..... instead, I'm preoccupied with Irish Coffee and wondering whether he's ok (...he's obviously not!) and what I can do for him to help him along... A rational voice inside me says there's really nothing there for me to do. It's his baggage - whatever it is - and he will take his own time to get over this... situation. But the part that is unrespitilingly whiny me keeps hoping/thinking/wishing/wanting to do something... he has to know I love him, doesn't he? He seemed so fine on Monday, when he left, tooting his car-horn after me... and then, when I finally saw him on Friday, he told me he was alright now and he'd be fine... I guess that wasn't true, though. I don't know what to guess, really. All of it seems so... strange to me. Why do people get tired... why do they get depressed? It seems so idiotic of me to admit that I don't know... The other day, someone told me that people should learn from me how to "be happy"... or does he mean blissfully ignorant...? I'm wishing I could go right up to him, put my arms around him and tell him it's alright - whatever it is - but the sane part of me tells me he needs his space. Americans are like that - it's all about space. I still don't understand that concept completely... So this is what I've done: I've set a deadline; a deadline that is (kinda) of his own suggestion...
In the meantime, what I don't understand is this: how come I get to be the whine-pot of the century, and every one else gets away scot-free???
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