Between the Lines

After this morning's rain, the line that separates the sea from the sky is starting to reform. I'm supposed to be looking up things that I can use for my articles, but instead I'm looking at my family photos, reading, and watching Martin's face.

I don't know if they were there before, but there are deeper lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I remember, nearly two years ago, I held his face in my hands and stared, imagining how he would look in thirty, forty, fifty years' time. Now, I can't help but think, It's starting. It feels too soon.

I guess I'll make no secret about it. I'm thinking of going home. It won't just be for vacation, but for--well, however long it takes for me to come to terms with having to leave again. The darkening on my father's cheeks, the weariness in my mother and grandmother's eyes, and the gruff voice coming out of my youngest brother's yet unlined face--I want to be there to see and hear them over time, to get used to age at all its stages, and not for it to surprise me every time I come out of the baggage claim. More than mere escape from the self-absorbed city, I want this.

Martin is better than I at this diving deep into work, this tuning out stuff, stuff. I don't know whether I'd like that gift--maybe then I'd be keeping tabs on the International Consumer Electronics Show, studying Android, or reading up on aftermarket car alarms, instead of writing this--or if I just need more time to tamp down these feelings, bury them under my more everyday concerns.

I'm a little scared of what would happen to us if I did go home. While I don't doubt that he would be a better long-distance boyfriend than my first and last, I'm afraid that being apart, and in such different places, would only further underline our differences. I particularly mean those that have come about because we've been so shaped by these places.

(Dooown't stop! Beh-leeeeeeaven!)

I'm afraid that when I come back (because I have to come back), I'll come out of Arrivals and also be at a loss, at the sight of whatever new lines are there on his face.

I wonder if it would in fact be better for me to stay here and just keep trying to get used to it. If I'm going to end up back here, anyway, I might as well. But then, it's been three years; you'd think I'd have found a way by now.

Hang on; it's time for lunch.