I am, what you would call, "really sick." I shouldn't have gone to work yesterday, but then my timesheet would have had to be completed by my boss, who would have questioned the distribution of the projects I would have had to tell her to charge (because she did that anyway), so it was best that I tie up those loose ends. At least I was able to justify my workload and move on.This pointless pap is not why you read 'Vestiges,' though, so shall we move on to something else?

Very well, then. Mr. Renaissance is decidedly busy this Christmas season and "in al honesty" [sic] probably won't be able to begin our sessions til after the new year. That makes sense actually, a lot of sense, so why am I the teensiest bit upset? Why, when I have a debilitating bug that has drained all of the palour out of my face, that has disabled my hair-styling capabilities, that has changed the fullness of my kissable little lips that I know secretly torment him, would I want him over here now drawing me or even seeing me while he teaches my precious friend, Sarahbina the guitar? Why, when I knew, intuitively, that this project should not begin until the new year do I feel so let down to know that my intuition was correct?

Because I wanted to see him, that's why. Just seeing Mr. R conveys him more fully to my heart that is already swollen with love for him.

Last year, a few days before the coming of 2002, he came to my house for a post-Christmas dinner. Sarahbina and her Michael were also in attendance. It was at that dinner that he asked me to attend a New Year's Eve party with him. I think I dread the new year this time around because now that I've spent it with him once, the thought of not being asked to do so again is disappointing to say very least.

This is why I want a sinister and beautiful stanger to take me out for drinks and dancing, so I won't have to be so mindful of Mr. Renaissance's beautiful hands, his strong arms, his luscious mouth, or to remember the sensuality of holding onto him for hours while we rode around on his motorcycle, or any of a thousand other things I think about every minute of the day, on any given day. So, until the moment he says to me, "Kate, enough of this damn charade! You're mine and I am yours, we both know it, so let's start acting like we know it!" I have to keep stradling that fine line between the reality of our situation and what my intuition says.

In other news, my flat is a mess (more implications of being, what you would call, "really sick.")