An introvert, I used to relish my Gay Old Soulmate’s trips away. Time alone. Quiet space lacking even the silent demand of an unspeaking partner, sitting at desks, back to back.  My introverted personality magnifies my vigilance. I sit, consciously and unconsciously aware of what I imagine the other wants or needs (while quite probably oblivious to his or her real need).  Time alone–a little gift from the circumstances to enjoy.

No longer.  I lie painfully aware of the emptiness beside me.  All the writing, computer work, and organizing I dreamed I would accomplish in his absence is not getting done. I want him in the other room.  Watching some annoying TV program.  I miss his presence upstairs.  I even push bed time back with distractions.  He will be home soon enough, and I’ll imagine I would get more done if he weren’t here.  But I am fooling myself.

I used to believe that I would never be one of those men who dies six months after his soulmate.  Now I’m not so sure.