| General Non-Fiction posted November 13, 2021 |
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... eight days down, two days to go
Reflections in the Interim ...
by Elizabeth Emerald
Chuck and I have been near-daily companions for 12 years.
Today marks the eighth day of our second ten-day break; the first was in January.
Both respites were inspired by coronaphobia on Chuck's part. Though in retrospect the breaks were unwarranted, I don't fault him for his caution. He'll be back for supper Sunday, when my daughter's isolation period concludes.
I ask myself: Do I miss him?
I reflect back on our five-day hiatus in February, which began two weeks after the conclusion of January's separation.
The February break was not inspired by exposure to corona. It was initiated by me in response to the latest episode in Chuck's ongoing political tirade, which occurred on February 8th, the eve of Trump's impeachment trial.
Being well aware that Chuck was outraged at what he considered persecution of the president, I preemptively suggested that he come up for supper as usual throughout the week, and depart thereafter rather than stay and fume over the coverage of the trial.
My mention of the trial agitated Chuck to the point that he spewed uncontrollably. Despite my declining to engage in argument, his fury escalated to the point that I told him to leave. He didn't. I went to my bedroom and shut the door. He stayed for twenty minutes thereafter; I could hear the television.
The following day, he apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again.
I reminded him that just two weeks prior, on the occasion of our reunion supper-- which he'd prepared to celebrate the end of our "quarantine"--he'd ruined my enjoyment with the "appetizer": a doozy of a diatribe. He'd apologized just as profusely; clearly he couldn't control himself. I didn't want to deal with it anymore.
Five days thereafter, on Valentine's day, we reunited.
So much for the rambling backstory.
As you've likely--rightly--guessed, my blatant digression was a pathetic attempt to stall for time as I formulate an answer to my question:
Do I miss him?
Give me two days. I'll have my answer, retrospectively, on Sunday.
It will be dependent upon whether I'm happy to have him back. Which will be dependent upon whether he refrains from bashing that bumbling bleeding-heart sonof@b!t(h!
Chuck and I have been near-daily companions for 12 years.
Today marks the eighth day of our second ten-day break; the first was in January.
Both respites were inspired by coronaphobia on Chuck's part. Though in retrospect the breaks were unwarranted, I don't fault him for his caution. He'll be back for supper Sunday, when my daughter's isolation period concludes.
I ask myself: Do I miss him?
I reflect back on our five-day hiatus in February, which began two weeks after the conclusion of January's separation.
The February break was not inspired by exposure to corona. It was initiated by me in response to the latest episode in Chuck's ongoing political tirade, which occurred on February 8th, the eve of Trump's impeachment trial.
Being well aware that Chuck was outraged at what he considered persecution of the president, I preemptively suggested that he come up for supper as usual throughout the week, and depart thereafter rather than stay and fume over the coverage of the trial.
My mention of the trial agitated Chuck to the point that he spewed uncontrollably. Despite my declining to engage in argument, his fury escalated to the point that I told him to leave. He didn't. I went to my bedroom and shut the door. He stayed for twenty minutes thereafter; I could hear the television.
The following day, he apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again.
I reminded him that just two weeks prior, on the occasion of our reunion supper-- which he'd prepared to celebrate the end of our "quarantine"--he'd ruined my enjoyment with the "appetizer": a doozy of a diatribe. He'd apologized just as profusely; clearly he couldn't control himself. I didn't want to deal with it anymore.
Five days thereafter, on Valentine's day, we reunited.
So much for the rambling backstory.
As you've likely--rightly--guessed, my blatant digression was a pathetic attempt to stall for time as I formulate an answer to my question:
Do I miss him?
Give me two days. I'll have my answer, retrospectively, on Sunday.
It will be dependent upon whether I'm happy to have him back. Which will be dependent upon whether he refrains from bashing that bumbling bleeding-heart sonof@b!t(h!
Today marks the eighth day of our second ten-day break; the first was in January.
Both respites were inspired by coronaphobia on Chuck's part. Though in retrospect the breaks were unwarranted, I don't fault him for his caution. He'll be back for supper Sunday, when my daughter's isolation period concludes.
I ask myself: Do I miss him?
I reflect back on our five-day hiatus in February, which began two weeks after the conclusion of January's separation.
The February break was not inspired by exposure to corona. It was initiated by me in response to the latest episode in Chuck's ongoing political tirade, which occurred on February 8th, the eve of Trump's impeachment trial.
Being well aware that Chuck was outraged at what he considered persecution of the president, I preemptively suggested that he come up for supper as usual throughout the week, and depart thereafter rather than stay and fume over the coverage of the trial.
My mention of the trial agitated Chuck to the point that he spewed uncontrollably. Despite my declining to engage in argument, his fury escalated to the point that I told him to leave. He didn't. I went to my bedroom and shut the door. He stayed for twenty minutes thereafter; I could hear the television.
The following day, he apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again.
I reminded him that just two weeks prior, on the occasion of our reunion supper-- which he'd prepared to celebrate the end of our "quarantine"--he'd ruined my enjoyment with the "appetizer": a doozy of a diatribe. He'd apologized just as profusely; clearly he couldn't control himself. I didn't want to deal with it anymore.
Five days thereafter, on Valentine's day, we reunited.
So much for the rambling backstory.
As you've likely--rightly--guessed, my blatant digression was a pathetic attempt to stall for time as I formulate an answer to my question:
Do I miss him?
Give me two days. I'll have my answer, retrospectively, on Sunday.
It will be dependent upon whether I'm happy to have him back. Which will be dependent upon whether he refrains from bashing that bumbling bleeding-heart sonof@b!t(h!
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