Unsurprisingly, I miss Robbie most just after seeing him . . . that, I suppose, and after not having seen him for quite awhile.

But when I leave his house and drive home, I find myself launched on a days-long jag of feeling achey, uncomfortable, out-of-sorts. I think he feels it too, because we act bizarre towards each other. We fumble for the rhythm of nightly phone calls and friendly chats that we share for most of the 3-or-4 weeks between visits. And when I fall asleep at night, I feel the ghost of his arms around me; and when I wake up in the morning, I imagine I am in his bed.

I have no plans tonight, and I can think of little to do except perhaps to curl up with a glass of wine and some reading. He tells me it’s a waste of energy and emotion to wish that things were different than they are, and I know he’s right. But right after I see him, just after I am home, I sometimes give myself permission to indulge in those silly, wasteful wishes, and I think about what I would do if he were here, instead of there.

This photo and similar at the appropriately-named Just blowjobs. Via Bend Me Over.