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I felt his hand gently land on my ankle at the foot of the bed and squeeze. I lay sleeping under the light sheet in the hot summer, waiting for this moment.

“Time to get up. I have to leave in 30 minutes.”

“Okay” I said.

I wiggled my fingers and toes and slowly came to life. The dog stretched beside me on the half empty king size bed before we exchanged a sad glance, knowing what was coming. I watched my husband slip out of the room in his towel, his fresh cut hair dripping onto his bare shoulders as he headed back to the bathroom. His luggage lay on the floor.

Steve, my husband, is off to Japan for eight weeks to work on the Olympics. I will remain here with the kids. It’s an opportunity he is very much looking forward to and one that I am very much hoping to survive. This kind of work separation is not new to us. He often travels for work and when I can, I visit, with or without the kids, and we share in the adventure together. We make it work. This time it's for longer, and this time we have no options. Covid is still in control and will prevent us from being together at all during the eight weeks. People have been through worse. There are people experiencing real suffering as I write this. We have been through worse. So all this emotion and dread seems inexplicable to me. But for some reason - this eight weeks hurts.

Steve in Tokyo. I beg him for selfies :)

The morning he left, the sun was big and bright, exuding delight like a spoiled teenager with mommy’s credit card and a new pair of shoes. I raised an eyebrow as I looked up to the sun to give it some stank eye. ‘Read the room, stupid,’ I said to myself as I mentally flipped off the sun. I drove up to the terminal and pulled over as slowly as humanly possible. It was quiet at the airport. This will be a simple, trouble-free good-bye. Along with a bright and cheerful sun, this was another element that did not align with my mood.

He’s a confident guy. And I like to think I am too - lady, a confident lady. We are not the same but we fit; we bring out the best in each other. We met in University when we were both rather immature and looking for excitement, not a partner. I didn’t care much for his bravado, he liked my hair and my free WWE pay-per-view access, a benefit of my job with Astral Media. Not the usual sparks associated with the beginning of any serious love affair - free wrestling and some ‘hey baby’ posturing. It took several years after graduation before we ran into each other again, our offices close to each other in the CBC. He was very put together, poised, polite and looked out at the world with pale blue eyes that sparkled. Were those the same eyes I saw on dollar draft night on campus? How did I miss those? No question, we had both grown up. I saw things in those eyes. We had each moved on from cheap beer to name brand cocktails, and walked around with big dreams now instead of big backpacks. We were on the same path. Twenty two years, three kids, two dogs, and one house later and we’re still here. Sometimes those sparks sneak up on you and before you know it, you’re on fire.

Now I’m alone for the summer. For my sanity, I have to believe this is happening for me, not to me.

I will have eight weeks of summer vacation with one less person to tend to, or be with. A good relationship requires daily attention. Being married is like being on parole...in a good way. You have to check in regularly, lean in, tell stories about how you’re getting on and listen to a few yourself. Bring each other a Starbucks once in a while and dutifully complete ‘community’ service - which could mean pretending not to be bothered by yellow stains on white t-shirts or play-by-play from the bathroom. Our husband and wife routine seems innocuous, but it is a commitment and it matters. We have our daily division of chores and activities; shopping, making meals, dishes, sport pick-ups/drop-offs, exercise, then - a bit of TV and wine, and finally, reading in bed. I am used to feeling his breathing and giggling so close to me, disturbing the air and warming it up with his life. It’s a little emptier now, as if someone shut off an air conditioner and a hum is gone. Despite the routine of it all, we still hold hands at night and comment on the red wine, enjoying every sip as though we were on holiday, not sitting on our couch in the same old sinkholes night after night.

“Mmmm. That’s nice. What is it?”

“A Merlot.”

“Good choice.”

We savour it - the wine, the hand holding, the time together. Now when I pour a glass of wine, I try to imagine the familiar sound of Steve opening the closet door to put the empty bottle in our bin. I always ignore his ‘wow’ as he looks at all that we’ve accumulated. I like that he acts surprised every time.

