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Sometimes I gather my things the supposedly distinguished coat with its defiant lapels the laptop that tethers me to a life of prosperity and meaning and stress and frustration the stack of papers broadcasting their feeble attempts to inspire guilty attention and I click the car door closed to pilot back to the house that sits silent and dark and unwelcoming and I might in a weak moment slip up and imagine I was driving home to you.

To your warmth. To your steady and unwavering belief in me.  In us. To a home instead of a house. To an imperfect thing that we created by coloring outside the lines of perfection.

I hear the newscaster’s voice droning on, interesting but unnoticed. Random honking horns fail to concern me. Inconsiderate assholes with immature antics don’t elicit my curses.

Instead, this fuzzy eveningdream reveals the steam coming off a pot. Some delightful concoction you’ve made with talent and black magic wearing a fuzzy warm sweater humming occasionally with the TV on in the background as you wait for me.

For me to come home.

For me to hug you.   Squeeze you to me.   Bite your ear lobe. Ask about your day.

For me to sit down at the table with you, where you might curl your legs under you like a cat.

The dream spins its web of intricate enchantment. A fine, enjoyable friction between contentment and arousal. Between satisfaction and hunger.

But I arrive at a reality that dissolves the dreamscape. A house just empty enough to slightly echo when I sit my work bag down in the hall. No dogs thumping their tails, not here. No warm kitchen with its mysteries and fulfillment. No trash can with its never ending, overflowing bulk, ready for my help. And most importantly most critically most notably:

no you.

I have driven the wrong way. I have picked the wrong path. I have in a denial of simple need and want in a masochistic act like the drawing of a fine blade across my forearm in a quiet room pretended that this bland, gray, lifeless distance between us is fine just for tonight.

One more night alone, or one more night together, what could that matter? No consequence, no weighty decision there. Now, several years into this surely the excitement has waned and surely some time apart is reasonable and warranted and nothing to dread. There are all of those things, but the reality is there is

no you.