Hal's Diary

I hesitate to use the royal 'we,' but after the ground my partner and I covered this week, a little grandeur feels earned. As of writing, it’s been almost two weeks since my partner has lived here. It’s difficult to write an entry that doesn’t seem overly descriptive, so I’ll tell you how it is. We began our long distance relationship almost a year ago. The man I love (even love seems like an understatement) is currently in his pyjamas eating a smoked salmon sandwich with one hand, typing on his MacBook with the other, glasses slipping slightly from the bridge of his nose. We now reside in a small Scottish town. Neither of us are Scottish, but the people here are immensely warm, wonderful and strong in character. That’s the Scots for you. I was worried at first that displays of affection would cause someone to disapprove. Back in my old town in England someone could, without hesitation, call you “gay” in a derogative way, or worse still, a “faggot”, though between queer friends “fag” is used as humourous punch-on-the-shoulder term.

Before my partner flew here, I was in the apartment alone. Days were eerily peaceful, nights calmer still. Writing: Two weeks after moving in is a difficult spot. The initial rush of moving in and unpacking has faded and the quiet neighbourhood air has set in. The reality is heavy, “I’m officially here and don’t know anyone well enough yet”. In the mornings fog rolls across the ocean, obscuring the Scottish coastline.
People keep to themselves in this town. There are signs of life, people mowing grass outside, the hiss of frequent buses and the hum of trains dashing past. I try to speak with strangers. I’ve only met two of my neighbours. Days are spent cleaning, though I’ll spare you my strange routines for now.

Feverishly, I count down the days until my partner arrives at the airport. When my website counter hits zero, one of my online friends is streaming Dr No for us to watch together. I haven’t slept. I’m awake and getting dressed for our first meeting. Light brown/cream silk shirt which forms a bow in the centre, brown trousers, black boots, cream belt and matching coat. Black flat cap. I keep pacing around the house I’d decorated in the early hours of the morning. I recheck every electrical outlet and switch in the house. I run my fingers across the top of the doorframes, shivering at the texture. I take a photograph of the front door to ensure it’s closed. Zero days remaining.

At the airport the arrival gates confuse me. Chatting with two women we realise our arrival gates are across the other side of the airport and hastily trudge to arrival gate two. Every face is scanned and rejected. I’ve studied this man. I know what clothes he’s wearing and tracked his flight. Ten minutes go by, then twenty. A text: Hey handsome, I’ve touched down and I am now at border control. I wish I could capture how it felt to see him. The rain on the windowpane forming polka dots on the side of his face. The flushed and stunned look on his face. His curly hair flipping up where the sides of his jaw began. His first words uttered how beautiful I was. I didn’t know what to say other than, “can I hold you?”.
He leaned forward and parted his lips slightly. I couldn’t kiss him, too afraid to mess it up. I wanted to hold his bags as a subtle way of gripping something that belonged to him. We were holding hands and flirting the entire cab ride home.