82

We woke up in a much different mood this morning. My alarm rang at 7:15. I crawled out from the comforter at 7:20. Egg, tomato and avocado sandwiches were on the table at 7:40, with a side of strawberries and pan-fried oatmeal granola. Joe crawled out from the comforter and sat across from me at his café table at 7:45.

There wasn't much talking. There wasn't much kissing or smiling. We were morose, and since then the feeling has gotten heavier. Joe sits next to me at Crêpes: etc. once again. His nose is deep in training materials for his summer teaching job. I thought I'd be driving to Ohio at this point, but I got in an extra hour or two so that he could use my computer to finish his assessments before the real training starts on Wednesday.

His stress levels are rising, and I'm worried that he'll have a panic attack like he did while working three jobs and finishing up his thesis this past semester. I worry that he won't sleep, won't eat enough vegetables or drink enough water to counteract the coffee he'll be drinking. He's worried that I'll hit rush hour traffic multiple times on my drive from St. Louis to Wapakoneta, Ohio. He's worried that I'll think too much about the wedding or making money or the amount I'm able to write. He's write.

We keep patting each others' knee, reminding us that for at least the next hour, we're here. We're together. When we tried to put a calendar together for the summer, we realized how many holes there still are–how many aspects are completely out of our control. This means there is no way of knowing when we'll be driving toward each other again. For now, the days (months?) will pass, metaphorically driving us toward each other and the wedding and times when we don't wake up sorry that a week has passed without our realizing it.

The music is loud. An accordion and tinny piano are blasting French feelings over the woven chairs and displays of gelato. The feeling is familiar–because of the mornings we've spent here and the places like this we hope to spend many mornings over the next year. But it's not comfortable. It's distracting. It's a constant reminder that this isn't real right now. We're hiding away from an overcast sky and a long day of driving. We're tricking ourselves, and it's made us both very tired.

At least this countdown has moved down to 82. At least I'm driving home to family, to hugs and help and employment and homemade food and movies on Saturday nights after evening Mass. At least it's summer, and this rain is dying. At least there's a veggie hot dog to buy and walk home eating while we sip cherry soda, one more moment of city living before pretending that we're not crying a little.