THAT there were 1,200 miles and several states between us meant constant motion: planes, taxis, buses, trams. And a lot of sitting around waiting — in airports, for cabs, for one of us to pick up the other.

Over time, the states between us grew emotional as well as physical: not only Tennessee and Arkansas but also anxiety, longing and anger at cancellations or delays and irritation at those who haunt airport gates all over America yelling into their cellphones (“We’re here!” or “I had Quiznos for lunch!”) Or worse, detailing the specifics of their vocation, which, sadly, is never sex therapist.

When you are in a long-distance relationship, you try to accept the conditions of the arrangement. I became very good at packing. I kept my bag half-packed in the closet. And I became better at collecting frequent flier miles, printing my boarding pass in advance, checking for threatening weather in the days before my flight from North Carolina to central Texas.

I became used to passionate greetings in dark garages used for short-term parking; exhaust fumes will forever be an aphrodisiac to me. But I never became used to the dreaded drop-offs, which were excruciating despite my attempts to mask the pain with stoicism or strained humor or complaints about the expectation of long lines at security.