I suppose you could say that the sign of a good holiday is being ill afterward. What do you call it when you get sick while you're still there? What do you call being swathed in hotel blankets and shivering and damning London rain to hell? What's the most graceful way of saying, "I'm too old for this crap?"
It's two months today, you know. Two months ago, I was in Toronto, in alternating moments of shock and pain, and it was the very last day of good weather for the year. The sun was warm on my arms as I smoked cigarette after cigarette; two months later, and I haven't smoked in 48 hours because enough is enough, even for a holiday. Gross.
Two months. In two months, I've gone to two whole other countries, cried a river of tears, been surrounded by friends old and new, indulged in manic and desperate laughter, and experienced the passing of time only as something that happens in the background.
And now I'm sitting, bleary-eyed and exhausted, on the last night of my escape. The one thing I didn't realize about getting away is that you can convince yourself that nothing has changed. In the last six days, I've only ever had to think about Frankie walking and talking and there, and now, I'm on the last night away, and I've got to go back to facing the truth.
It's difficult, you know? I didn't expect it to be this way.
I should pack. It's time to go home.
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