He pried most of it out of me, bit by gentle bit, by just being there, listening to me, being himself. We're on a new round of renewals, it looks like. He is enigmatically ever himself, and stress in my life is pouring on, inversely proportional to the stress in his, it seems. The balance has flipped, and he's the strong one again.
I managed to squeak out a stammering declaration of my appreciation and awe every time he divides his leisure time to take care of me. This was recieved with good grace and tenderness.
He had no wise words to offer me for the apprehension of no longer being close enough to the Little Fayoumis to be there as needed, but he was there for me, and for that I was grateful. In lieu of wise words, he offered me smartassed ones after I'd had time to go "Aiiigh!" at him.
Yes, there are many reasons I love this man. One of them is the suggestion he followed up with, about the textbook, and what I could do with it. (Beat myself over the head with it in his absence. Sheesh.)
We giggled together, and he shared silliness from his morning and from his mother's workplace. And a "We'll see..." on the prospect of arranging a regular time for hanging out is the best news on that I've heard all year.
An hour and 10 minutes. It was good to hear his voice. It was good to hear his silences. It was good to spend time together with him.
Somewhat later, a friend of the household showed up: Mr. Shallow, in his remarkably less-shallow alter ego. I got hugs, and he got backrubs. We had a long-necessary conversation, which was followed by both Mr. Shallow and Mr. Not-so-Shallow getting teased by, and then teasing, the Lunatic.