Until then, I climb the walls, I gnaw my nails, I count the days. I’m kept in a constant state of readiness . He could text me in a moment to announce he’s back. He’s here. Come on, saucy, get your coat! Or he could fall mute for months: cold and unobtainable in the frozen north. There’s no way of knowing when he’ll pounce. No way of knowing why I endure this and why I adore him.
He’s always on my mind, so much so that when I catch myself not thinking of him my mind sags with relief, released from the terrible torture of The Clown. My mental energy is constantly stretched tight and tensed, like an elastic band, on thoughts of him and when the real world intrudes, as it often has to, the elastic relaxes, and I can relax with it, only to be stretched and taut with Clown thoughts once again. It’s exhausting.
And he keeps up the suspense. He sends me tormenting texts every few days, just to keep me on my toes. Or on my knees. He knows very well what he’s doing. I’ve just never been able to work out why he’s doing it.
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Caligula Would Have Blushed 