It’s not like I’m writing anywhere else, either, she said dismissively.

It’s that I don’t know what to say– whatever is on my mind is so fleeting and I don’t have the attention span or something like it to follow a thought to its conclusion. Used to be that writing was the way out of that merry-go-round of non sequiturs. Now, nothing is.

It’s like– I’ve been trying to bury my head in pillows and sleep until my husband comes home mid-December. Most nights, I’m in bed by 9:00. I have no problem sleeping. I sleep until the alarm at 6:00, and then the dog and I go out into what still feels an awful lot like the night, and we circle around the neighborhood in the same pattern. Tea. Banana. Shower. Hairdryer. NPR and raindrops.

The school day lifts me up– it’s in front of the kids that I find my voice again and can tell them things about myself and make them true. It’s always been the storytelling that gives the events their meaning. Kids, I say, I haven’t seen my husband in a month. He’s building a set and is directing a play and going to classes full time, so he has no time to visit. I like this fantasy husband I’ve described. He’s the one I’ve dreamt about with creative aspirations and talent and the respect of his peers, and the respect of his wife (me). But if I want to visit him, I have to find someone to watch the dog. I have to put off laundry until I return. I have to come home to an empty refrigerator and weekend chores undone. My niece-in-law was going to watch the house, but she threw a party the first time, and she ordered a ton of movies (for not-free) the second, and I will not be lied to. I have a boundary line that, once crossed, is not to be crossed again. And anyway, if I visited him, he would not be home. The set construction; the rehearsal. And now a job offer. This is what we both wanted. The job offer is not enough money to change our lives. The job offer is enough money to keep us living apart. The choice is between pursuit of a career and the stability of a marriage that does not operate on the terms of long distance.

In front of the kids, I discuss the Ramayana, the Hindu epic wherein a woman is abducted from her husband and lives in exile. He searches for her and wages a war for her. When he finally reunites with her, he is cold to her. The distance has killed it. He suspects that she has been unfaithful, or he fears she has been, and his fears are so great, he cannot really love her again. She throws herself onto a pyre and emerges from the flames unscathed. I ask them– what is exile? I ask them– how are these flames a metaphor? What is that burning, is it the mourning in a relationship that asks for transformation to keep it alive?

Rain and NPR on the way home. Frisbee with the dog in the rain. Home improvement show, NBC Nightly news. Google Hangout with pixilated husband now with neck beard. No one is there to complain that it itches. He has one hour to talk before his next thing. He says he misses someone to come home to. He says he misses someone to sleep next to. He says he misses someone to watch movies with. He rarely says that he misses me– it’s implied. But I think about him what I have always thought about all men– that he would love whomever he married with as much passion as he would have for anyone else. He likes being married. He likes a warm body in the night. Then I realize that when I have gone through break-ups, I decide something similar about whomever I’m separating myself from. I could be anyone. It’s not me you love, I think. It’s someone.

But isn’t it true? Men remarry so quickly after the first divorce. And isn’t it true that if I were to live here alone that I would be just fine eventually? Go out with friends again. Read more. Maybe type away in this window on Saturday mornings with a big mug of coffee and a heart full of angst. Isn’t that a much more comfortable and familiar existence?

8:30. Conversation over. Brush teeth. Vitamins. Irrelevant supplements to regulate a cycle that for now makes no difference whatsoever. Note that menstruation has lasted for three weeks, but makes no difference except inconvenience. Bed with dog and the first ten minutes of whatever episode of whatever show. Middle of the night barking. Middle of the night checking of locks and releasing of the dog to bark into the night.

While the dog is busy barking at nothing in the dead hours, my husband’s roommate who is 25 and still fascinated by jello shots will post something on a social networking site that I will not understand. It’s an inside joke, and he’s tagged in it. I used to be his roommate. Other people are getting the best of him.