Another Sad Entry

I waited for him at Gare Montparnasse. I spent the morning walking from Place d’Italie in flip flops and my backpack prepared for the next month’s adventure. He did not want to meet at the hostel, navigate the metro by himself, or use the French flashcards his mother made him from my emails. So I gave him directions from the airport into the city and parked myself by the kiddie carousel - our meeting spot. His plane was arriving at 8:30 am. It had been 6 weeks since I’d last seen him.

8:30 am came and went. The sun rose. I migrated to the bus station precisely where he would be dropped off. I asked the baggage workers if this was the only Montparnasse stop. It was. With each arriving bus, my heart rose. I scanned the tinted windows for his face, his build, him. Hours passed. Noon passed. Sank.

I watched a man pick a fight with one of the bus drivers. Although unclear about the argument’s cause, his violent intent became apparent when he barreled through the line - shouting, cursing in ballistic French - and punched. The bus driver reciprocated by unbuckling his seat belt, exiting his vehicle, and running into the street. Baggage workers held both back. The man’s wife and daughter watched from the sidewalk. Police arrived and filed a report.

By 1 pm, my endurance was quickly diminishing. I thought about my directions, possible miscommunication, the wrong bus stop, traffic. I forgot whether or not I included hostel information in my emails. I saw other people greet their families, other couples scamper off. I was getting hungry. I put on the sunglasses Aaron lent me in Amsterdam and tried not to let my disappointment show.

When he arrived minutes later, I did not even see him. He ran towards me and when it registered, I burst into tears. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, anxiously. “I thought you looked mad at me but how could you be? Ah man, I just got off the bus!”

We spent the next half hour under a tree just holding each other.

I think about that moment now, the month then spent, and how we were actually young; that is, our relationship was young. I had only known him for five months and most - if not all my relationships - were doomed by the four month mark. I could eyeball their detonations if I did not explode them myself out of sheer impatience. But there he was, in Paris with me, and more than a year later, here we still are.

I think about that now and I wonder how much harder the year(s?) long interim will be. How much more he will mean to me by the time of my next departure.

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