I have pink toe nails. Not that big a deal to read, it was a big deal to make happen though. I had this idea of the next two weeks would look like and damnit all to hell that idea is a fallacy. I don’t have any idea what the next two weeks are going to look like, yet I am not paralyzed with fear. I am uplifted with curiosity, but that is different than fear.

I hoped a good deal of the trip would be spent undressed inside the hotel. I imagined packing my coffee pot, and anything other than coffee would be supplied by the Door Dash gods. I pictured gummies and anal and naps. Sure he’d want to go outside one day but nothing that a sundress and sandals could not handle.

He is at the airport now. At least I think he is, he hasn’t messaged me. The chaos of leaving for the airport at O dark thirty in the morning doesn’t always lend to messaging though. I am most likely to hear from him in his layover city and by that time we are looking at only a handful of hours.

It started off as a weeks, then turned into months. Months turned into who the fuck knows. Who the fuck knows turned into an ugly and brutal reality that a full calendar year would unfold, and I would be without his presence. He would be without my presence. We would have to find pockets of laughter and connection in ways neither of us wanted but were forced to settle into. I would walk into surgery without him. He’d have to navigate his exit plan with out me. We would miss birthdays, milestones. In a year when protests put parts of our cities in flames, and we had to hold our breath while votes were counted wondering what life would look like if we got more 45, we didn’t have the physical presence of one another to comfort. Babies were born, and parents experienced COVID.

When spring and hope in the form of vaccine arrived, we still didn’t know what this would look like.

While we still don’t know, he just sent me a text that he is ON the plane. I’m going to excuse myself to hop onto the altar for a few. Then back to prepping. Daddy is almost home.