And although I miss M. madly, there's something rather nice about being at home alone. My papers are spread out and the computer is on. The TV is too. My stacks and piles are littered about, a reminder as I move from room to room that M. is far away.
I am drinking my wine out of a tumbler, not a slim wineglass. And don't ever tell, but I am eating on the couch. I justify this because it is my couch, a cozy brown velvet one I brought from Portland to San Francisco with me.
I paid for it, and I will pay for it if I spill juicy pulled pork on the fat cushions. But I don't spill, thankfully. because if I did I would be eating crow for dinner for the rest of the week. I've told M. there's to be absolutely no food on the couch. It's one benefit to having a small apartment, if you need to eat while watching the TV the table is right there.
Still rules are made for breaking, and break them I do, just as I'm sure he does when I'm far away.