He’s only been gone three weeks, but it feels like three years. Three figurative years ago we were spending 12 hours in bed at least every two days. Now I’m lucky to receive an email from him once a week. In his last email, he wrote, “What is the point of being worry about us being so farrrrrr don’t you think so?” This was a response to an email I sent him, expressing my worry because our last phone conversation was cut off, and he didn’t call back or email for over a week while he was supposedly alone, driving a truck on an unfamiliar route from Texas to Veracruz where he was planning to visit his criminal padre. I suppose it was ridiculous of me to be the slightest bit concerned for his wellbeing.
And why on earth would I feel strange about him recalling my gray eyes when they are clearly greenish blue?
Mostly I agree with him; there is no point in worrying about a long-distance lover … as long as you know he’s safe. I’m not worried anymore. But I can’t say I’m happy about the abrupt transition from frequent love marathons to sporadic virtual correspondence. “Do not let me to forget you, please,” he wrote toward the end of his email. Sure, no problem! You make it so easy when my correspondence keeps falling into an abyss! As soon as someone says, “Don’t let me…” you’d be foolish to think he isn’t already on his way to doing whatever it is he’s begging you not to let him do.
I’m not a virgin to long-distance love. My first love was French. We met while I was studying abroad and after about four months of bliss, we were torn apart by the callings of higher education. Despite the tears, the maddening obstacle of an ocean fulfilled my ideals of romantic love. And so we embarked on a passionate letter exchange—yes, actual hand-written paper letters—that, along with some extended holidays, carried us through a year and a half relationship. Distance was not an impediment until the end, when reality supplanted romance. Despite the heartbreak, I knew that if there had been no ocean roaring between us, our passion might have turned into a stagnant lake. If one of us had moved to be with the other, if we had married at 23, where would we be now?
Well, for one thing, I probably wouldn’t be so hopelessly drawn to sexy foreigners. At the expense of the first love becoming a template for subsequent relationships, I was fortunate to learn at a young age that distance is the most powerful aphrodisiac. It explains why so many married people don’t have sex. The natural inclination is to want to be closer to your lover, eliminate your otherness through minimization of physical space and uncensored disclosure, because it’s assumed that the more gaps you fill, the greater intimacy you’ll share. I learned through experience that the opposite is true. Distance keeps eroticism alive, even in long-term committed relationships. As Esther Perel says in her book, Mating in Captivity: Reconciling the Erotic and the Domestic, “In order to bring lust home, we need to re-create the distance that we worked so hard to bridge. Erotic intelligence is about creating distance, then bringing that space to life.”
People lament the troubles of long-distance relationships, failing to see that the most important aspect of desire is already in place. I’ve always believed in the beauty of unwanted separation as the ultimate test of true love, the heart of great stories: Tristan and Isolde, Penelope and Odysseus, Romeo and Juliet. But beyond the inspiration of pining and yearning are certain practical benefits. For those who prefer a non-monogamous lifestyle, long-distance love could be the perfect arrangement. Feelings have the potential to grow through separation, as long as communication is maintained (especially when body language isn’t an option).
Email has spoiled me. During the epistolary exchange of my youth, I didn’t mind a two-week space between letters. I reveled in the anticipation of the wait, knowing that it would not be long before I held a piece of his soul in my hand.
Email doesn’t offer this luxury. Knowing that most people check their inbox at least once a day encourages impatience. If I don’t get a reply from a lover in 24 hours, I start to wonder … Did I insult him? Is he losing interest? Is he sick? Maybe it’s just a matter of Internet access, but he hasn’t provided a phone number to allow me to find out. An email may solve that mystery, but it can’t help decipher the ambiguities inherent in the written word. Only so much can be gleaned from the space between the lines. Therein cries the pain, and the pleasure, of being so farrrrrr away.
