Somewhere different now

This morning, my girlfriend, Emmy, showed up at my dormitory door with honest-to-god chocolates and roses.

Well, a rose. I immediately ran to the kitchen, snipped the rose head and put it in a cup to dry. The chocolates went into a suitcase. Then, she carried trash downstairs while I packed clothes, and we scrubbed the furniture and vacuumed the floor together.

A terribly banal last day together, isn't it? The most one-on-one time I had with her was in the dining hall, when we sat with our arms around each other and I laid my head on her lap. She helped carry my things to the car, stuck with me while I returned library books, turned in my keys and ID. You'd think a couple's last day together would be full of holding and touching and I love yous. But she is impassively passionate, and I've held my tears back for so many years they won't come now. She said she loved me when I dragged her into a back room to cry. I clung to her, got my tears on her parka. The whole day, she didn't let go of my hand. I cried on her shoulder. She gave me a kleenex. All I wanted was to put my arms around her waist, to hold her to me one more time and to be held in kind, but on that tiny bench and in our coats I couldn't get a good angle. I took it, and we walked out.

We've cried on eachother twice each. Once, against my bare shoulder, when her cat died. Once, into her teeshirt, in the psych ward. Twice, again against my naked collar, when I sang her a song about leaving. Once, on her parka, when I was about to leave.

This whole thing has thrown us into adulthood, into responsibility, into a much more serious relationship. At first, we were two happy nerds happy to be together, giggling over hugs and playing with eachother's hair. She was my first girlfriend, my first kiss, my first time. I was one of those to her. But it always seemed so fragile – good enough, going while the going was good, but come summer, who could tell? We'd work that out later. But later came in the form of a phone call, when I said I was in the hospital, but not in the psychiatric unit. When I saw her face slowly turning through reinforced glass. When she visited me every night until they kicked her out. When she brought me books and clothes, called me honey, and didn't even blink at my leaving. I would wonder when we would end, and answer myself, "Not yet. It can't end yet." Yet we are still together. Yet I told her I loved her back. Yet I am looking at bus fares, she is looking for open weekends. We have not come to yet.