Sometime after discussing our status (we promise to refrain from fucking other people), THE WIZARD left town. It had to happen. The high-speed courtship needed a breather, whether we admitted it or not. So we packed up his one outfit and went to the airport.
Being a frequent participant in long-distance relationships, I have had a lot of goodbye moments in every kind of travel facility.
Trainstation goodbyes are mostly romantic, except when you're breaking up outside the Amtrak in Indianapolis. The mediocre saxaphone soloist makes saying goodbye in the bus station pretty tolerable. But the airport is very sterile. There is no sweet way to be sent off in a place inhabiting so many guns and cranky people.
I didn't hold THE WIZARD's hand as we walked through the security area, nor did I look at him or speak. Tears were sitting in my eyelids, just waiting for the right moment. Even though no one was paying attention, I felt like my weepy eyes were on a jumbotron. THE WIZARD stopped in front of a check-in kiosk and faced me.
HIM: Don't cry, you big baby.
ME: I'm not.
HIM: I will totally miss you.
ME: I know. I'm sorry I acted like an asshole during your whole visit.
HIM: Whatever, Dude.
Against all my convictions, we talk every day. We also have pretty great phone sex. It is cold where I live, so he sent me a warm blanket in the mail, which is wrapped around me constantly and I might daydream about corny things like spooning and slow dancing. I annoy myself to pieces.
I am paying him a visit this week.
