It is this act that showed you he has kept alive the hope that one day you and he would be together for good. The act that not only told you the ball’s in your court now, but also that he’s a willing participant in the game this time.
That he’s not running, not hiding anymore.
But every time you leave him to go back to NY, to go back to the art and the shows and the hunt—or he leaves you to go back to the Pitts, back to the same ol’ grind of meetings and clubs and work and the gang—he lays you down on the bed, looks into your eyes, entwines his fingers with yours, and makes love to you as if doing it for the very last time.
And you don’t know why that is. You don’t know how to deal with it. And you can’t beat the bleakness that pervades your being at that moment.
Even after six years of loving him and knowing him and being flabbergasted by him and being given everything that you ever asked for to the extent that you feel yes, you’ve finally slayed all the dragons and know his heart and his soul, he does something that makes you realize that he will always be the most beautiful and the most irritatingly enigmatic creature you will ever come across.