Steve is a multi-talented TV producer who has an intense love of game shows. I know he’s home when I open the door and hear an audience clapping or buzzers sounding off. God bless the Game Show Network. Trivia, dumb luck, competition style, puzzles, and hysterical contestants screaming “big bucks, no whammies” says home to me the way bacon and flannel screams of Canada. Children’s laughter? Sure. The dog nuzzling my feet, sure. Hearing the name of tonight’s Jeopardy champion echo across my living room? Aaaaaahhhhh, I’m home.

Game shows are his, not mine. I drink tea, he drinks coffee. I like loud music, he likes talk radio. I’m up all night, he sleeps soundly. I like yoga, he lifts weights. He loves “Cocktail”, I love “Stand By Me”. He reads thrillers, I read book club. He likes to cook, I do not. He has always known what he wants to do in life and has achieved great things. I struggled, and still struggle, to find my way. We’ve remained individuals in our marriage so time apart should be a breeze. But I feel it this time. I want to be with him. At times I wonder if I’m in shock; a conjoined twin feeling around the empty crib for my other half after separation surgery.

His coffee tin in the freezer remains half full. The empty space at the end of the kitchen table where he sat and worked endless hours during Covid looks confusing to me, like a plant has been moved and suddenly there’s space, a dusty outline of some form of life that used to be there. The other side of the couch has started to puff up again and take shape. The laundry basket takes longer to fill up and there is no more sound of applause coming from the living room. Only the sound of clicking as I scroll endlessly through streaming services, trying to remember what it was I was so eager to watch when I could steal some time for myself?

Time for myself. This is absolutely happening for me, not to me. Steve being away all summer has given me space. I’m the couch that needs to puff up again.

We both cried at the airport. I love that he cries. He walked away from the car and disappeared into the terminal - my other half pulling away, taking with him some of my breath. The sound of his luggage rattling on the concrete trailed off as I turned up the radio. I shook my fist again at the smug sun and drove away. No hand holding for a while. No one to ask me how I liked tonight’s Pinot Noir.

I still check in with my parole officer via Facetime in Japan. It’s important. I need to look at those eyes. Every time he looks away from his screen during our video chats, I take a moment to tell myself again, ‘this is happening for me, not to me.’ Before every good-bye he tells me, “I’m counting the days.” I need that.

At home, the boys and I are doing ‘us’. My youngest son and I play loud music and sing as we drive from soccer game to soccer game. Just us. I helped my oldest son plan his first ever solo adventure out west. Just him and I, talking travel. I have spirited chats about Formula 1 racing and our favourite drivers with my middle son - Hamilton vs. Verstappen. His thoughts vs mine, just mine. I cycle, rollerblade, and make lunch dates with friends without checking in with my partner. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. It means happiness is a whole universe and I am swept up in other orbits right now.

The time I previously spent on my romantic love is now being spent on my other love - my writing. I have my book back from the editor and there is work to be done. I can be that reclusive, peculiar, writer-type that holes herself up in a dark room to play with the voices in her head. I can light candles and clack away on my computer without that pull to spend time with my best friend. Writers shouldn’t have friends anyway. We need to teeter on the edge of weirdness. This summer, I’m teetering.

I chose to get busy, not sad. Without him I am breathing with one lung, it’s true, but I am still breathing. One of our last serious conversations before he left was about my writing. When I finished my book and was beginning to look for an editor, I was discouraged by the process of publishing. It was Steve who said, “You gotta bet on yourself.” That’s his game show spirit - and it's infectious. Shortly after that, he left for the summer and I did it, I put all my chips down. There is no question that twenty two years ago I bet on us and won, so I’m feeling good about my instincts - our instincts. This is happening for us, not to us. While his eyes are lighting up again with adventure in Japan, I’m letting my computer screen light up with new ideas. I can already hear the rattle of his luggage on the concrete sidewalk, coming back to me. He is the warm part of me, the human sweater for my shivering soul. We get to start all over again - each of us fresh and changed. I’m excited for the next challenge in our game of life. There will be some whammies but hopefully we only ever feel the applause.

By Carol Sloan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDpOcp98b5k - For the romantics - this song gets me every time. Pardon this super white and hetero video.

Note: I am very superstitious about writing about my relationship like this. I don’t want to jinx us. I know how lucky we are. If I’ve made us sound perfect, we’re not. Whammies, there are always whammies.

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