Waiting

The book I finished last night is called King, and Tanya Chapman wrote it.

Last night was a beautiful night for a walk. So I called the G.Dater up out of the blue, and he interrupted his work to come out perambulating with me. I love our walks. Because most of his tallness is leg, he walks quickly. He is one of the few people I have had to ratchet up my natural walking speed for. The first few times we went walking, I was actually a little out of breath. Now, either I've gotten used to him or he's gotten used to me or we've met somewhere in the middle. We looped in behind the parliament buildings and then wove back and forth through our neighbourhood. Nearly two hours later, he dropped me off at my house. He had more work to do at home.

So I was a little jazzed up from the long walk and the interesting conversation. I read a bit of King, put it down, couldn't sleep. Turned the light back on and kept going.

The writing is good, but the content. If Grrrl captured my teen years with alarming accuracy, King nails my life with an indie rocker. Or an addict. Or both.

I have memorized a checklist of King. I have to know it so well that I can run through it even when I'm panicking. The list is long but it begins and ends with I love him.

And after they've broken up:

Then I realize that I haven't been listening for the sound of a motorbike. I haven't been waiting. For hours and hours, I haven't been waiting.

I have spent so much of my time and energy waiting for someone to come home, trying to fill the blank hours with shuffle and noise. Now I live by myself and it's quiet and peace. There is no waiting for anyone but me. And I am already here.