My lover is ill. That sucks, because it sucks being ill and (if you haven't worked this out already) my new job, which I start TOMORROW, involves making people better, and because I have to be here and she has to be there, I can't actually be there to try and make her better. And that really sucks.
I've been doing the best I can, and my most recent idea was to continue what I've been doing recently, and that's to read her chapters of a book, like a parent reading to a child at bedtime, except she isn't a child and I'm not a parent. (Yet. Maybe at some point in the future, who knows?) I started this venture over the weekend, when she was feeling sick and I recommended The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge; opinion is divided as to its merits, but you can't argue with the fact that its descriptive powers are exemplary, and the setting and characters are as sweet at Lush Snow Fairy. Plus, I read it over a year ago and I loved it, and regretted not reading it at 8, its target age. I may get a copy for my young cousins, actually...
So I started reading it to her. It's actually a very loving thing to do. There I was, sitting in a double bed with a naked girl next to me, and I was reading her a children's novel. And she was listening to my voice, and grinning at the gentle humour, and I, being an actor and all, was doing all the voices and reading in my 'soft, descriptive' slightly middle-class voice.
And she called me today.
I didn't know what to do, because I can hardly send healing powers through the mobile lines. But my heart gave me a squeeze and the idea of reading her another chapter came to me. And so I vaulted over to the bed, and proceeded to continue with The Little White Horse - and we were both back in Moonacre for the next 15 minutes.
And if that isn't love, what is?