For the real Mark. You know who you are.
This monologue was written at the request of a friend, who wanted a piece in a different voice from her own, about something I felt strongly about. It took me several months to complete it, because for some time, and for a variety of reasons, I did not have the clarity of thought to be objective about this subject.
I know better. Hours on MSN Instant Messenger is no replacement for seeing him react to an impossibly slow waitress. It isn't the same as carefully watching how he treats his mother. He doesn't know that I'm so cheap I do my laundry all by hand most of the time. He doesn't know that I didn't get my driver's license until I was seventeen because my father said I was as well prepared to drive as ninety percent of the people on the road... and that terrified me. He doesn't know how crazy I get after talking to my mother on the phone for too long.
But then again, I know we like the same books, the same movies, the same television shows. We like them enough to wax intellectual about them. That has to mean something. Nattering on about Data's hairstyle, has to mean something.
Sometimes we get so sick of having to sit in our living rooms in order to spend time with each other. It gets to be so frustrating that sometimes we just have to take a break ... not from each other, but from the machine.
He bought a plane ticket last month, and sent me pictures so I would recognize him when he steps through the gate.
Last Thursday, I went with my friend Jen and her family to the airport to meet Mark. With wonderfully divine timing, the baby needed his poopy diaper changed just as the announcement came over the loud speaker that his flight was deplaning. So I went to stand in front of the gate by myself. This of course was when the real jitters started, and I think I'm glad I could keep them mostly to myself. Naturally, Mark was one of the last people off the plane, and I had that much more time to panic... what if he walks by and I don't recognize him... what if he missed the connecting flight in Denver... what if my brain melts or I spontaneously combust... what if.... Well, you get the picture.
The moment he stepped through the gate, I recognized Mark. And he saw me, too. We walked toward each other, and gave a shy little hug. I don't remember what we said, but I think we both spoke very quietly, hard to hear over the noise of the crowded airport. Even over the shyness, just being with him felt so natural.
Once Jen dropped us off at home, that's when the fun began: We did such ordinary things together, and it was heavenly -- like we were starved for the plain and simple, everday contacts of a relationship. Our first date was doing my laundry at the laundromat. I didn't mean to leave the wash so long but car trouble robbed me of so much time and money that I had to wait for payday, the day he arrived. Oh yeah, and we did a little plumbing together.... the connector thingy between the drain and the pipes under the kitchen sink had rotted away, so we yanked that out of there, took it to the hardware store to get the pieces we would need, then worked together to fix the sink. Later we tried to watch a video and didn't make it through the previews before we were slobbering all over each other.
We had to do the emotional airport scene on Monday. I had to leave him to wait for his plane alone so I could get back to work. A kiss and a hug, and if I don't get out of here now, I'm gonna bawl like a baby.
Bytes. Pixels. That's all we have. There is no Tunnel of Love. It is just a data stream. I've never seen him. Don't know when I might.