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We went out with friends last evening and I was reminded, looking across the bar table at him, that I really do love this guy I live with. Crazy as he makes me with what I blame on his manliness but is really some other fucked-up thing. I think. Maybe it is just a man thing. Horrible thought.

I asked him on the drive there, “How would you feel about me taking a job at one of those fly-in camps way up north, where you’re there a couple weeks and then home a couple weeks?”

His reply: “What difference would it make? There’d be no supper ready sometimes when I get home.”

That’s what I am to him, a person who “sometimes” prepares supper.

He can’t seem to help being a dinkeye. Perhaps I should just feel sorry for him.

One beer I had, and two shots of black sambuca, sipped, over about three hours. But a good night’s sleep afterward? What’s that? Mustabin the sambuca. Felt like I was awake all night. Maybe it’s because I came home and worked for an hour or two, to get some articles submitted before midnight. Maybe my brain wasn’t shutting off.

Slept till almost 11 this morning, though some of the lying-in was dozing off and on while listening to the CBC morning radio that comes on as my wake-up alarm.

I did, though, lying under the covers, look around my sunny office and remember that my life is actually pretty damn good. There are only two of us living in this relatively small house, and not 13 or 30 as is the situation for many. We have costly problems, but the ability and opportunity to earn the money to manage them and, in Fella’s case, the skills. We aren’t staying in a tent or uninsulated shack in this winter weather. And, pissed off as I am at my partner, my heart still excitedly skips a beat when his truck drives into the yard.

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