The buzzkill on our Charlottenburg experience had me tossing and turning under the Madison's downy comforter. I thought about all the places I'd been in the last month and all the times I'd missed William. My cheeks burned. I'd miscalculated. I'd come rushing back to Berlin believing we both wanted the same thing. That we were on the same page. That we could go forward.
An emotional life of skyscraping heights — and falls — had become tiresome. My acting career had worn me raw, with as much drama offstage as on. Too many near-misses. Too many "you got the job" triumphs, followed by months of perilous bill-paying. A jagged confidence, and angry glances at a telephone that refused to ring. Too many auditions. Too few auditions. Hopes attached to the short film I had directed getting into film festivals. Too many rejection letters.
I didn't want to be in a movie of my life anymore. I wanted stability and staidness, and I wanted us to be together in the same kitchen or in the same living room watching the same television show. And I wanted it yesterday, or soon, or sooner.
But one person alone couldn't make this happen, and if he wasn't with me, then perhaps I was best living alone with a quiet routine, and not racing my heart around the world. I looked over at William's face, lit by a waning moon. He was fast asleep and I envied his peace. His only clock was the morning alarm to get him up and off to work on the types of movies that held the promise of the life I longed for.
In the morning, we showered, dressed and took the elevator downstairs. We hugged and whispered "Six weeks." I waved good-bye from the bus window. William stood on the sidewalk in a grey drizzle, blew me a kiss and mouthed I love you. I smiled with my mouth in a quivery line.
I wanted the driver to be the same burly fellow who brought me here thirty days previous, but he was not. Life does not bookend itself into such clean completion. I wandered around Tegel airport...more lost than when I'd arrived a month ago.
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