overdose.

It turns out that when F. has extra time, he likes to spend it with me. As in, I have spent the last four nights and most of the past five days with him. The boy is a Boyfriend, with a capital-B. He's in the lab, he's out of the lab, he's in my bed, he's back in the lab, he's kissing me in the kitchen, he's back in the lab, we're in a park, we're at a party, there's another bed, he's in the lab, he's texting me, we're eating dinner, we're eating breakfast, we're brushing our teeth, he's kissing me in his kitchen.

Three months into the relationship, with a generous two-three week break, and this has somehow become a dizzy world of inseparability. He texts for dinner and I welcome him. He emails in the morning and shows up in the night. The lab separates us and we're back together, wherever. It's not passionate enough for this, and so I don't really know what we're doing. What I do know is I have trouble saying no. And so tonight--dinner at his place with his lab friend and her amiable Swedish couchsurfer--I was determined to lay down the law and say, "I'm sleeping at my place tonight, dear." I would have control!

So imagine my frustration when, as we're driving to his place, he gently says, "If it's okay, I think I'd like to sleep alone tonight. I really need the sleep."

That was MY LINE.

This was said as a sort of churning illness was coming upon me, one of those no-food-all-day-but-lots-of-coffee toxic stomach things. And so I was becoming literally sick to my stomach, irritated that I couldn't even take control because he beat me to the chase, and was stumbling into a situation with him and his friends. It became too much. I wanted to be alone. I curled in a ball on his couch as he made crepes in the kitchen. I looked dazed. I got up for water and curled back up. Nausea. Nausea. Effing coffee.

He checked on me every so often. "What's wrong?" he plied, touching the back of my neck gently. "Is this because I said I wanted to sleep alone tonight?" He asked this softly, with concern. Well, sort of, darling, but only because I wanted the upper hand. And the coffee, aaugh, the coffee. Remind me never to drink coffee again.

Eventually the friends came, I ate half a crepe, and because he wouldn't let me drive home in my moaning, nauseous state, I took to his room and lay in his bed, miserable. Every so often the door cracked open and in he came, feeling my forehead, searching for non-stomach-related issues, saying, at one point, "You can sleep here tonight if you want."

"No," I said. "I want my own bed." (HA!)

And so he submitted to driving me back, sweetly, without complaint, dipping into theatrical French as we approached the apartment. "Pauvre petite.." he cooed, "Trop de cafe! Oh la la."

And dropped off, alone, sighing in relief, I took a cold shower and came to where I am now -- lying in front of the fan, gratefully in solitude, still feeling toxic but basking in relief on my soft, familiar, wonderful, greenish-gray bedding.

Too much. Too much oxytocin, too much dopamine, too much kissing and compromising on dinner and waking up early while he sleeps on and watching the Mel Brooks-related Youtube videos I Simply Must See. Holy crap. This is an overdose. The girl needs a break.

We have worlds, our own worlds. We'll never lose them. But we have to tend to them.