February 3
Actually went to work the last few days. Someone be proud. Called Mother. She was happy to hear from me without me sounding "sick" anymore. Apparently I sounded horrible the last time we talked. I didn't admit it was lovesickness.
Wrote another poem.
Took an icy shower. Took a walk outside in the cold. Nothing works.
I'm on fire, and I can't even tell her.
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February 6
Went out with friends. This is also impressive. Valentines is just over a week away. I wish I could send her roses.
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February 8
I'm sending her roses. 2 dozen. I've already got them set for delivery. Stupid.
I shouldn't feel this way, should I? I shouldn't feel any of this for her.
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February 11
I called to cancel the roses, but talking to the lady who answered the phone, I forgot WHY I was canceling them. She talked me out of it gently. She said "Whatever she's done, forgive her. Every woman deserves roses, even when they hurt you."
"She didn't hurt me. She could never hurt me."
"Then why?" she asked, and it was so kind... so sweet. I couldn't even lie about it.
"I love her," I said.
"Then send them. The card can say that."
"She doesn't know," I said softly, my heart hurting. "She doesn't know I love her."
"Free," she said, "just name your first child after me."
"What's your name?"
"Willa, but everyone calls me Baby."
I laughed a little, and promised.
Dear Rhi, if you ever read this, our first child is destined to be Baby. Or Willa.
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February 13
Not sure the roses are a good idea. Feel a little sick actually. Like I may vomit. A lot.
Maybe it's a stomach virus. One can hope, right?
Oh god, what am I doing?
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February 14
Text. Can't read it. What if she hates me?
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February 15
She liked the roses. Said they were beautiful. Thanked me. In fact, she gushed about them. Good. Stomach virus suddenly disappeared. Obviously miracle cure in Rhian's approval.
Called Mother again. She thanked me for the flowers I sent her. A bouquet of pink and red flowers, pretty and expensive. I'm a Mama's Boy. I fully admit it.
Wrote to my fans, and hoped they wouldn't understand how far gone I am. I AM far gone. Bob tells me I sound sad. Sound distant. Sound like I've been writing. I tell him he's not far off.
It's funny that he's one of my good friends and I've never even met him in real life. I know a great deal of things about him, of course, from our talks. Bob Nash, 46 years old, divorced and openly gay. His ex-wife's name is Bonnie and she lives just down the road from him. They're best friends even now. He lives in Omaha Nebraska where he runs a small farm. Loves the Beatles, Broadway (especially RENT), and my poetry. He teases my mother and pretends to flirt with her on the rothchildfans community she started. He knows if I'm okay or not by the tone of my messages on my blog. I should meet him sometime. I should go visit him and lay out my tale of woe. He'd probably laugh and tell me what an idiot I am. I'd deserve that. Either that or he'd pat my shoulder and tell me I need to just do what needs done. I wonder which.
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February 16
Phone call to Bob. He laughed and told me if he was closer, he'd come over and drink with me, then drag me to Rhian's and make her listen while I told her over and over again how much I love her. I read him three poems, and he laughed more. He said he's been that lovesick. The guy's name was Max, and he died of a heart attack before Bob ever confessed. "Stupidest thing I ever did was not tell him and give him the chance at a good last year with me," he said, and I felt a catch in my chest. I know that's not possible in our family (portraits see to that) but the very idea that there could ever be a "last year" for Rhian and I is almost too much to bear.
Rhian and I. Like we're together. Like we're an "us".
I wish.
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February 20
Can't write. Can't move. Can't do anything but think about strawberries and vodka. Didn't go to work again. Thank god they love me so I don't get fired. Not that I need the extra money.
Mother asked me out for bowling for some reason. I told her no. She said pretty please. I relented. I'm going BOWLING. What the hell. I have poet's hands, not bowling hands. I amuse myself. I amuse Bob more. He called today and was "appalled" I was even thinking of telling Mother no. I swear, if he weren't gay and Mother weren't married, he'd go after her. He says she's a goddess. Not that I disagree, it's just funny.
He told me to write more, get it all out, and give it a pretty title. I told him I'd think about it. I know I CAN do it, but do I want to? Won't it be painfully obvious what it's all about? Of course it will. Maybe Rhian would hate me. She's snuck into others of my books, of course. How could she not? She's had my soul since the first day I met her.
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February 21
Surprisingly, bowling is the most normal I've felt in nearly two months.
I still miss her desperately.
But at least I laughed with Mother and didn't get melancholy. I should do things with her more often, in all likelihood. She IS a goddess.
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February 28
Oh look, I've managed to make it another month.
It's not getting any easier. In fact, it's getting harder. Every day, I miss her more. Every night I toss and turn, dreaming that I can smell her on my skin, that I can feel her beside me... What the FUCK is wrong with me? I mean, beyond the obvious.
Also, this is the first year in a while I haven't really... honored dad's death day. Other than the momentary clench in my chest that always comes, that is. I guess I'm too ate up by thoughts of Rhian. I'm going to the "special Hell" as Bob says. I hope it's worth it.
anxious
amused
accomplished
awake