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They’ve told me everything from how I don’t deserve Rand (Well, duh, assholes.) to what a talentless moron I am (Meh. It’s all I can do not to scream and heave my laptop down the stairs, before I remember: they’re wrong. They don’t know how he looks when he wakes up in the morning. If they don’t know him, don’t know what he does for a living, they’ll stare at me, blankly, not understanding. What kind of madman voluntarily works on a Friday night? Someone who doesn’t pout when I accidentally wash brownie batter out of the bowl before he can eat it. That I still can miss him so acutely, even after ten years, has been perhaps the biggest surprise. They aren’t the experts on the innerworkings of his soul and brain. If I listen carefully, I can hear the click of his computer. On the rare night that he goes to bed before me, or at the same time, I have trouble nodding off. I’m lucky: my husband finds the nonstop stream of vitriol emerging from my mouth to be adorable. I once told the board member of a prestigious national newspaper that modern journalism was “a bunch of crap” (I didn’t realize he was in the field at the time). The only thing I found that I could be sure of was the clicking of his keyboard from the other room, or, on nights when he was out of town, just the thought of it.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be doing what he was, or that I wanted what he had.
But not everyone wants to hang out with me – and yet, how can they tell me that?
This was one of the harder things I’ve had to accept, and I’m still not there. I want to hang out, find out what makes them tic, to learn all about the people who created this amazing, wonderful company he’s so passionate about. I let other folks set the terms of what our relationship will be.
We’re having fun, but as the night trickles on, I’ll see him check his watch nervously, and then his phone. I have to get going.” I sigh, but since I know it’s coming, I’m not too upset.
It doesn’t matter, really – it’s happened so many times that it could be any event. And finally, with a half frown he’ll say, “I’m sorry, guys.
I miss you all the time.” It’s that simple, really.