Daniel and I spent the morning laying in his bed singing our lungs out to the Forbidden Playlist (plot twist: it's Elton John's Greatest Hits) as a litmus test.
Which one? The one where he confirms he's still gay or was it the one where we see how many songs it takes now for Bridget to begin to sing less and cry the words more? Does it matter? I mean, DOES IT?
It doesn't, if you don't mind spoilers.
He sings a mean Madman Across The Water, though and I sort of always want to throw away everything and everyone else when I am here. Always the safest space, as dangerous as it has been over the years. Over a lifetime. There isn't anyone who can escape those thoughts when it comes to Daniel, though so no one minds, and we all fight for the space beside him. Few are permitted here, however, in Schuyler's inner sanctum, as it were. Three of us, mostly, but mostly me.
Daniel still has the longer hipster hair. Still the mile-wide grin. A few more greys on his head but all his hair. A few more lines on his face, mostly around his eyes and mouth. His hands are still softer than air, his words chosen carefully so as not to leave dents or scrapes on my fragile heart.
He wouldn't though, so I'm safe.
He needs to shave. My skin is so sensitive to stubble and his chin has been resting against the top of my head for so long I feel as if I am wearing a cactus hat, and one that's so warm. He loves that my hair is growing again. I've got a chin length bob and my bangs are just below my bottom eyelashes. He said the colour is like a clear icy lake on a winter's day. He marvels at it. There's only a tiny bit of actual-blonde left, a few strawberry pale strands that clash with the colder white. I told him I'm growing it back out to my knees, as I miss my braid. I miss the extra pair of hands that a braid can be when you put things in it, hang things from it, use it as a comfort object, a scarf, a hat, a belt. Plus I really want to see this crazy colour on longer hair, in all its glory.
They are cheering me on, horrifying as it's going to be.
I can't wait.
***
Daniel is tasked with withdrawal from winter into spring. Once Groundhog Day hits I will become super impatient with winter and cold damp and darkness and wet leaves and bullshit and wish ahead, the one thing I'm not supposed to do, which is rush through the seasons with my grass-is-greener approach, slowing only into a languid autumn as it is my absolute favourite, but right now I can feel myself getting so antsy and I don't know if it's the drugs or simply the time of year. I think there's an Olympics this year? No, dammit, it's two years away. Sometimes I miss cable TV but then I poke around and find something to see. We watched Cocaine Bear and HOWLED last night and then I started The Watcher alone and I want to move back to Bucharest if only for the beautiful culture shock that it is.
Don't worry, if that happens in the latest round of upends I will let you know. Also they might reinstate my internet permanently this week. I will keep you posted. Or rather, I will keep posting if they do. It's been rough.