Seven sleeps until my husband comes home from the USA. It will have been three months since we have breathed the same air. Way too long.
Someone asked me yesterday if he has begun wooing me from afar. It hadn’t occurred to me but he should be. He better not think he can just waltz in and there’ll be dinner waiting and welcome-home banners tacked to the wall — nigh impossible to read what with the dimmed lighting and tightly closed drapes.
There also will not be a provacative black, lacy thing barely draped over me. Too cold. I will, however, make an effort and take a trip to K’Mart for a new pair of wynciette pj’s. I’ll choose ones with a seductive satin trim around the collar, which will be buttoned up to the neck (the cold again).
The cat will be put out — he’s gotten used to the other side of the bed being his domain. We’ll adjust. if I’m honest, I’m getting quite excited. Nervous too: Will we recognise each other? Have we changed in three long months? Am I loving my independence? Yes to all three but above and beyond all that is the twenty-five years (this October) we have spent together loving, laughing, crying, bickering, spooning, making excellent and disastrous decisions, having a beautiful son and believing in one another.
Hmmm… I may leave the top button undone after all.