Young Geoffrey (ed_rex) wrote,
Young Geoffrey

April? How the Hell Did That Happen?

I refuse to join the LJ habit of apologizing for the lack of posts in recent days weeks; I refuse even to make the point that this is my journal, to use (or not) as the whim strikes me. (I will offer up an apology to a Certain Hamiltonian - who is likely not even reading this anymore, but nevermind - to whom I have owed a rebuttal for a long time even by my standards. But I digress.)

It's been an interesting few weeks.

Laura and I went through a brief rough patch during which, I think, we both showed a remarkable rationality (no, Gentle Vultures, you will not get more details than that) and I think the omens bode well, despite some emotional aftershocks.

Well, but far from assured.

Laura has been mostly staying with me for the past week, and will be for at least another - and possibly for quite some time beyond that. Her step-mother (that charmer) went south to tend to her daughter's post-partum lying-in and chose, while away, to inform Laura that she has to find another place to live.

Her sister has offered her a place to stay, as have I, despite my understanding that - given our respective chronologies, not to mention economic powers - we would be taking a very big risk.

I've suggested she take my place as her own until she's finished school for the semester, at which point we would sit down and discuss, first, how things went at such close quarters and, second (if we agreed the the past went well), what we want to do next.

She's thinking about it - as well she should. As am I, though my offer through to the spring is not conditional. I love her and, if we both believe it would be healthy for us (but - from my point of view - especially for her), I want her to stay, despite the risks involved.

And meanwhile (it's enough to make me ponder the possibility of malevealent gods, I tells ya!), she's suffering from something like a yeast infection, which between us has created enough sexual tension to power a small city for a year. Thank god for (extended, o! so extended) foreplay. I think.

All right. There's laundry in the basement and a wonderful woman in the next room, struggling with a pastiche of a chapter of Don Quixote.

Aren't you glad I'm back?

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