Bereft

My friend Richard has left for England. For some people that would probably evoke the response “finally!”

And with reason. For the past month, I’ve had, hidden but unbeknownst to me, this odd button that just presses against my gut, every time I think of the fact that he was leaving. That there is a Brisbane without him in it, that I’m in a Richard-less city.

I’ve been his pillar of strength through thick and thin, but in all honesty, on things that truly matter, it’s been the other way around. I’ve appreciated his kindness, been stimulated by his intelligence, and most of all felt a bit like a wondrous creature in his presence. I sensed there was always something about me that fascinated him, and I think I’ve been trying to discover what it was along with him.

But that also means I’ve never really cried in his presence – be it with him or to him or for him. The closest I came to was on the phone, when I was in the death throes of my past relationship. Therefore he doesn’t have the slightest clue about an aspect of me that’s common knowledge to many of my other friends and family, namely what phenomenal waterworks I possess. ( Hence in a way they’d be relieved to know the ‘event’ has finally occurred ).

From the time he messaged me saying he’d written his resignation letter, a little more than a month ago, I’ve been given to random bouts of tears, at sudden times in sudden places. Some friends have been witness to it, but it’s mostly been when I’m driving and have my thoughts to myself – which is not a very safe thing. But the most alarming was when a kind lady I know from work listened to my diatribe and casually put her finger on the core of it – “you two have a soul connection, don’t you.” I obviously never cry at work, so we both pretended that stray tear peeking out of my right eyelid was invisible.

And as the irony should go, of course, when Richard did come over one night before leaving, for a last goodbye, I willed myself not to lose control, and I didn’t. He had this months-long idea of us watching the very last episode ever of Six Feet Under, which he’d taped and not watched on purpose – SFU was our thing. Of course, after prolonged attempts by a very ‘manly’ Richard to hook up his VCR to my TV, it turned out the episode hadn’t been taped at all, and we only kept coming across annoying footage of ‘Phone Booth’ on the video. It was a classic last night.

And of course, still very much in keeping with us, he cried, and I didn’t, as he left. I could almost see the disappointment in his damp eyes as they searched mine, wondering if they would ever moisten.

If only he could see me now.

My life cannot be busier at the moment. My work keeps me on my toes, my demeanour attracts all kinds of people who come up to me and just start confiding, my postgrad plans keeps my intellect stimulated, my social life has gone through the roof so much I’m having to cancel on people, and my next two months are already quite booked up with parties and functions and dos and events.

Yet, the ground beneath has fallen away. Everything is shaky, and all that was constant is now adrift. At times I’m so unbalanced I almost get dizzy.

Because he’s missing.

He’s missing, and I’m bereft.