I keep tripping over the same hole in my brittle, dumbstruck, beautifully vacuous way. Or so I am reminded.
Barely-there, Bridget. Now pay attention, please.
I get tired, the doubts crowd back in and everything goes straight to hell. So nevermind me while I trip and stumble my way through life for a bit. I'll get wherever I'm supposed to be, eventually.
Possibly sooner than later, if you can believe it.
I'm sitting in a Veyron at a stoplight. The car can do it, I'd be at the ocean by lunchtime.
(Go, Bridget, go.)
I just need some gas and a little courage. Not that stupid thimbleful I usually hold, but a trunkful of the stuff. Perhaps I can buy some, beg, borrow or steal a little strength just for the hard parts and I promise I will return it with interest when I get there. I would roar off into the sepia horizon while a ticker-tape parade heralds my departure. Don't think for a moment that I won't.
(There she goes.)
Last night Ben brought me home a present. I seriously think that instead of paying attention when he's driving he's surfing my journal from his blackberry. He needs to not do that. But still he did and he knew he was walking into a bee's nest and he knew it was late so he stopped into a store and he brought me a candy necklace.
He didn't say a thing. He put it on me and I sat with him while he ate dinner and then he peeked in on the kids and turned out most of the lights and took my hand and led me all the way down to his end of the house, pulling the blanket over our heads and leaving the light on his night table on and he ate the necklace right off my neck and I didn't get any at all. He never touched the light to turn it off, he never said a word, he never let me get more than an inch or two away from him at any time which was amazing to me somehow.
When I was sticky and exhausted and near tears because he can be so sweet without saying a thing he burst the bubble once again.
I'm not in the Veyron suddenly, he pushed me out and took the wheel and left me standing by the road again. Do I get back in the damn car or do I turn away and go home?
(Wait. Which way is home? No one will tell me.)
He asked me to marry him. Again.
(Bridget, where are you headed?)
He didn't say why but I think sometimes the patience isn't as easy to hold on to as he says it is.
And I know why, I don't need him to tell me.
