Twelve weeks ago, tonight, after Jen and Walter's housewarming, John and I went to his house and had unprotected sex. The very next night, while I was at a friend's movie party, he fucked a tall, thin, twenty-something with long hair and bad skin. Thus, beginning one of the worst weeks of my life (so far ...).
A little black spot, a reminder, has been on my calendar since then: August 25th, HIV test. Make an appointment. How hard can that be?
So hard I still haven't done it.
I make excuses.
I'll do it during lunch.
I'll do it tomorrow.
Oops. They don't do testing on the weekend.
I'll wait until Monday.
Hm. I don't finish work on time.
I'll wait until Wednesday.
Maybe if I wait long enough, the worry will go away. Maybe it will wilt and die like a neglected plant. Maybe it will fade like an old memory.
I don't know if it's the results that scare me or if it's the finality ~
He cheated. I have to get tested. It really is over.
Sometimes I miss him. At night, his arms wrapped around me, our bodies pressed together.
I miss him ... until I remember I was losing myself. I stopped doing so many things I loved ... experimental cooking lost its joy, taking classes no longer interested me, even my knitting lagged ... I took bags of my things from his house when I left. He left nothing at mine, not even a toothbrush.
I was being absorbed by his life little pieces at a time. And, now, I'm starting to reclaim myself.
The test ...