I heard from the solicitors today: whatever was blocking them appears to have been removed. I told my husband straight away.

He emailed me back to ask whether I could help him with something practical and that he wouldn’t get emotionally charged. I was intrigued, but I thought that it was probably something to do with moving out – maybe he needed me to be his guarantor or something like that.

I said that I’d do “anything within my gift” to help. He said that was a lovely way to put it.

After the usual evening routine of tea followed by the dog walk (with the regular Spanish lesson as she and I paced the streets), I sat in the chair next to him and asked him how I could help.

He was clearly nervous: I didn’t need to be the Star Trek empath Deanna Troi to sense that. It took him a while to ask. I tried to help by asking whether he needed me to be his guarantor.

He reflected on the options that I’d worked out for how we might go forward (Assessing our options). Just shows that my logical brain has a use, even for him. Actually, I am flattered that he has found it so useful because he often refers to it.

He actually wanted me to be his “front man” and (if necessary) make the arrangements himself, once he’d selected a flat.

He described his needs for somewhere to live: a ground floor flat, preferably with a little bit of outside space (but it’s not required), that’s not too far from where we live now.

He said that he felt that he really needed his own space to heal. I understood. He needs a safe space. Of course he does. These past two years have torn him up, rattled his bones, spun him inside out.

However, he doesn’t necessarily see this as the end of the relationship.

He still loves me and wants to find a way through – but we cannot live together and we both need our own space.

Gob smacked doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.

I was very emotional: it was beyond what I’d hoped for.

Of course I’d help him do this – it is the kind of practical way that I can help and express my love for him.

I’d always thought that I’d be left, that would be it. He’d walk out the front door and I would never see him again. The very thought of that breaks my heart.

… and yet …

What does this mean for my trip to see Cicero? I certainly don’t plan for anything to happen, but I hadn’t completely ruled it out: I thought I was going as a free agent — emotionally unclaimed, unbound. Now? I don’t know. I don’t think I am ready for any sexventures, but Cicero is a very sexually active creature and, well, if anything happened, it happened!

My husband has previously said that he’s a one man (or eunuch) guy, and I was willing to accept that restriction.

I suppose, if I’m honest with myself, that I feel a little confused about what the rules are now. First I thought I was free to do whatever I felt inclined to do (or not do – I’m not saying that I’d do anything).

Am I disappointed that there may be a limitation that I must accept, having at least thought that there are no longer any limitations on what I do?

Am I irritated that he seems to be vacillating about what he wants?

I know that I am glad that I can express some of the physical ways I feel about my husband with him – this I have missed and felt awkward about doing – hugs and touches. Maybe I can even invite him into the bedroom to sleep with me.

My head is spinning. The metaphorical browser tabs are open and two of them are playing music at me. There is the Shostakovich waltz that I’m learning to play (elegant, contained, tense), and – and is this telling? – The Supremes “You Keep Me Hangin’ On”.

Why is my brain playing that at me? It feels relevant, but for whom? Who is keeping who Hangin’ On?

I guess he, like me, is hanging on because he loves me, as I do him.

After all my relationship-shattering self-discoveries and the difficulty I have working out how I feel about things, he’s entitled to work this out in his own time too.

The air felt immediately clearer for me. I think that it did for him, too. His anxiety is often highly visible as he literally vibrates.

I am bloody tired. Another wee hours blog post to try to clear my brain. Can you tell?