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Today was routine.

Shower, dress, pretty-making. Arrange last night’s dinner plates in the dishwasher and the duvet on the bed. Drive to work, vaguely attentive to traffic. Arrive at the office. Fantasise about the awkwardness of driving straight through the boom. Catch up with long-weekend emails, assisted by frequent use of the ‘delete’ key. Swop smart-aleck comments with my boss. Try to articulate my underwhelm at a movie he wants to see. Afternoon traffic in almost-evening light. Supermarket. Home.

Tonight is different. It’s the first time I’m staying in the house by myself, overnight, fighting only the cats for the bed. I watch two TED videos interrupted only by my own errands. I’m writing, thinking, writing a little more. I’m not distracted by the television. Mac and cheese for dinner. He hates mac and cheese.

It’s nice. I feel like I’m meant to be here. Like it’s home.

Later, we have a silly chat on Skype.

I’m reminded of our very first conversation, him there and me here, except now we add mush and in-jokes.

He’ll be here when I get home from work tomorrow.

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