And we all fall down.

He's gone for now, to China like the last one. But not forever this time, he says. I spend the nights alone in his empty, suddenly unfamiliar house that is not quite a home. I miss him sometimes but almost always out of loneliness. And though I've found ways to love even his least endearing habits, gestures and behaviors, it is never quite so easy. I imagine this would be true of any other person I might make the conscience decision to accept.

As his presence in the house, the clothes strewn about, the dishes left unwashed, the mind numbing clutter of possessions, are obsessively put back, washed and placed behind closed doors, bits and pieces of who I am reemerge.

Sometimes, usually at night, I find myself wandering over to the plain kitchen drawer, opening it with the smile of childish anticipation and clawing at the back to find that little box. I open it, never carefully, and slip the blindingly sparkling thing on my finger. I walk around looking at it from different angles, passing by mirrors in different rooms not because I am curious if it looks good but wondering if I can be that person. Most days, it seems so easy. As if I might be able to float along, unapologetically accepting to be this phantom of a person. If not for love or money, then what. The cursor on the screen blinks back.

And while I've written any answer off for six odd months or more, it doesn't lessen the omnipresence of the ever imposing question. Of course what I mean is that to answer that question I have to decide to be somebody instead of slipping through life as anybody.