Picture this: I'm laying in bed, one-legged and in my underpants, half-heartedly reading The Tale of Genji. Robert is in the kitchen nuking some dinner before he jets off to see Eddie Izzard in concert. He only has one ticket. Bitch.

Cue terrible scream. I can think of no other way to describe this than to say it was the faggiest thing I have ever heard. Imagine that Nathan Lane and RuPaul put their hands on hot burners simultaneously and you have some approximation. Robert runs to the bathroom holding his hand and whimpering, asking if I have a first aid kit.

I find my reaction to this little scena [sic] pretty revealing. I have a pretty calm head and a pretty unflappable manner in life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I simply don't get startled very easily. You would think, therefore,that I would calmly assess the situation, analyze solutions, et cetera. Not so. You know that sinking sensation that accompanies a sudden terrible realization, such as remembering a job interview that you were due for an hour ago? Sometimes you get the same sensation seeing something terrible, like a child almost get struck by a car, or a kitten tossed into a river. That was only the first interesting thing I felt when I heard Queen Roberta pierce her index finger--ever so slightly, as it happens--with a steak knife: a heartsick terror.

After chiding him for his fagginess, I experienced another telling emotion. I began to cry. He had really scared me, and I imagined, briefly but clearly, losing him. I've kinda been a weepy mess this week anyway, and I even have teared up a couple of times during this teacher in-service we are doing--not at appropriate moments either. My table mate posits that I'm simply processing the stress of moving out of the only city I've ever known, and she is probably right. I've given up everything for Robert--kinda. He's all I've got up here, him and these Totino's Pizza rolls I'm eating while he watches Eddies Izzard. Bitch.