Paul goes away for business a lot, and I try not to think about how OK I am with it. I’m OK, you’re OK. We’re OK, I tell people.
I neatly fold that thought up and put it in a drawer, along with the single hair on my chin and the TV show they just canceled that I was heavily relying on to get me through the next few years maybe. But I’m OK. If the place I order takeout from most nights ever closes, I’ll confront all these feelings in one drunken argument that will end with me telling Paul I like it better on my own anyway. But for now we’re OK. What we are is what that little word, OK, is for.
