Tuesday 13th December
Back home four days and it's bliss. Shutting down like the trees is much easier in your own place. I logon for the first time and try my work mail account, just in case it's not been shut down. It hasn't.
Email from green eyes sitting there.
From four weeks ago.
To the day.
He's worried about my silence. He'd love to see me again, he has nice memories of me but it's all seeming distant. I know what he means. But he wrote. He hopes I'm keeping well. He wrote. In that dark sad way of his. That 'Darcy Dancer' way he has about him. Heartbreakingly attractive. Why the hell is that?
So I write back and tell him part of the truth. That I've been in hospital then the countryside with no access to that account. I miss out that I didn't ask him to meet me coz I was waiting on him suggesting it. He's the one in the relationship, it has to come from him. It didn't. Well, it did, but too late. I don't tell him how sad I've been thinking he wasn't writing to me, that his 'dream home' note was a kiss off, that I didn't write from hotmail because of pride. To prove what exactly I don't know. To prove I don't need to lean. To not do a 'sweet gardener', not again, not that, not when the world was so beautiful and I was in it, back in it. Not that.
I didn't tell him that I was hurt he didn't write back when I sent the note about going into hospital. Now I think he's just a bloke that can't ask about stuff like that. Who freaks out. Then calms down and pads back to ask "Whazzup?
You're not mine green eyes. That's the only thing thazzup with me.
I tell him I'd love to see him too. Perhaps another time. I don't tell him that I'm so happy to hear from him, I could cry.
It's a glorious day and I drive to Newton Dee then Crathes Castle. I guerrilla chi gung in the walled garden. I feel serene. Then LB texts me. He's working out why he wants women who don't want him and not women who do. God love him. I recommended a codependency book which he can't put down coz he's freaked out. He's has all the symptoms. I tell him green eyes wrote afterall. He doesn't text back.
Then a weird thing happened. A woman in her late sixties, hips like a sideboard, made worse by the fact that she'd kept her pre-war winter coat, wearing brogues and an 1940's handbag, was pacing under the central tree, looking at her watch periodically. She was so out of time in her dress, I expected to see a gas mask over her shoulder. She paced and came round nearby me but not close, then paced again looking at her watch. I thought perhaps she was a ghost. So big and bulky, but disappearing then reappearing in the winter shapes of the hard-pruned shrubs.
It doesn't stop me chi gunning the garden though. Nothing can stop me today.
Because he wrote.