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Going The Distance

© Ceg Richardson

Frozen chicken cacciatore waits for me in an icebox four hundred miles away. It could be thawed by the time I make the eight hour drive. Of course, I'd probably be too tired from the trip to actually want to eat it, and I'd have to skip dessert in order to return home in time for tomorrow's work day. So, the chicken remains in the freezer, the candles in the drawer, the wineglasses on the shelf. All leftovers from my last visit stay tucked away just where I left them, patiently awaiting the next opportunity to serve as props in a quiet dinner for two. Waiting along with them is Jean-Marc, the man whose freezer houses the chicken, and whose apartment houses me as often I can get there.

He waits for my call, as the only travel tonight between my New York home and his in Quebec will be via telephone wires, while we share dinner conversation from across the miles instead of across the table. Not quite the romantic evening of our dreams, but it's what we manage in the reality of our long distance relationship.

Four hundred miles, customs agents, baggage check, document inspection, bus depots, train stations, rental cars, ticket lines...these are just a few of the components of our current reality. They are the barriers we encounter every few weeks so that we may steal a weekend visit. Travel weary we celebrate togetherness, only to become increasingly aware of the clock selfishly ticking our moments away.

We contemplate our obstacles: our jobs, our responsibilities...the loose ends we dragged, hanging from our coattails, into this union, tripping over them as we fell in love. They keep us in seperate homes, seperate worlds. Maintaining our relationship means accepting that these ties will only allow so much slack before reeling us back to our respective places of belonging. From those places we bide our time--counting the days until our next meeting, while gauging the time it will take to lace up or cut off the fraying obligations so that we may be free to share one world.

In the meantime we cope--with the tears, the lonely days, the soaring phone bills and travel expenses. We compromise, we sacrifice, we become masters of creative scheduling. We maximize our time together and try to minimize the frustrations that come with being a couple yet living single.

If I make this sound easy, I am remiss. Living apart is hard. I find little solace in settling for a phone call when what I really need is to be held. However, more unsettling is the notion of trading Jean-Marc for someone with a pair of arms at close proximity. So coping sometimes means conjuring up the inner strength to rely on during tough times, when what I'd really like to conjure up is an all out temper tantrum.

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