Hi, I'm Mr. Right.

Or at least, I was. For several weeks previously and many odd nights beforehand, I've been Mr. Idiot-who-Got It-WRONG. Settle down, you know you're in for a long haul when it's me "blogging".

From the very first, it vaguely annoyed me. I wanted to finish that chapter, scene, mission, game, always something. Something that would make me stay up that little bit longer, usually too late as it was. But it also comforted me immensely, knowing that there was someoneone there, waiting for me when I finally did give it up and surrendered to the need for sleep.

For the first time, there was someone there. Someone who wanted - who was waiting for - me, bizarre as that concept was. Not someone who wanted the through-the-day me, the public persona me, the person I put on to got out. They were waiting for the real me that I showed her during six rollercoaster months in Montreal.

And I loved it, though I doubt I told her so.

I was just married after being unreservedly single, and I was used to my single ways and freedoms. Also, I was working all the hours I could while she couldn't work. I had no free time as it was, immediately switching from my "please myself" ways to "someone's depending on you" mode. She was horribly lonely, a stranger in a strange land, unable to do anything and knowing no one, with a five-hour time difference to anyone she did know.

I was there for her, all through those many long, depressing months, though towards the end I was reaching breaking point. Then, she was working and I had some of that "alone time" back. I could play for a few hours then sincerely devote my time to her without resentment. It was perfect. My weird shifts gave me plenty of free time to glut myself on and prepare and cook her dinner so it was ready for her as she stepped through the door from her normal 9-5, and listen to her rants (of which there were many) on the trials of the day.

As the years have rolled past, and the job hours finally normalised with a "real" job, my need and desire for free time has waned, but only slightly. I still wanted that hour or two of "alone" every day or so. The calls still came, and I always went... though it started taking longer and longer. I was being guilted into going, my own conscience perhaps unsuprisingly lacking when it came to my own wants.

Then one day, they stopped. To start with, I was secretly pleased. She's stopped pestering me, was the thought. I can go to bed only when my eyes are falling out of my head and tomorrow will suck for getting up so early.

Poor, foolish man. We all have our delusions.

Another, not-much-later day, I noticed her not noticing me. Oh, was I ever offended. I had noticed her being short-tempered the past couple of days, bitching at me without any reason to.

Ignorance is bliss.

I called her on it, and got it rapidly flung back in my face. This was a trait I had encountered on numerous occasions. I'd get pissed at her treatment of me for what were minor, trifiling things, call her on it, and she'd neatly turn them back on me with her feeling abandoned or ill-treated. Until that day, I had assumed it was just mind-tricks designed to get her own way, and I resented her for it, even though my genuine concern for her emotional well-being caused me to dismiss my own minor problems for her major ones.

On that day, I finally discovered the missing piece: She'd only get pissed at me when I'd pissed her off for a long time. She's weird that way. She doesn't get pissed at or pissy with me for no reason. It'll be no reason Mr. Oblivious is aware of, but it'll be there. I'm not Mr. Subtle. As long as there's no fights, there's no problems. I need an explosion to realise something's wrong and I'd been getting it right for so long now that I'd become complacent.

Oh, boy. A revelation.

She told me,

"Oh, you can come to bed whenever you like. I just don't care now."

Spoken in anger you know there's something to work with, apologies to be make, happy "kissy-kissy make-up" to be had. Harsher words than that were said, but spoken without heat, just as fact. Talk about a hole in your heart. That hurt. Perhaps almost as much as being ignored night after night for weeks in favour of a computer and whatever make-believe world I was inhabiting, of having to be literally dragged away from it—and feeling annoyed by this, to boot!

"Love don't live here anymore." "She stopped loving him that day." Refrains from songs went though my head, as my trivia-obsessed mind was wont to do in times of crisis. It came to a head that day. I hadn't realised the feeling behind that playful "Aaaaaandy..." could wither and die, or how much I'd miss that feeling once it was no longer there - as bone-deep stupid as that may seem. But it's true. I hadn't realised just how deeply I'd hurt her by this. I got an inkling that day, but I decided to read her blog today on an unrelated matter, instead of just her just reading out what she wanted me to hear. All the stuff she'd usually tell me, she's telling you. I've heard all this before, but not this time round. We did clear it up that day with me realising my mistake and things are on the mend, but boy, have I ever missed a lot. That's self-absorption for you.

I suck. When I get back to being Mr. Right, I'll let you know.

Baby, I'm sorry, and I love you. I'm going to make it worth your while to care again.