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Location: Work.
Listening: "La Isla Bonita" by Madonna.

It is about 9:15 on a slightly chilly Tuesday morning. Peter has begun his journey to Managua and, instead of being excited for him, all I am at this moment is vaguely sad.

Last night, while eating our first homemade dinner (Peter cleaned the kitchen while getting ready to leave yesterday--the boy truly is far more than I deserve) in almost a month, we tallied up the time we've spent apart since we moved in together. It totalled to about six weeks, give or take--which Peter calculated to be one-tenth of the time we've been together. He found this percentage to be very large. I, on the other hand, wasn't that surprised by it. I told him that, say, one-fifth, would be one thing. One-tenth, in comparison, leaves me relatively non-plussed.

Except for the fact that I miss him terribly when he's gone. It can be for three and a half weeks in Pennsylvania or five days in Nicaragua--that's the one thing that does not seem to abate, no matter how many times we run through it. I try to fill my time away from him with things that will stimulate my mind and generate some good stories to share, but I'm always aware of that vague shadow of loneliness that follows me around when he travels. I used to rebel against it, because I felt that it made me far too dependent on him for my day-to-day happiness. I now simply ride it out until he returns--reading, cooking, writing, and otherwise keeping busy while occasionally reminding myself that it's perfectly normal to feel the absence of someone who is such a large part of my everyday life. I've never been very good with any sense of loss--even if that loss is only temporary--and this ability to refocus my energy is relatively new to me. I'm quite proud of it.

Of course, I'm seriously considering going home this afternoon, putting on my footie pajamas, making a big pot of macaroni and cheese, and hiding under my covers until he returns.

We shall see how things transpire. Until then, spare a thought for planes on their ways in and out of Managua and for an American wandering about with little thank-you notes scrawled with phrases like "Necesito socorro." (I need help), "Sin hielo, por favor." (No ice, please) and "Deseo un cafe." (I would like a cup of coffee). Especially when said American might insist on gleefully asking anyone he encounters "Donde estan mis pantalones?".

Hey. I tried.