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I caught the weather on teevee the other night, a rare thing in my house as the channel usually lands on something involving dinosaurs, Disney characters or (lately) beautiful men dripping wet.  Er, that last one is only for me.

Nothing in the report caught my attention but for the almanac.  The meteorologist lingered over the fact that a few years back, my area had experienced record low temperatures.  Mid-August’s usually sweltering days had given way to highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s; reading the facts and dates brought me vividly back to that year.

My eldest child was on the cusp of entering school.  The little ones hadn’t yet been born.  I was enjoying more free time than I’d had in years, and during the cold streak in question I’d been using the hours after her bedtime to read on the back porch.

Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light.  It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.

But on the chilliest Friday something was different.  Was it hormones?  An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness?  Too long since our last attempt at sex?  I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever.  I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer.  “Can we have some time alone this weekend?  Maybe tonight?  Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.

“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered.  “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday.  Maybe early next week?”

And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.

It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship.  I cried, book and tea forgotten as the idea of an entire weekend without any sort of physical solice from him sunk into my brain.  I cried for over an hour as it grew chilly and dark, and if my neighbors peeked out their windows and wondered whatever was the matter with me I could not have cared any less.

Eventually I fetched my paper journal and wrote for a while, calming down as pen pushed hard against paper.  It wasn’t enough to cure the bitter loneliness, but it was enough to keep me going for a few more days.

Now, several years later, I think I should have known better.  I should have known then.  But finally I figured it out — we both figured it out — and neither one of us will ever have to spend another weekend where we’re together but so painfully far apart.