I briefly considered the others in the room, and decided I didn't care as long as I got to feel him next to me. He offered to turn around so I could see his blades of grass. I traced them with my fingers and assured him I could very well imagine how they looked.

And then . . . Skin, glorious skin on skin contact as, once again, the others in the room crossed my mind. I closed my eyes and savored the feel of him, welcoming the illusion that all was right in the world as long as he was there, touching me. My soul swam in him. For a few glorious moments, nothing else mattered. As I began to consider how far he'd go with others in the room, he got up rather abruptly.

He'd remembered he was supposed to be packing, and was frantically trying to find something he needed. Since he was moving so far, space was rather limited, but there was a drawer full of door knobs and keys he wanted to bring, so he started moving his luggage around, trying to find a place to put them. I walked over, rearranged some of his things, and reached into his drawer of keys and door knobs at the same time he did. Our hands met, and as we looked at each other, I knew I was handing him his keys to freedom, to a better life. As much as it broke my heart, I was able to see that, and I was happy for him.

Just as the pain and joy for him were bubbling together in my heart, an antacid was dropped into the mix. I could feel the happiness being sucked away as I remembered that he was gone. A sinking feeling told me he would not achieve his dreams, because I was having a dream. I tried to grab his hand, to look at him again, but he was gone. I gasped and sobbed, and finally opened my eyes to reveal the room I share with a man who doesn't love me and a world that has mercilessly been reminding me of Patrick these last few weeks.

As I choked on my tears, I remembered angrily telling him in my head recently that if he wanted to tell me something, he'd have to do it in a dream, as I couldn't take all the weird reminders any more. Guess I got my wish.