Twenty Minutes

I moved my things over to Martin’s house a little at a time. First, a box of books and some family photos. Then, some of my shoes (my summer flip-flops, wellies, strappy heels, all the ones I don’t regularly wear). A few weeks later, my thick winter coats made the move from West London to the South East. The final move was all of my clothes. One large suitcase and one massive canvas bag, both stuffed full.

The gradual move was nice, both mentally for me and in practical terms as well. I had become so fiercely independent in the past couple of years; living in my own bachelor apartment for a year in Vancouver and then living in a very non-social share house for over a year and a half. I liked my space and wasn’t sure how I’d feel when it was gone.

It’s been almost two months of cohabitation and I think Martin and I both agree that it’s been going very well. Better, in fact, than I ever imagined. Along with a hot cup of coffee, Martin makes me laugh and smile every morning. This, in itself, is amazing; I’m not, shall we say, usually a ‘morning person’. We watch the news together for about twenty minutes before I have to run off to catch the 7:34 train to London Bridge. This is my favourite time. Before I join the manic buzz of commuters, before my day is filled with teas and coffees and stationery and business cards and couriers and dealing with meetings that have not been booked. I snuggle against him. Sipping my coffee. The coffee he made for me. Those twenty minutes of calm, shared space, I wouldn’t give up for anything. It’s during those twenty minutes that I know we’ve made the right decision.

Officially, I have 47 days left before my visa expires. It cannot be extended. I cannot transfer it. I must legally leave the country by June 13th. I plan on taking advantage of every moment.

 But… I will be coming back. I think I would miss those twenty minutes far too much.