the time traveler's wife

as i turned the last page in my book my heart sank, and i needed to hear his voice. i reached beside me into a void in my purse where my cell phone should have been. i fumbled through pockets that house an abundance of paper, chapstick, and ink pens. my efforts turned up only my keys, which i took eagerly, flinging the door to my edit bay open, just to reach you. i had almost forgotten to ask permission, or merely inform my producer of where i was headed. as i reached my car i confirmed how predictable i am, my cell phone hidden under a pile of cds and strawberry mint gum. i began to dial your number but my cell phone did not respond. the battery had met its demise while waiting in the car. and for reasons seemingly unprovoked, i leaned my head against the door and began to cry.

i just needed to be near you. the character in the book was you, and in the book i was your lover, and the story ended so unpleasantly that i couldn't bear the idea of the characters ending up the way they had. i had gotten so involved between the pages of this book. it took nearly an entire night to recover from those pages; i wished they were endless. i wished the characters were invincible. i wished him and i were invincible. i wished we could be guaranteed to always be in love, and come home safely to each other. the book seemed to introduce me to the reality of knowing that one day him and i will have our last kiss. i cannot be comforted, even if i was told that our last kiss would be when we both will reach nearly 100 years old. i will never be satisfied with endings. my heart would break in 80 years the same as it would today.