"Well, we've established a beachhead," the man who loves me said as we lay in bed last Sunday morning. He was referring to the fact that, since my move, he's ridden the train to see me every weekend. He arrives in the late afternoon and leaves the next morning shortly after breakfast. When we talk on the phone between visits, he likes to cheerily interject, "Hey, you should consider moving to L.A." I usually respond with somewhat less good humor that he should consider riding the train to see me on a weeknight once a week in addition to his weekend visit. He laughs. What I find striking about this, is that we are both unhappy that we are seeing one another less often. Yet when I see him, I'm so overjoyed that for a few days I forget how unhappy I was about not seeing him.
The 18 hours we spend together might be a beachhead--or it might be that there will be no further advancement. Maybe perched on this foothold is where we will remain. To me, this feels both tenuous and comfortable. Both slight and substantial. Like I'm on a narrow ledge, but the weather is lovely and--though the ground is hard,I have the softest of pillows. I'm not afraid of falling.