It's too quiet.
It's wrongly quiet.
I don't like it.
Last night juat a little after eight, Joe left, baggage and all. I felt the quiet crush in on me for a moment. I took a second and got my breath back. Even though the apartment is set up to meet my needs as a disabled person, I felt immediately vulnerable. I was angry at myself, at first, for allowing myself to become so dependant on another person. But then, on slow reflection, I've been dependant on Joe through all of our 40 years, disability has nothing to do with it.
I saw his packed bag waiting just inside the door about an hour before he left. He was taking just one of our small overnight bags, hardly enough to worry about carrying, but it held the essentials, I suppose. When I noticed the toothbrush gone in the bathroom, I got teary eyed. It was not so much him being gone, it was the imagining of him 'being gone' that upset me.
So, I've slept poorly. I'm up early, which is no great surprise but I feel like I haven't slept at all. I wonder how he is doing. For the first time in years, we've slept apart and in different places. Weird. I know he's attached to some machine that's measuring his sleep. I don't like the idea. Joe cares for me, Joe is immortal. But no, he's being tested to see if there's something about his sleep that is affecting his blood pressure. I hope it's that simple.
He'll be home in a few hours and I had thought to pretend that I've simply had a lovely and quiet evening. But I'm not going to ... I'm going to tell him the truth. While I like 'me' just fine, I like 'we' way, way, way better.