I write. I read. I paint.
I meet friends for coffee. I giggle over shoes with friends. I have heart-to-hearts with friends at bus stops.
I walk in falling leaves. I buy a beautiful dress I can twirl in. I become a member of my local library.
I do laundry. I do groceries. I cook.
I watch TV that he hates. I dance to music he’d laugh at. I read out loud from poetry he’d groan at.
I keep books on his pillow so his side of the bed isn’t bare. I sleep diagonally. I sleep with 2 quilts to replace his warmth.
It’s a nice life. I’m my own mistress, and I do whatever I want. I have no-one to report to, no-one to rush home to, no-one to coax out of bed on sunny days.
But despite the freedom and the independence, the thing I do most of all, is count. 14 days. 13 days. 12 days.
The days before he’ll come home. And I can stop counting.