Without me

I'm out of town this week, and my husband is at home without me.

Luca, who likes coffee but drinks tea, who sleeps on his left side, who likes black beans but not peas, who yodels when I make eggs for breakfast, who loves Springsteen but not Bocelli, whom I love with the unvarying strength of the summer sun, will be home alone.

I predict he'll eat well under the minimum daily requirement of vegetables and more pizza than anyone would recommend. He will watch so much calcio his brain might ooze out of his ears. He'll listen to a constant stream of music, as I suspect he's not too fond of silence.

I will come home to a relatively organized house but a really messy home office, papers strewn everywhere. And piles of smelly laundry. He'll forget to water the yard.

I wonder if he'll feel the weight of the spaces I leave empty. If he'll come home and shout a greeting despite knowing there is no one there, like I do. If he'll stick to his side of the bed or stretch out. (He'll use all the pillows. That's for sure.) If he'll prefer to read than to watch television (I guess it depends on the sports programming.)

He'll finish his big fat book and I won't be there to witness him proving me wrong (I told him it would take him a year to finish it.) He'll use my bathroom to shower, but his body wash, because he refuses beauty products that are not specifically designed for the male species. He'll forget where he left things, like his slippers, and he'll wish that I was around to tell him where they are. (Hmmm. I should have hid them.)

He might secretly enjoy looking at his computer screen for 18 hours straight, free of interruptions. Finish the ice cream. Leave things that belong in the fridge out on the kitchen counter. Refuse to unload the dishwasher.

I hope he misses me, but I hope he doesn't get lonely. I hope he discovers what a pleasure his company is. I think so, anyway.