For at least the past year and a half, a tremendous amount of my interaction with Glenn has consisted of the two of us sitting on opposite ends of the couch with either Hudson or Jazzy, or sometimes both Hudson and Jazzy, between us, our respective laptops on our laps, the TV on in the foreground, and almost no communication at all. I sit there surfing the Internet, talking to people on Facebook, and/or playing Words With Friends while he does whatever it is he does on his computer; sporadically one of us will comment on something we've read or seen, and the other will pretend to be interested in what's being said.
It doesn't sound very satisfying, I know, and until recently I didn't think it was at all, but I'm realizing right now, at this very moment, that I was wrong. There's no other way to account for the emptiness I've felt over the past few days since we've stopped coexisting and taken up residence in opposite ends of the house or the leaden heart in my chest whenever he's in his area and I'm in mine or the low-grade depression that's been plaguing me in a constantly there, morning sickness kind of way.
I guess that, for me, at least, it's nice to know that there's somebody there, mere feet away, for me to share my life with, no matter how little life I'm verbally sharing. It's nice to know there's somebody there who I'm comfortable enough with to sit and not worry about artificially filling the silence. It's nice to know there's somebody there who will listen to me complain about my letters in Words With Friends or the crazy, right-wing, conservative status one of my friends might have posted on Facebook. Someone being there is just...nice.
Or at least it was.