The Time Traveller's Wife

I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.

Why has he gone where I cannot follow?

His hair is standing up every which way and without thinking I smooth mine down, as though he were a mirror. He does the same, and we smile.

Holy shit, I’ve gone all the way back to the Stone Age

All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of Clare’s long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under Clare’s breasts, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked.

I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.

Sometimes it feels as though your attention has wandered for just an instant. Then, with a start, you realize that the book you were holding, the red plaid cotton shirt with white buttons, the favorite black jeans and the maroon socks with an almost-hole in one heel, the living room, the about-to-whistle tea kettle in the kitchen: all of these have vanished.

How does it feel?

It feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realize that you have to take a test you haven’t studied for and you aren’t wearing any clothes. And you’ve left your wallet at home.

Why has he gone where I cannot follow?

Why is love intensified by absence?