I walked out of work tonight into the fog and I wished I was getting a Dr. Pepper.

I don’t drink pop. I haven’t for over two years now. I wanted to go get one from the 7-11 down the street from my house, in a Big Gulp, but only because I force him to re-use cups.

But he isn’t there. There is no one to get a Dr. Pepper and Snickers bar for. He is sweltering, in the jungle, without me.

We spent a month trying to get as close to each other as possible, squeezing close enough to rid ourselves of that final centimeter of air between our bodies. We cooked together and he made fun of me for re-using Ziploc bags. We ate burritos from every place in town that we could.
He got me Slurpees from a different 7-11, because that is where they had the blue vanilla ones when I was dying of post-tonsillectomy pain. He made me chao.

When we are apart, our conversations are pretty simple.

“I miss you.”

“I love you so much.”

It’s never really been about what we say. I know that when he wakes up, he feels that ping of sadness when he realizes there are no morning kisses. I miss the feeling of his breath on the back of my neck when he says “I love you,” like he did the first time.

Our whole relationship has been apart, whether 45 minutes or across the country or across the world. Somehow, we make it. We’re OK.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to go get a Dr. Pepper right now.