See you next week, my angel. I love you more than anything.

This is what I found on our kitchen table this morning, written on a printed out picture of us, next to his usual half-drunk cup of coffee.

I thought last month was hard. This month was worse. The day that we got back to work after New Years, the mister and I have had a weekend-marriage (very Danielle Steele), since he's working on this new piece of business. Since the beginning of the year, we've had dinner together twice. The other times, he'd drag his tired bum home at 2am and try to eat cold spaghetti or a soup and a sandwich. I would try and stay awake to welcome him home, but mostly I would end up with my Sudoku book lying on my face and my pen (yeah, I'd like to think I'm that good) dangerously close to drawing a dark line on the white comforter.

That has been our routine.

And this past week has been very sparsely dotted with a kiss in the morning and a kiss for my half-asleep head when he comes home at night. For a few blissful days he was told that he wouldn't have to go at all, and damn if that didn't get my hopes up and heart racing. I started fantasizing about breakfast in bed, not being tired all the time, not hearing the Blackberry alarm (I swear, it sounds like Satan's ice-cream truck)... but I decided to assume that he was probably leaving, and just get on with life. My act of self-preservation.

And then this morning came. And predictably, no matter how convincingly I said "hey, don't worry, I'm fiiiiiiiine", this morning was really, really hard, as he left at 6am for a flight to the other side of the world. His voice on the phone as he boarded the plane was even harder to deal with. I was cracking jokes and making him laugh, but he couldn't talk to me for very long (because he was sitting right next to one of his work colleagues). He sounded so far away and so tired. The poor guy, I just imagine his body, pretzel-like from all the long nights, and I just wanted to hug him and tell him to take care of himself. I tried very hard not to let my voice crack and be tough for him. But you must have an idea of how hard that is when you miss someone you love and just hearing their voice makes you happy and sad at the same time. He kept asking me "are you going to be okay?" and I had to be honest, my first thought was oh, but you're the one that has to deal with 14-hour flights and 2am nights and looming projects. will YOU be okay? So I smiled through my teeth (it's like he can tell when I'm trying to be brave) to say "I will be." Not "I am", 'cause that's not fair to me. I will be. I'm a tough cookie, but I'm not made of steel, that's for damn sure. So both of us, after just staying on the line listening to the other, not wanting to hang up, just ripped off the band aid and said goodbye.

Yes, it's only a silly little week, I know. I'll be fiiiiiine, and before I know it I'll be at the gym in a couple hours sweating out all the negatives. But the first day is always a bitch. I never get used to it. I never get used to turning over in the morning and feeling a slightly warm indentation where his tall body was, just an hour earlier. I never get used to how quick those few kisses feel before he leaves- they never seem to sink in far enough. Maybe I'll be used to it, one day. But so far, my tactics of going to the gym more, seeing friends, painting, cleaning the house, paying the bills... all of those distractions are necessary, but they don't treat the undercurrent. So I have to see the words solidify on the page in order to get it out of my system, let myself be sad, have a laugh at some point and move on. So there.

And today, God, or one of his shop assistants, just gave me a giant bitch-slap of perspective, because I managed to walk out of the bathroom and into a meeting not realising that I had my skirt tucked into my tights at the back, showing my knickers to the world.

Who the fuck is in charge up there? I need to speak to somebody.