Waiting

I'm sitting in Billy's house, waiting for him to get home after a week's absence. When I walked in earlier, I tried to remember what it was like coming here for the first time, four months ago. I have what I've written here to remind me what those first days were like, but there's little else beyond my memory to tell me what was going through my head then. I no longer keep a private journal, and the days where I wrote long and detailed notes to friends are, unfortunately, long gone.

I remember being nervous, unsure of what to expect. I remember the cotton mouth I had as I followed him in my car through Milford and into his driveway. I remember sitting with him on his couch, fearful that there were sweat stains beneath the arms of my Tshirt because of the midsummer heat outside. I remember wondering what he expected, and hoping he wasn't going to try to bed me that day...And trying to figure out how I'd be able to say no. I remember walking around the house on "the tour," him casually pointing at the mammoth paintings he'd created, and being altogether floored by his talent. I remember him falling asleep on my chest after we'd stretched out to take in a movie on HBO. I remember him telling me stories about his days in the Peace Corps in Africa, little stories about the art classes he taught and the people he met there. I remember liking him more with each passing moment. I remember being surprised when he invited me to stay the night and that I accepted. I was even more surprised that when he said "Maybe you should sleep over," he actually meant only sleep. I remember that, in typical female fashion, I thought it was sweet that he didn't try to go any further than goodnight kisses as I settled into sleep next to him, but wondering, at the same time, why he didn't try. I remember making the conscious decision to not wash my face before bed, in hopes that I'd still be made up when I woke in the morning. I remember looking something like a raccoon when I saw myself in the mirror next morning, and furiously rubbing at the mascara beneath my eyes to make myself somewhat presentable. I remember that he had to work that day. We drove into town together, to buy coffee at Turkey Hill. I remember trying to act casual, but was shocked when he kissed me in the parking lot, right in the middle of Milford. I remember smiling all the way home, and waiting for the call he promised to make to plan our evening. I remember that he called exactly when he said he would.

It's strange to think back on that now...In some ways, it seems likes ages ago, like we became a couple well before August. He's such a huge part of my life now that I can scarcely recall what my days were like before him. But in other ways, it feels like we only just begun. I still wait anxiously for my phone to ring with a call from him. I still get giddy when I see his name. I still can't wait to see him, and I still get butterflies when he walks into the room. I still watch him with the eyes of a thirteen year old with a crush.

I missed him like crazy this week. I wanted nothing more than to come home to him after my first day of work. I wanted his reassurance, the amazing support he so freely offers. I wanted his hands and his arms, his lips and his smile, but all I had was his voice over a cell phone with poor reception.

He's due home in just about an hour, and these last sixty minutes will feel endless. Sleep is nipping at my heels, but I'm too excited for an early evening nap. Because even though I'm exhausted from a Friday night Christmas party that somehow weaved its way into Saturday morning, followed by a half-day of work at the new job, the anticipation of seeing him tonight after so long without him is keeping me eager and awake.