"When he thought of her, it rather amazed him, that he had let (her) go...All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them. Love and patience - if only he had had them both at once - would surely have seen them both through."
-Ian McEwan, from On Chesil Beach
He thinks that he needs a change. He has spent so much time being hurt and angry and lonely and now he wants to not hurt (be lonely) anymore. Before they were together he never felt lonely. His life was so full of hijinx and debauchery that he welcomed the occasional downtime, time when he could allow the quiet to wash over his thoughts and he could just be. Now he knows that any moment spent away from her (emotionally, that is; to never be apart physically might not be realistic), is a moment wasted. He wouldn't take the proposal back; rather, he wishes he could go back and prove his resolve by refusing to walk away, by asking her every day until she gave a different answer.
Instead, he spends a ridiculous amount of time in seach of an appropriate postcard. Nothing he finds is quite what he envisions, so he chooses a random card from the rack and cruises the aisles in search of Elmer's glue. The next step is completed with the help of his computer and photo printer. Once everything is glued, written, and addressed, he drives to the post office. He purposely bypasses the avocado stamps (he doubts anything short of steel is strong enough to bear the weight of those implications) and instead opts for the neutral American flag. He drops the homemade postcard into the mailbox before he can second-guess himself. After so many weeks of living inside himself, he thinks that maybe he can start taking up space in the world again.
It is delivered on a Monday in early August, but she is not the one to herald its arrival and recognize its importance. Instead, it is the dubious hand of the elder Lorelai that sets it aside in preparation for a much anticipated homecoming. Of course, she can't resist sneaking a peek. The front obviously refers to some sort of inside joke (how else to explain the image of the dignified Professor Asher Fleming, front and center, lecturing an imperious-looking Judi Dench in a field of bright pink flamingos while Russell Crowe, standing on the bow of a ship in the upper left corner, looks on?). She skims the message. Though left unsigned, she frowns. So he's back. She props the card prominently atop the stack of mail knowing (and resenting) that this 4x6 rectangle of cardboard, expected all summer and finally arrived, will make her daughter complete in a way she cannot.
She comes home the following Friday to wide-open arms and squeals of delight. Her mother, oddly without comment, points to the pile. She drops her overnight bag and automatically reaches for it. Her lips quirk into a smile when she spies his handiwork, the knot in her stomach slowly loosens. Her fingers lightly skim the surface, brushing over the uneven textures and layers as if they are his skin. I miss you, too. Only four words, Ace, but they are the only ones I can think of to convey how I feel, plus three more: I love you.
The rest of the day slips by in a blaze of love and gladness. So euphoric in everything being in its rightful place (she in Stars Hollow, he back in her heart), she misses the forced enthusiasm that masks her mother's trepidation. Much later, when they are both tucked away in their beds with plans to reconvene the next morning at Luke's, she remembers the expression on her mother's face. It puzzles her. But maybe it shouldn't. Her mother, so supportive about everything else, has never been the authority on successful relationships (excluding their own, of course). She hopes that her mother will be too busy getting her own relationship with Luke back on track to let her silent disapproval affect her own relationship (are they in a relationship again?) with Logan. The irony - that Lorelai, despite struggling her entire life to not become her mother, is more like her than she realizes (though their tactics are very different) - is not lost on her. She wonders why her mother so dislikes the man she loves and wills her to see him the way she does.
A gorilla reading a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the sticker of the black SUV hovering over its right shoulder. YALE DAILY NEWS is written in black Sharpie above the crossed-out headline. And underneath: Us? On the back she has written three simple words in stark contrast to the emptiness of the card. In or out?
The postcard finds its way to her in Chicago, nestled inside an envelope embossed with the name Dragonfly Inn. She reads the note from her mother first. Hey Babe, I hope this belongs to you. Paul Anka says hello. His card flutters from the unfolded page onto her unmade hotel bed. She grins. Finn's face photoshopped on the body of an old-fashioned policeman, her grandfather eating a cone of Fro-Yo, and an open book. His reply: In. Consider my balls yours.
His refrigerator is a scrapbook of her travels and their memories, so many that he can't open the door without hearing the shuffle of them falling to the tiled floor. He thinks he should probably take them down, maybe put them in a box (after all, now there are phone calls and email and text messages), but he likes seeing them there. It's hard being apart, harder for her, always on the move, and they haven't laid eyes on each other since May. But the campaign trail will bring her to him eventually. And, he realizes finally, we have plenty of time.