The countdown has begun. A. finally booked his flight home. He returns in 40 days. 6 weeks. One-and-a-half-months.
He arrives on a 6 a.m. flight at Dulles the day before our two-year anniversary. I’ve already reserved a silver Volvo on Zipcar. I’ll be there, even if my eyes are droopy from sleepiness. Maybe I’ll hold one of those cheesy “Welcome home!” signs. I’ll probably just stand there in jeans and a tank top and sunglasses on my head and lean against the wall, patiently waiting for him like I have for the past few months.
I miss the man so damn much. Every morning, the first thing I do when I wake up is grab my phone on my windowsill. I refresh my email to look for his name. There’s always a message from him, even if it’s just a one-liner. But it inevitably makes me laugh or smile. He’s one of the funniest and sweetest people I know.
I can’t wait till I can wake up with him by my side again.