Over the past few months, as I found myself spending more and more time with Jess, I also found more and more of her stuff migrating its way into my apartment. My shower – which formerly contained one shampoo, one face wash, and one body wash – exploded with a proliferation of indistinguishable bottles, tubs and tubes. Dresses, shirts and shoes began to crowd my closet. Books and books and more books and magazines began to appear bedside and on shelves and windowsills.

All of which, actually, made perfect sense – my bed being more comfortable than hers, we were spending pretty much every night together in my place, and it seemed silly for her to head back continually to hers just to pick up clothing and other odds and ends.

So, when we determined that her lease was ending at the end of this month, we decided to simply cut to the chase and move in together.

I repeat: we are moving in together. Or, rather, we more or less already have; after countless duffel bag trips by taxi throughout December, nearly everything she wants to keep is now here in my / our apartment.

Nonetheless, the point of this entry isn’t Jess moving in, but rather her (temporarily) heading back out. As her sister is home from college, Jess trained up yesterday to Boston to spend time with her family for the week. And I, in turn, with my parents in from California, am staying here in New York to wrangle my own kin – immediate and extended.

So, now, my apartment is back to the way it was before – just me. And as much as it’s the moving in together that seems like it should be a big deal, should be totally freaking me out, it’s the being here by myself that actually seems strange, not quite right.

Which, when I think about, is probably an excellent sign.